Chapter 1132: The VIP Escort to San Francisco (Patreon)

To be honest, Jack had been a little tempted by Director Jim Womack’s earlier suggestion—to have another prison escape expert, Ray Breslin, handle the task. After all, we’re talking about Stallone here. Sure, he was getting old, but the guy could still fight—and frankly, seemed a better fit than the smug old man currently in front of him.

Unfortunately, this time brute force wasn’t what they needed. Jack’s old friend Jason Hayes and his SEAL Team Bravo weren’t just movie-style trigger-happy extras—they were the real deal.

“I have to ask: how do you stay in such good shape in a cell this small?”

Jack eyed the nearly seventy-year-old man with reluctant admiration. Disheveled as he was, John Mason had a body packed with muscle—no visible belly in sight. Compared to Womack, who was probably his age, Mason looked almost younger in terms of fitness.

Mason, seemingly surprised by Jack’s tone—or perhaps realizing this young agent was more respectful than expected—lowered his guard and replied without his usual bite.

“Reading. Exercise. A disciplined routine. Apart from the lack of freedom, I live healthier than most people out there.”

He gave a dry chuckle, then added, “Mind telling me what this is all about? I thought after I broke out of Wolfberg, you lot would never give me another vacation.”

“You’re being offered a chance—a real one. An opportunity to earn your freedom. Should I have the guards pack your things?”

Jack glanced at the pile of books beside Mason’s bed: Shakespeare, The Art of War, and a worn-down copy of The Count of Monte Cristo—its cover so rubbed down it was practically bare.

“There’s nothing here that belongs to me. Have them return the books to the prison library,” Mason replied, already extending his hands to the two guards carrying manacles.

“No need.” Jack waved the guards off. “From now on, his security’s our responsibility.”

And he could say that with confidence—not only had he arrived in a Sikorsky S-92 helicopter, but the entire SEAL Team Bravo was accompanying them, including Jason Hayes.

After watching the helicopter depart, Jack drove to the J. Edgar Hoover Building at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Inside this secret prison, John Mason’s digital record was practically blank—aside from height, weight, and a redacted name field. All his files existed only in paper form, stored in the Hoover Building’s underground classified archives. Only with the Director’s written authorization could Jack access the full dossier.

He barely had time to skim the file before rushing to the airport. The BAU’s Gulfstream business jet was already waiting.

Still dressed in prison garb, John Mason sat quietly in his seat, half a bottle of Scotch in front of him, face glowing with pleasure.

Jack didn’t need to look closely to recognize the label—it was one of Rossi’s personal stashes, usually reserved for victories or rare company.

“Who’s the old hippie?” asked Ray Perry, Bravo Team’s number two. Fully kitted out in tactical gear, he looked comically out of place aboard the sleek business jet—just like the rest of the SEALs.

They were originally set to fly directly from Virginia Beach to San Francisco, but both Rossi and Womack worried about possible incidents during the transfer. Jack had proposed letting the SEALs handle the escort.

“He’s British. Did time in Alcatraz back in the ’90s. Escaped in under a year.”

Flipping through Mason’s file, Jack clicked his tongue in amazement.

The SAS (Special Air Service) originated during World War II from British “Red Devil” guerrillas in North Africa, then called Commandos. With just six officers and sixty soldiers, they managed to destroy over 200 German planes and dozens of ammo depots in 18 months—an astonishing feat.

Today, the SAS—or Commandos—are considered the godfathers of Western special forces. Delta Force, the Navy SEALs—both drew direct inspiration and assistance from them.

And now a SEAL team was escorting a retired SAS agent—there was a certain poetic irony to that.

“I thought no one ever escaped from Alcatraz alive,” Ray said with a grin, flashing white teeth.

“That’s the official story,” Jack shrugged. “But in reality, at least six people have escaped and vanished into the sea. This guy’s the only one we found alive.”

And the only one who pulled it off entirely alone, Jack silently added.

Next to them, Sonny shrugged. He wasn’t interested in the topic—or the long-haired old man—and instead patted the leather seat beneath him with a grin.

“So you ride around in one of these solving murder cases across the country? The FBI’s loaded.”

“Not quite. I usually fly in a Bombardier Challenger 850. This plane belongs to the BAU team and only gets deployed for major cases or extreme time crunches.”

Jack scanned the SEALs and smiled to himself. Though Clay had been retired for over a year due to injury, the team lineup had barely changed.

B1 through B5 were all familiar faces. Replacing Clay was no rookie, but the former A-Team commander, Scott Carter—nicknamed “Full Metal.” Though he now used Clay’s callsign (B6), his badge still read A1.

Jack wasn’t too close to Scott, but they’d sparred once back during training at Virginia Beach—enough for mutual respect.

It also showed how picky Jason was with new recruits. After all this time, not a single newbie from the Green Team had made the cut. If Clay saw this, he probably wouldn’t feel so bitter about Jason’s “excessive strictness.”

