Chapter 1147: An Unexpected Turn (Patreon)

"You're right, that’s actually a great idea." The bed leg Mason had been spinning in circles flew from his hand, tracing a beautiful arc through the air before landing precisely on the row of cell door levers in the corner.

"So this was your first step in escaping the prison all those years ago?" Jack was impressed. After all this time, the old man’s skills hadn't dulled a bit. Truly, he was a natural-born escape artist.

On Alcatraz, the cell door controls were still old-fashioned levers, arranged in a line at the far end of the corridor, each one corresponding to a cell. Pulling a lever would unlock a cell door.

The bed leg, tied with strips of cloth, landed precisely on the first lever. Mason flicked his wrist, pulling it down, but it opened the door to the neighboring cell instead.

"My apologies—it's been over 20 years," Mason shrugged, reeled in the bed leg, and threw it again. This time, it hit the right one, and the door before them swung open.

"I’ll get us some weapons. You take the hostages to the showers—get them into the sewer tunnels." Jack had barely finished his sentence when his figure vanished down the hallway.

——

"We still have two missiles. One is already prepped on the launcher and ready to fire, General."

In the makeshift command post, a square-jawed captain shouted his report.

General Hammer, his expression dark and unreadable, didn’t immediately respond. The captain repeated himself louder.

"I heard you, Captain." Hammer’s tone was frayed with frustration, but he didn’t chastise the man for his impertinent tone.

"It’s time to give the order, General," another officer—a burly Black captain—added, his tone even more disrespectful.

"I’m the one who decides our strategy!" Hammer now looked more like a gambler who’d lost everything than a calculating general.

After a long pause, he finally ordered, "Major Buster, take the missile and four hostages—including the FBI agent and the Brit—onto the helicopter. I’ll stay behind and take responsibility for everything."

"General!" Buster, shocked, stared at his superior. "We still have a chance. The deadline’s six hours away!"

"No. Our bluff has been called. The blackmail plan failed. The mission is over," Hammer said, resignation all over his face.

"Over?" The Black captain’s eyes bulged. "What about our money?"

"There is no money. The mission’s over." Hammer turned toward him. "What matters now is your lives. Major Buster will handle my assets. The remaining funds will be distributed equally among you."

"Don’t think you can brush us off that easily, General," the square-jawed captain said sharply.

"How much money do you even have? We joined this operation for the millions you promised, not a few measly thousands."

"Watch your tone, soldier. You're addressing a general!" Buster barked.

"Soldier?" the Black captain scoffed. "We stopped being soldiers the moment we took civilians hostage. We’re mercenaries now. And mercenaries want only one thing—money."

He loomed over Hammer, his massive frame radiating threat. "We gave everything up. We knew we’d be fugitives. All for the payout. And now…"

He enunciated each word clearly. "Now, I want my damn money."

It was unclear whether he and the white captain had coordinated in advance, but they now played good cop and bad cop in tandem.

"We still have a chance, don’t we? General, launch a missile. Show the Pentagon we mean business. They’ll fold."

"I won’t order the slaughter of innocent civilians. You think I’m insane? Or maybe it’s you who’ve gone mad." Hammer trembled with rage, his voice shaking. "I’ll say it again—mission over!

Major Buster, inform the men at the lighthouse to dismantle the missile launcher. Everyone else, take the missile and hostages, board the chopper, and prepare to evacuate."

There were six men in the command post besides the two guarding the lighthouse and the lone sentry at the door. They now clearly split into two factions—three on each side, Hammer included.

Tension spiked instantly, everyone’s hand drifting toward their weapons.

Suddenly, a volley of gunfire erupted outside. Everyone instinctively looked toward the lighthouse—and saw a figure plummet from the tower, screaming.

"What’s going on?" chaos broke out in the command post.

The lighthouse stood less than 100 meters away from the guardhouse that now served as their HQ. Through the windows, they saw a group rapidly seize defensive positions atop the isolated cliffside tower.

"Blackbird Two! Blackbird Two! Report status!" Major Buster leapt toward the radio, yelling into the mic.

At the same moment, the alarm blared again—triggered by the motion detector in the showers—but no one in the command post paid attention to it anymore.

"Check the cells! The hostages!" Hammer was the first to recover. The temporary truce broken by the surprise, the men bolted toward the door.

But as the door opened, a body slumped inward.

"Sergeant Crespo!" the Black captain shouted in shock—someone had gotten this close without being noticed.

He knelt to check if Crespo was still alive, but the moment he turned the man over, he heard a chilling sound—the metallic click of a grenade fuse.

An M67 "little lemon" grenade, its pin already pulled, rolled free from under the sergeant’s arm and bounced along the filthy floor toward the stunned General Hammer.

"General, look out!" Buster cried. He threw aside the radio handset, dove forward, and tackled Hammer out of the way.

Boom!

The explosion lifted Buster’s body half a meter off the ground. Smoke and debris filled the room as a fountain of blood and shredded flesh sprayed into the air.

"TOM (BUSTER)!" Hammer scrambled to his side.

The ceramic chest plate on Buster’s armor was shattered. A foul, protein-burnt stench rose from his ruined torso. He lay crumpled like a burst sack, blood soaking his upper body.

"I’m… honored… to serve… with you, General," Buster rasped before drawing his final breath.

"AHHH!" Hammer screamed, grief tearing through his throat.

Amid the wails, the square-jawed captain and the Black captain exchanged a glance, then bolted from the smoke-choked command post.