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  PRAISE FOR RICHARD STARK, DONALD WESTLAKE, AND BREAKOUT

  “Richard Stark (the name that Donald E. Westlake uses when he lets Parker off the leash) writes with ruthless efficiency. His bad guys are polished pros who think hard, move fast, and turn on a dime in moments of crisis. And because talk doesn’t come cheap, every bit of dialogue counts.”

  —Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review

  “The Parker volumes are lean, spare, tough-minded, and utterly convincing.… Parker hasn’t lost a step.”

  —Lawrence Block, Washington Post Book World

  “Exhilarating… a great pleasure.… Packed so tightly with painstaking details… that it comes as a shock to realize the volume isn’t bigger than it is.… Westlake is an artist of compression, with the ability to create a complex, frightening character in very few words.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Westlake’s ability to construct an action story filled with unforeseen twists and quadruple-crosses is unparalleled.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Whatever Stark writes, I read. He’s a stylist, a pro, and I thoroughly enjoy his attitude.”

  —Elmore Leonard

  “Elmore Leonard wouldn’t write what he does if Stark hadn’t been there before. And Quentin Tarantino wouldn’t write what he does without Leonard.… Old master that he is, Stark does all of them one better.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Fans will thank Stark/Westlake for assisting them in making it through another night of guaranteed spare, straight-ahead action and dark humor.”

  —Library Journal

  “Charming, efficient, and deadly serious, Parker never misses a beat—whether finishing off the hit man who pays him an unexpected visit, or tracking down the unknown enemies who put out the contract on his life.”

  —New York Daily News

  “A very readable effort from master craftsman Stark.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  BY RICHARD STARK

  The Hunter [Payback]

  The Man with the Getaway Face

  The Outfit

  The Mourner

  The Score

  The Jugger

  The Seventh

  The Handle

  The Damsel

  The Rare Coin Score

  The Green Eagle Score

  The Dame

  The Black Ice Score

  The Sour Lemon Score

  Deadly Edge

  The Blackbird

  Slayground

  Lemons Never Lie

  Plunder Squad

  Butcher’s Moon

  Comeback

  Backflash

  Flashfire

  Firebreak

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2002 by Richard Stark

  All rights reserved.

  Mysterious Press books are published by Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  Visit www.donaldwestlake.com

  The Mysterious Press name and logo are registered trademarks of Warner Books, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: September 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-446-56480-9

  Contents

  PRAISE FOR RICHARD STARK, DONALD WESTLAKE, AND BREAKOUT

  By Richard Stark

  Copyright

  ONE

  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

  TWO

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  THREE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  FOUR

  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

  ONE WAY IN. NO WAY OUT.

  ONE

  1

  When the alarm went off, Parker and Armiston were far to the rear of the warehouse, Armiston with the clipboard, checking off the boxes they’d want. The white cartons were stacked six feet high to make aisles that stretched to the unpainted concrete block side walls of the building. A wider central aisle ran straight to the loading dock where they’d come in, dismantling the alarms and raising the overhead door.

  Then what was this alarm, five minutes after they’d broken in? “That idiot Bruhl,” Armiston said, throwing the clipboard away in exasperation. “He went into the office.”

  Parker was already loping toward the central aisle. Behind him, Armiston cried, “God damn it! Fingerprints!” and ran back to pick up the clipboard.

  Parker turned into the main aisle, running, and saw far away the big door still open, the empty truck backed against it. George Walheim, the lockman who’d got them in here, stood by the open doorway, making jerky movements, not quite running away.

  These were all generic pharmaceuticals in here, and Armiston had the customer, at an airfield half an hour north. The plan was, by tomorrow these medicines would be offshore, more valuable than in the States, and the four who’d done the job would earn a nice percentage.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. Bruhl, brought in by Armiston, was supposed to have gotten a fork-lift truck, so he could run it down the main aisle to pick up the cartons Parker and Armiston had marked. Instead of which, he’d gone to see what he could lift from the office. But Walheim hadn’t cleared the alarm system in the office.

  As Parker ran down the long aisle, Armiston a dozen paces behind, Bruhl appeared, coming fast out of the first side aisle down there. Walheim tried to clutch at him, but Bruhl hit him with a backhand that knocked the thinner man down.

  Parker yelled, “Bruhl! Stop!” but Bruhl kept going. He jumped to the ground outside the loading dock, next to the truck, then ran toward the front of it. He was going to take it, leave the rest of them here on foot.

  There was no way to stop him, no way to get there in time. Walheim was still on hands and knees, looking for his glasses, when the truck jolted away from the loading dock. Outside was the darkness of four A.M., spotted with thin lights high on the corners of other buildings in this industrial park.