Despite the convenience of flying private, it still took nearly four hours to cross the country from D.C. to San Francisco.

After a quick nap, Jack hopped on a video call with his teammates still in Mexico—Jubal and the rest had made good progress.

The serial killings had been solved.

The killers were two Mexican sisters, Elma and Teresa, who practiced an extremist version of Santa Muerte worship. Lopez had found key leads while inspecting mobile altars displayed on the streets.

The sisters had a brother, Miguel, who crossed into the U.S. seeking a better life. Before leaving, he left the family’s scrap metal yard in Tijuana to his sisters.

But clearly, Elma and Teresa weren’t cut out for running that kind of business. The yard was on the verge of bankruptcy—losing it meant losing their livelihood.

Desperate, they began praying for Miguel’s return. But when communication failed repeatedly, their despair drove them deeper into fanaticism.

The scrap yard had the equipment to crush cars into metal blocks or pulverize them entirely—a clue that explained the retrofitted diesel vehicle running on outdated biofuel.

Jubal appeared on screen, looking grim. “After losing contact with Miguel, they started driving around with mobile Santa Muerte altars. Initially, they prayed for him to bring them to the U.S.

“But after repeated police crackdowns that led to the destruction of their altar and confiscation of their vehicle, they grew resentful. They believed their failure to maintain the altar had incurred the saint’s punishment.”

So they turned to a blood ritual intended to summon a loved one. The rites were progressive. The red rite—the beginner’s level—required the blood of a youth.

“Just blood?” Jack frowned. “But they killed Lee Kern and dyed his corpse red.”

Jeje’s face filled the screen next. “Even with the case closed, we don’t fully understand these rituals. They’re full of hearsay and personal interpretation.

“When the basic rite failed, they escalated to the black rite, which requires the blood of a sinner.”

“A sinner? That guy who had a wife in both the U.S. and Mexico? Yeah, he was plenty sinful.” But even as Jack said it, he realized something didn’t add up.

“How would they know about that? So they just randomly picked Robert Miller at the dog track, assuming any American there must be a gambler?”

Now Hannah appeared onscreen. She snapped her fingers. “Bingo! But here’s something you won’t guess—why they killed Julio Salazar, the black sorcerer.”

She smirked. “Hint: the most powerful rite is gold—it requires the fresh heart of someone with authority.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed as the pieces clicked. “Eyes symbolize power in black magic—spiritual force, magic, ether, whatever. So they blamed their failed rituals on insufficient power, and sacrificed Salazar to absorb his.”

Hannah nodded, visibly frustrated that Jack had figured it out again. “Exactly. We found their hideout just as they were about to kill a kidnapped police officer.”

“Even a regular cop counts as someone with ‘authority’?” Jack muttered. “So what happened to Miguel? Did he die crossing the border?”

Hannah shrugged. “Yup. Alice found his corpse photo—washed up at Loma Point after a dangerous sea route. He was filed as an unknown John Doe.

Thanks to Clay, Teresa shot herself after learning the truth. He tackled Elma before she could kill the officer with her sickle.”

The screen shifted to show Clay’s shaggy head and bloodshot eyes. Sonny leaned in with a teasing grin.

“Hey, kid. Looks like things aren’t going so well at the FBI. You thinking of coming back to Bravo?”

He was joking, of course. No one just “returns” to SEALs on a whim.

Leaving the tablet with the SEALs to catch up with Clay, Jack moved to sit across from John Mason—who had been quietly watching the entire conversation, interest clearly piqued.

“So, you work criminal cases, yet seem awfully chummy with special forces guys. What exactly do you want from me?

I don’t do black magic, you know. Not every Brit knows how to walk through Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.”

Jack chuckled. “I thought you only liked classical literature and military memoirs.”

Mason sighed. “I request reading lists, but they’re not always fulfilled. When boredom hits, you read whatever you can get.”

Jack didn’t advertise his writer side—just said he was a fellow lover of literature.

“I know you’ve been observing and listening. You’ve likely guessed some of what’s going on. But don’t worry—once we land in San Francisco, someone will explain everything.

All I can tell you now is that we’re facing a unique situation... and someone believes you might be able to help.”

“Unique situation?” Mason raised an eyebrow in dry amusement. “I’ve been in prison six months longer than Mandela. What exactly could I help with? Don’t tell me I’m running for president. Has someone declared a nation on Alcatraz?”

Jack sighed. He knew Mason had caught the whispers he’d shared with Ray Perry earlier. But he wasn’t staying silent out of secrecy—just out of deference.

“Patience is a virtue, Mr. Mason. Once we land, you’ll understand everything. But until then, here’s a piece of advice—do your best to make the most of this chance to regain your freedom.”

“Freedom?” Mason echoed, the word tasting bittersweet. “What a lovely word—especially coming from the FBI.” He looked at Jack with a long, meaningful gaze.