Breakout: A Heart-Pounding Lex Harper Thriller Read online

  BREAKOUT

  A LEX HARPER THRILLER

  STEPHEN LEATHER

  Copyright © Stephen Leather 2020

  The right of Stephen Leather to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  Slow Burn

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  There really is a San Pedro prison in La Paz, Bolivia and it is every bit as bizarre as Lex Harper discovers in the course of this book. It’s effectively run by the inmates with the guards largely confining themselves to manning the main gates. There are different sections within the jail, with the best of them corresponding to the affluent suburbs of the city on the outside, and the worst even more dismal than the barrios and slums where the city’s poorest inhabitants live.

  Visitors, tourists and prisoners’ wives, children, girlfriends and prostitutes all come and go from San Pedro. All manner of goods are carried in and out, and traded within its walls, and there are scores of thriving businesses inside the jail, even including a cocaine factory. Bolivian politicians - one or two of whom have even spent time in San Pedro themselves - frequently announce that they will reform or close down the jail, but - up till now at least - it has never happened.

  So that is the reality, but of course, this is a work of fiction, and so any similarities between the characters in this book and the actual wardens, guards or inmates, past or present, of San Pedro, are entirely coincidental.

  Stephen Leather 2020

  CHAPTER 1

  Scouse Davies took the glass of champagne that the stewardess offered to him and settled back in his seat. He smiled to himself. He’d been doing this job for almost a year now and had flown Club Class on quite a few occasions already but he still couldn’t quite believe his luck. He’d grown up as the shit-poor kid of an unemployed single parent, living in the roughest part of Liverpool and yet, while the ordinary mortals were crammed together back in cattle class, here he was, rubbing shoulders with the rich and successful, with an armchair ride and as much expensive wine as he could drink. Best of all, it wasn’t costing him a penny, and in fact, he was actually getting paid to do it.

  ‘Shall I put your bag away for you, señor?’ the stewardess said, glancing at the flight case next to his feet.

  ‘No thanks, I like to keep it close at hand, ’ he said, pushing it under the seat in front of him.

  He glanced around as the cabin filled up. There was the usual scattering of businessmen travelling alone, a married couple who were obviously unused to turning left when they got on a plane because they were swivelling around as they took it all in and nudging each other like over-excited kids, and a very attractive Latino woman sitting across the aisle from him. When he caught her eye, she briefly returned his smile before going back to her study of the menu.

  Scouse finished his drink as they rolled back and taxied out, then settled back in his seat as the pilot wound up the engines and launched the aircraft into its take-off run.

  The plane stopped for a crew change in Lima and then flew on to El Alto airport in La Paz, Scouse’s destination. He left the plane and walked quickly to Customs and Immigration. It was familiar ground for Scouse, who had already made the same journey four times over the previous few months.

  A few police were watching the arrival without evident interest, some wearing the green uniform of the regular police, others the sharper-looking blue uniforms of the FELCN - La Fuerza Especial de Lucha Contra el Narcotráfico - Bolivia’s anti-narcotics force. A customs officer - a senior one, from the gold braid on his sleeves and the row of medals on his chest - was scrutinising the passengers as they passed him. Scouse headed towards the passport control when the customs officer stopped him and directed him to one of the desks. ‘If you please, señor.’

  Scouse saw no great cause for concern. He recognised the customs man on duty at the desk he was being sent to and had dealt with him before on previous trips, so he was sure that the man knew the form. Scouse’s flight case would remain unopened, and after a brief examination of his small back-pack, including the removal of the $500 in $100 bills that he had placed on top of his clothes when packing it in Geneva, his bags would be chalk-marked and he would be waved through.

  He placed his bags on the steel table in front of the customs man and, ignoring the flight case, the man was about to open the back-pack as usual, when the senior customs officer reappeared. He walked round behind the table and shooed his subordinate away. ‘Toma tu descanso para tomar café ahora.’

  Even Scouse’s limited Spanish was enough for him to know that the junior customs man had just been told to take a break. He attempted to argue ‘Pero señor…’ but his superior’s response was a brusque ‘Esa es una orden. Vamos!’

  With an apologetic look at Scouse, the junior customs man turned and walked away.

  The officer at once reached for the back-pack, opened it and held up the $500. ‘What is this, señor? You realise that attempting to bribe a customs officer is a serious offence?’

  ‘It’s not a bribe, officer,’ Scouse said, thinking fast and still confident that he could blag his way out of any awkward situation. ‘It’s just some cash I’d left in there. I don’t like to keep all my money in my wallet in case I get mugged.’

  The officer looked past Scouse and beckoned over two armed police lounging on the other side of the customs hall. They walked over and stood flanking Scouse while the officer examined the flight-case. ‘This is locked,’ he said. ‘The key, señor, if you please.’