  The truck, big rear doors flapping, heeled hard on the right turn at the end of the blacktop lot, Bruhl still accelerating. The empty truck was top-heavy, it wasn’t going to make it.

  Walheim was on his feet, patting his glasses into place, when Parker ran by. “What do we—?” But Parker was gone, jumping off the loading dock to run away leftward as behind him the truck crashed over
onto its side and scraped along the pavement until it ran into a utility pole, knocking it over. The few lights around here went dark.

  There was nothing in this area but the industrial park, empty at night. No houses, no bars, no churches, no schools. There were no pedestrians out here at four in the morning, no cars driving by.

  Parker had run less than a block when he heard the sirens, far behind him but coming fast. There was nowhere to go to cover, no point trying to break into another of these buildings. Fleets of trucks here and there stood in lines behind high fences.

  Parker kept running. Armiston and Walheim were wherever they wanted to be, and Parker tried to keep the sound of sirens behind him. But the sirens spread, left and right and then everywhere, slicing and dicing the night.

  Parker ran down the middle of an empty street and ahead of him headlights came around a corner, a bright searchlight beam fastened on him. He stopped. He put his hands on top of his head.

  2

  Do you want to tell me about it?” the CID man offered.

  “No,” Parker said.

  The CID man nodded, looking at him. He was small but bulky, a middleweight, carrot-topped, said his name was Turley. Inspector Turley. He had a dossier on the desk in front of him, Parker in the wooden chair opposite him, all of it watched by the two uniforms in the corners of this plain functional government-issue office. Turley opened the dossier and glanced at it with the air of a man who already knows what’s inside, the grim satisfaction of somebody whose negative prediction has come true. “Ronald Kasper,” he said, and frowned at Parker. “That isn’t your name, is it?”

  Parker watched him.

  Turley looked down at the dossier again, rapped the middle knuckle of the middle finger of his right hand against the information in there. “That’s the name on some fingerprints, belong to a fella escaped from a prison camp in California some years ago. Killed a guard on the way out.” He raised an eyebrow at Parker. “You’ve got his fingerprints.”

  “The system makes mistakes,” Parker said.

  Turley’s grin turned down, not finding anything funny here. “So do individuals, my friend,” he said. Looking into his dossier again, he said, “There is no Ronald Kasper, not before, not since. In the prison camp, out, left behind these prints, one guard dead. Do you want to know his name?”

  Parker shook his head. “Wouldn’t mean anything to me.”

  “No, I suppose it wouldn’t. We have some other names for you.”

  Parker waited. Turley raised an eyebrow at him, also waiting, but then saw that Parker had nothing to say and went back to the dossier. “Let me know which of these names you’d rather be. Edward Johnson. Charles Willis. Edward Lynch. No? Nothing? I have here a Parker, no first name. Still not?”

  “Stick with Kasper,” Parker said.

  “Because we’ve got that one tied to your fingers anyway,” Turley said, and leaned back. “We’ve got you all, you know. I imagine you’ll be tried together.” Turley didn’t need his dossier now. “Armiston and Walheim are also in cells here,” he said. “You probably won’t see them until trial, but they’re here. This is a big place.”

  It was. It was called Stoneveldt Detention Center, and it was where everybody charged with a state felony in this state spent their time before and during trial, unless they made bail, which Parker and Armiston and Walheim would not. No judge would look at their three histories and expect them to come back for their bail money.

  Like the industrial park where things had gone wrong last night, Stoneveldt was on the outskirts of the only large city in this big empty midwestern state. Parker’s few looks out windows since being brought here last night had shown him nothing out there but flat prairie, straight roads, a few more buildings of an industrial or governmental style, and a city rising far to the east. If he were still here for the trial, it would be a forty-minute bus ride in to court every morning and back out every night, looking at that prairie through iron mesh.

  “Steven Bruhl,” Turley went on, following his own train of thought, “is a little different. A local boy, to begin with.”

  Armiston had brought Bruhl in, needing somebody good with machinery like forklifts, not knowing he was an idiot. Well, they all knew it now. And Turley had said they three were all here in Stoneveldt, so where did that put Bruhl? Dead? Hospital?

  “If Bruhl lives,” Turley said, answering the question, “he’ll be tried later on, after you three. So, unlike you, he’ll already know what the future’s gonna bring. And also unlike you, he won’t have a chance to flip. Nobody left to rat on.”

  They sat there and watched that thought move around the room. The two uniforms shifted their feet, rubbed their backs against the wall, and watched Parker without expectation; he would not make them earn their pay or prove their training.

  “Now, you,” Turley said, “are in a better position. Out in front. You know game theory, Ronald?”

  “Mr. Kasper,” Parker said.

