put his eye to the
viewfinder.
“ You’ve seen it for yourselves, ladies and gentlemen. A
massive explosion has rocked . . . no, rocked can’t be the word . .
. has . . . an explosion has totally destroyed . . .” Another substantial piece of debris shook the motor home,
obliterating whatever Melanie said next. By the time the camera
stopped bouncing up and down, she had regained her poise and had once
again become . . . “ Melanie Harris broadcasting live from
Musket, Arizona, for American Manhunt .” At ground
level, the technicians had the camera rolling again.
“ The National Guard is going in,” she chanted. “ The
first two armored vehicles are moving quickly across the prison yard.
And then another pair and another.”
A wall of soot and flame rose from the carcass of the
administration building, nearly obscuring the cellblocks. Sirens
approached in the distance. A loudspeaker blared orders but Melanie
could not make them out. She watched in stunned silence as the lead
pair of Strykers came to a stop about forty yards in front of the
cellblocks. Melanie let the pictures speak for themselves, a trick
she’d picked up from sports announcers. The lead Strykers began to
rake the building with heavy machine-gun fire. Above the roar of the
flames and the clatter of the machinery, shouts could be heard from
within the cellblocks in the moment before the Strykers’ back
hatches began to rise in unison and the soldiers hidden within began
to step out onto the ground and sprint toward the building. Melanie
had the odd thought that the troop carriers were a lot like the story
of the Trojan horse in the way they discharged their hidden cargoes.
Next thing she knew, she was talking.
“ The assault has begun in earnest, ladies and gentlemen. The armored vehicles are now deploying their troops. As we speak, the first soldiers have breached one of the lower doors and have
entered the prison.” She hesitated. The prison yard was full of
double-timing soldiers, trotting along, using the armored vehicles
for cover as they hurried their way across the debris-strewn
pavement. Melanie felt the blood rising in her cheeks, almost as if
she were down there with a rifle She rolled her wrist at Yushi again.
“ This is real-time action from American Manhunt .
Melanie Harris coming to you today from Musket, Arizona, where
. . .”
16
“Damage?” Dallin Asuega sputtered. “What damage? We’re not
talking about damage here, for christsakes. We’re talking about the
whole damn building being . . .” He searched for a word, then
forced himself to say it. “. . . gone. Twenty-three million dollars
and it’s gone. Vaporized, then burnt to a cinder.” He threw a
hand in the direction of the prison. “Probably another twenty
million or so damage to the cellblocks.” He paused, as if overcome
by his own words. “And that’s just structurally. God only knows
what kind of damage has been incurred to the interior.”
Asuega threw a quick glance at the TV monitor. CNN must have hired
a helicopter. The sound of the rotors could be heard above the
voice-over. “ Clop clop clop . . . high above Meza Azul Correctional Facility, where units of the Arizona and Nevada
National Guards . . .”
“Turn that damn thing off,” Asuega demanded.
Iris Cruz lifted an eyebrow, as if to ask Warden Elias Romero if
she should comply with the directive. Like most men, Elias liked to
think of himself as inscrutable, but she could read him like a lunch
menu. He was in a full sweat. Almost as bad as when No Man’s Land
she pressed him hard about dumping his wife. He was trying to figure
how all of this was gonna come down on him. Typical. He met her eyes
briefly, then an almost imperceptible movement of his head told her
to turn off the volume but leave the picture in place.
From a thousand feet above the prison yard, the picture showed a
trio of fire trucks pouring high-pressure cannons of water at the
smoldering pile of debris that had once
viewfinder.
“ You’ve seen it for yourselves, ladies and gentlemen. A
massive explosion has rocked . . . no, rocked can’t be the word . .
. has . . . an explosion has totally destroyed . . .” Another substantial piece of debris shook the motor home,
obliterating whatever Melanie said next. By the time the camera
stopped bouncing up and down, she had regained her poise and had once
again become . . . “ Melanie Harris broadcasting live from
Musket, Arizona, for American Manhunt .” At ground
level, the technicians had the camera rolling again.
“ The National Guard is going in,” she chanted. “ The
first two armored vehicles are moving quickly across the prison yard.
And then another pair and another.”
A wall of soot and flame rose from the carcass of the
administration building, nearly obscuring the cellblocks. Sirens
approached in the distance. A loudspeaker blared orders but Melanie
could not make them out. She watched in stunned silence as the lead
pair of Strykers came to a stop about forty yards in front of the
cellblocks. Melanie let the pictures speak for themselves, a trick
she’d picked up from sports announcers. The lead Strykers began to
rake the building with heavy machine-gun fire. Above the roar of the
flames and the clatter of the machinery, shouts could be heard from
within the cellblocks in the moment before the Strykers’ back
hatches began to rise in unison and the soldiers hidden within began
to step out onto the ground and sprint toward the building. Melanie
had the odd thought that the troop carriers were a lot like the story
of the Trojan horse in the way they discharged their hidden cargoes.
Next thing she knew, she was talking.
“ The assault has begun in earnest, ladies and gentlemen. The armored vehicles are now deploying their troops. As we speak, the first soldiers have breached one of the lower doors and have
entered the prison.” She hesitated. The prison yard was full of
double-timing soldiers, trotting along, using the armored vehicles
for cover as they hurried their way across the debris-strewn
pavement. Melanie felt the blood rising in her cheeks, almost as if
she were down there with a rifle She rolled her wrist at Yushi again.
“ This is real-time action from American Manhunt .
Melanie Harris coming to you today from Musket, Arizona, where
. . .”
16
“Damage?” Dallin Asuega sputtered. “What damage? We’re not
talking about damage here, for christsakes. We’re talking about the
whole damn building being . . .” He searched for a word, then
forced himself to say it. “. . . gone. Twenty-three million dollars
and it’s gone. Vaporized, then burnt to a cinder.” He threw a
hand in the direction of the prison. “Probably another twenty
million or so damage to the cellblocks.” He paused, as if overcome
by his own words. “And that’s just structurally. God only knows
what kind of damage has been incurred to the interior.”
Asuega threw a quick glance at the TV monitor. CNN must have hired
a helicopter. The sound of the rotors could be heard above the
voice-over. “ Clop clop clop . . . high above Meza Azul Correctional Facility, where units of the Arizona and Nevada
National Guards . . .”
“Turn that damn thing off,” Asuega demanded.
Iris Cruz lifted an eyebrow, as if to ask Warden Elias Romero if
she should comply with the directive. Like most men, Elias liked to
think of himself as inscrutable, but she could read him like a lunch
menu. He was in a full sweat. Almost as bad as when No Man’s Land
she pressed him hard about dumping his wife. He was trying to figure
how all of this was gonna come down on him. Typical. He met her eyes
briefly, then an almost imperceptible movement of his head told her
to turn off the volume but leave the picture in place.
From a thousand feet above the prison yard, the picture showed a
trio of fire trucks pouring high-pressure cannons of water at the
smoldering pile of debris that had once
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