  Scouse hesitated but then handed it over, still certain that, at worst, a phone call to the office would make the problem go away. The officer opened the case. It was full of plastic packs of US banknotes. ‘How much is here, señor?’

  ‘Fifty thousand American dollars.’

  ‘I see. Come with me please, señor.’ He nodded to the two policemen who took Scouse’s arms and frog-marched him away from the table towards a doorway set in the wall behind it.

  He was marched down some steps and along a neon-lit corridor running under the floor of the terminal and taken into a windowless interview room. There was a transparent-sided toilet, where drug mules would eventually have to deposit any packages they were carrying internally, once Nature, or a laxative, had taken its course. The stench in the room suggested that it had seen recent use for that purpose. There was also a steel tab
le, a large wooden packing crate that stood empty, its lid open and propped against the wall, and two metal chairs. There was a sick feeling in Scouse’s guts as he saw that the chairs were fitted with restraining straps and bolted to the floor. He was hustled into one of them and held there while the straps were tightened around his arms. The police then searched him, handing his passport and wallet to the senior customs officer who had settled himself on a much more comfortable, leather-seated desk chair facing him.

  ‘We can straighten all this out immediately, ’ Scouse said. ‘It’s all perfectly legitimate. I’m employed as a courier by a company called Risk Reduction Inc, specialising in Kidnap and Ransom negotiations. The money is a payment for the release of one of our clients currently being held by criminals here in Bolivia. If you call the Risk Reduction Inc office in Bogotá - the number is on the business cards in my wallet - they will be able to straighten this out right away.’

  The customs officer opened the wallet, took out one of the business cards and glanced at it, then tore it into quarters and tossed it into a waste-bin. ‘Trafficking undeclared cash, bribery and corruption, señor. These are very serious crimes and no reputable company would be a party to them. So either your company is not a reputable one, or they have no knowledge of what you are doing, and in either case, I see no need to speak to them.’

  ‘If you won’t speak to my company, then will you at least notify the British consul that I am being held here?’

  The officer remained impassive and unmoving, other than to give a slow shake of his head.

  ‘I know my rights, ’ Scouse said, trying to keep his fear from showing in his voice. ‘I demand to speak to the British consul or a lawyer.’

  ‘You are not in a position to make any demands, señor. You have committed serious crimes and there are consequences of such things.’ He glanced at one of the policemen and said ‘Sabes qué hacer - you know what to do.’

  He handed the $500 from Scouse’s back-pack to the policeman, who pocketed it at once, while the customs officer stood up, picked up the flight case and walked towards the door. ‘Don’t worry, señor,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’ll see that this reaches the right people.’ He laughed, and a moment later, the door clicked shut behind him.

  Scouse watched with mounting fear as one of the cops took off his jacket, folded it and placed it carefully on a chair. He took a set of brass knuckles from one of his pockets, slipped them onto his fists and walked towards Scouse. The other cop pulled a night-stick from his belt.

  ‘Do you speak English? Habla usted Inglés?’ Scouse said, panicking. It was the only Spanish phrase he knew. ‘I’ll tell you anything you want to know.’

  ‘We already know everything we need to know, gringo,’ the cop said and the next moment the brass knuckles smashed into Scouse’s face. He heard the crack of a bone and tasted blood in his mouth. More punches and blows followed, one upon another, the cop with the brass knuckles working over his face and upper body while the other one beat Scouse’s legs and arms with his nightstick. The blows came so fast and so frequent that before long he could no longer tell where one ended and the next began. All he knew was an unrelenting agony that was only ended with a final blow to his head with the nightstick, like a flash of blinding light through his brain, and then he blacked out.

  As Scouse came back to consciousness, he let out a groan. He had a pounding headache, every bone in his body seemed to ache and he had the metallic taste of dried blood in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his bruised and swollen lips, then slowly opened his eyes. He was in a dark cave or cellar that, as far as he could tell in the dim light, seemed to be carved out of solid rock. The wall he could see was stained and green with mould, and there were names, dates and phrases in Spanish crudely scratched into the stone. There was also a stench of sewage so powerful that it was almost palpable and when he stirred and moved his arm, he heard the dry scraping rustle of cockroaches as they retreated into the even darker shadows at the foot of the walls.

  As he struggled to sit up, pain from scores of cuts and bruises stabbed at him and he let out a yell of shock and revulsion as a blood-red millipede fully three inches long that had been hiding in a fold of his clothes, slithered to the floor and scuttled away. As his head cleared a little more, he looked around. The only light was coming from a tiny metal grating set in an ancient looking door, studded with iron bands, at the head of a flight of a dozen stone steps leading up out of the cellar. Slowly, each movement agony, he got on to his hands and knees and then his feet, and pulled himself up the steps.