  Turley snorted. “What difference does it make? That isn’t your name anyway.”

  “You’re right,” Parker said, and spread his hands: Call me whatever you want.

  “Game theory,” Turley said, “suggests that whoever flips first wins, because there’s nothing left for anybody else to sell.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Parker agreed.

  “Now, we’ve got you, and we’ve got the others,” Turley said, “and you know as well as I do, we’ve got you cold. So what more do we want? What more could we possibly need, that we might want to bargain with you?”

  “Not to walk,” Parker said.

  Turley seemed surprised. “Walk? Away from this? No, you know what we’re talking about. Reduction in sentence, better choice of prison. Some of our prisons are better than others, you know.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Which means,” Turley said, “though nobody will admit this, that some of our prisons must be worse. Maybe a lot worse.” Turley leaned forward over the desk and the dossier, to impart a confidence. “We’ve got one hellhole,” he said, his voice dropping, “and I wish we didn’t, but there it is, where in that prison population you’ve only got three choices.” He checked them off on his fingers. “White power, or black power, or dead.”

  “State should do something about that,” Parker said.

  “It’s budget cuts,” Turley told him. “The politicians, you know, they want everybody locked up, but they don’t want to pay for it. So the prison administrators, they do what’s called assignment of resources, meaning at least some of the facilities retain some hope of civilization.” Turley leaned back. “One of you boys,” he said, “is gonna wind up in a country club. The other two, it’s a crapshoot.”

  Parker waited.

  Turley looked at him, getting irritated at this lack of feedback. He said, “You probably wonder, if the state’s already got me, what more can they want? What’s my bargaining chip?”

  Parker already knew. He already knew this entire conversation, but it was one of the steps he had to go through before he would be left alone to work things out for himself. He watched Turley, and waited.

  Turley nodded, swiveling slightly in his chair. “Those drugs you boys were after,” he said, “or medicines, I guess I should say, not to confuse the issue, where they’d really be worth your time and effort is overseas. But one of the reasons that distribution center was built in this area is because here we’re in the middle of America, you can get anywhere in the country in no time at all from here. But not overseas. We’re six hundred miles from an ocean or a border. Any ocean, any border. You boys were not gonna drive that truck six hundred miles. You had some other idea, and that other idea means there were more people involved. That’s what you can trade us. Where were you taking the truck, who was going to be there, and what was the route after that?”

  Turley waited, and so did Parker. Turley leaned forward again, forearm on the open dossier on the desk. “No?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Par
ker said.

  “Meaning you won’t, not so far,” Turley told him. “But what about Armiston? What about Walheim? What about Bruhl, when he comes to?”

  “If,” Parker said, because he wanted to know how bad Bruhl was.

  Bad, because Turley nodded and shrugged and said, “All right, if. But he still could come through, he’s a young strong guy. The point is, you. You know these friends of yours, Armiston and Walheim. Is one of them gonna make the jump before you?”

  “We’ll see,” Parker said.

  Turley stood, ending the session. The uniforms stood straighter, away from the walls. Parker looked around, then also stood.

  “Think about it,” Turley said. “If you want to talk to me, any time at all, tell the guard.”

  “Right,” Parker said.

  3

  It isn’t just this cell,” Williams said. “The whole place is overcrowded.”

  Parker could believe it. The cell he was in, with Williams and two others, here on the third tier of a four-tier cage built inside an outer shell of concrete block, was eight feet by six, meant to house two short-term prisoners, but double-decker bunks had been put in to crowd four men into the space, and the court dockets were also crowded, so much so that inmates weren’t here for the month or two the architects had counted on but for eight months, ten months, a year.

  This was a strange place because it was a prison and yet it wasn’t a prison. There was no stable population, no long-termers to keep it cohesive. Everybody was transient, even though the transit was longer and more uncomfortable than it was supposed to be.

  This was the place before the decisions were made, so this was the place of hope. There was always that chance; a witness would disappear, the lab would screw up, the court would buy your lawyer’s argument. When this transient period was done, when your time in court was finished, you’d leave here, either for the street or to go deeper into the system, into a penitentiary, and until the last second of the last day of your trial you could never be absolutely sure which way it would go.

  But because it was a place of hope, of possibilities, of decisions not yet made, it was also a place of paranoia. You didn’t know any of these guys. You were all strangers to one another, not here long enough to have developed a reputation, not going to stay long enough to want to form into groups. The only thing you knew for sure was that there were rats in the pop, people ready to pass on to the law anything they might learn about you, either because they’d been put here specifically for that purpose, or because they were opportunists, ready to market in pieces of information because it might put them in good with the authorities; push themselves up by pushing you down. And it would probably work, too.