  He put his face to the grille and peered through it. Outside it looked to be late afternoon, with a low sun reflecting from the blue-painted walls flanking a dusty yard. Twenty or thirty men, all Latino-looking, and dressed in filthy, nondescript clothing, shuffled aimlessly through the dust, or leaned against the walls, or sat cross-legged on the ground.

  He called out, his voice cracking from the dryness of his mouth and throat. ‘Hey! HEY! Anyone? Help me?’

  There was a movement nearby and a powerful figure loomed over the door. His arms were tattooed with gang symbols, his nose had been broken and never properly re-set and his shaven head was criss-crossed with scars, both the neat white lines of razor cuts, and the jagged, puckered marks left by clubs or broken bottles. ‘Cállate gringo! - Shut the fuck up.’

  ‘Water please. Water.’

  ‘Agua, gringo? Quizas más tarde - maybe later.’

  ‘Where am I?’ Scouse asked.

  The man laughed. ‘En el infierno, gringo - in hell.’ He spat in the dust and turned away.

  CHAPTER 2

  Lex Harper was in the gym on the ground floor of his condominium building, working out with weights. He generally preferred exercising outside, but in recent months the air pollution in Pattaya had reached seriously unhealthy levels and it had been a while since he had run along the beachfront. The appalling air quality was the result of farmers burning agricultural land prior to planting new crops, a construction boom and pollution from the growing number of cars that were gridlocking Pattaya’s roads. Pattaya was a beach resort and the wind coming off the sea generally kept the air moving, but most of the country was now wreathed in smog and the Government regularly issued warnings for elderly people and at-risk groups to stay inside. Harper didn’t consider himself in an at-risk group, at least not from air pollution, but he figured that exercising indoors was definitely the healthy option.

  He held a twenty kilogram weight to his chest and did thirty squats, then sat on a bench and did ten arm curls, left and right. He was just getting ready to start his sit-up program when his mobile phone rang. It was in his bum bag, along with an Irish passport, two gold chains, and a wad of currency, Thai baht and American dollars. The bag was always close by in case he had to leave at short notice.

  He wiped his face with a towel and answered the call. He didn’t recognise the number, or the voice of the girl, but he definitely recognised her name: Myfanwy. She was the girlfriend of an old mate of his, Scouse Davies, and she was clearly distraught.

  ‘Lex, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know who else to call, and Scouse always said that if he was ever in trouble you’d be the guy he’d come to.’

  Harper put his towel around his shoulder and sat down on a weights bench. ‘Calm down, Myfanwy,’ he said. ‘Just tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s happened,’ she said. ‘That’s the problem. He’s just disappeared.’

  ‘And you’re sure he’s not just on a bender? He has been known to go walkabout.’

  ‘We’ve got a kid now, Lex. A daughter. He doesn’t do that any more.’

  ‘Okay, so what can you tell me? What makes you think he’s disappeared?’

  ‘He always rings me when he’s away working, every day without fail, even just a text message, just to tell me he’s safe and to check if me and Grace - our daughter - are okay. But I’ve not heard from him in well over a month.’

  ‘So wh
at was he doing? Where was he? And who was he working for?’

  ‘He told me he was doing Top Secret work for a company that was involved in kidnap negotiations.’ The silence from the other end of the line made her pause. ‘I know he could sometimes exaggerate things, Lex, but this was the real deal. He flew all over the world for them, but he was mainly in South America.’

  It sounded like another of Scouse’s bullshit stories, but at least the location rang true to Harper. If you wanted to make a living as a kidnapper or were involved in negotiations with kidnappers, then South America was the best place to be. It was practically an industry there. ‘Tell me everything you can remember about how he started doing it and who he was working for,’ said Harper. ‘The last I heard of him he was doing body-guarding around London.’

  ‘He was away a lot but he came home to Hereford when he could, but there was always another job in the offing, so he could never stay for long.’

  ‘Did he see anyone else while he was home?’

  ‘No, of course not, he was with me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean any other women,’ Harper hastily added, hearing the anger in her voice. ‘I meant any old army colleagues or anyone like that? Anyone from the Regiment?’ The SAS was based in Hereford, and while Scouse had never made it into the elite special forces group, he had plenty of friends who wore the sand-coloured beret.

  ‘Not really. He said that the guys he had left behind in the Army were the ones who’d made the wrong choices in life, and they weren’t going to be keen to be reminded of it by him.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘When he went back nearly three months ago. He kept in touch as usual for the first three weeks he was away and then it was as if he had simply vanished into thin air. When I phoned the company to find out if he was all right, they said they’d never heard of him.’

  ‘Don’t be too alarmed by that,’ Harper said, trying to give her some reassurance. ‘In this line of work, company spokesmen will routinely deny all knowledge of everyone and everything, even if the person you’re asking about is sitting across the desk from them. So… how did you know who to call? Did Scouse tell you much about the company?’