On Wings Of Eagles (1990)

Lunch came a little before noon. Paul ate but Bill was not hungry. The firing seemed very close now, and they could hear shouting and chanting from the streets.

Three of the guards in Building Number 8 suddenly appeared in civilian clothes.

This had to be the end.

Paul and Bill went downstairs and into the courtyard. The mental patients on the ground floor all seemed to be screaming. Now the guards in the gun towers were firing into the streets outside: the prison must be under attack.

Was that good news or bad? wondered Bill. Did EDS know this was happening? Could it be part of Coburn's rescue? There had been no visitors for two days. Had they all gone home? Were they still alive?

The sentry who normally guarded the courtyard gate had gone, and the gate was open.

The gate was open!

Did the guards want the prisoners to leave?

Other cell blocks must have been open, too, for there were now prisoners as well as guards running around the compound. Bullets whistled through the trees and ricocheted off buildings.

A slug landed at Paul's feet.

They both stared at it.

The guards in the gun towers were now firing into the compound.

Paul and Bill turned and ran back into Building Number 8.

They stood at a window, watching the mounting chaos in the compound. It was ironic: for weeks they had thought of little else but their freedom, yet now that they could walk out, they hesitated.

"What do you think we should do?" said Paul.

"I don't know. Is it more dangerous in here or out there?"

Paul shrugged.

"Hey, there's the billionaire." They could see the rich prisoner from Building Number 8--the one who had a private room and meals brought in from outside--crossing the compound with two of his henchmen. He had shaved off his luxuriant handlebar mustache. Instead of his mink-lined camel coat, he wore a shirt and pants: he was stripped for action, traveling light, ready to move fast. He was heading north, away from the prison gates: did that mean there was a back way out?

The guards from Building Number 8, all now in civilian clothes, crossed the little courtyard and went out through the gate.

Everyone was leaving, yet still Paul and Bill hesitated.

"See that motorcycle?" said Paul.

"I see it."

"We could leave on that. I used to ride a motorcycle."

"How would we get it over the wall?"

"Oh, yeah." Paul laughed at his own foolishness.

Their cellmate had found a couple of big bags and he began to pack his clothes. Bill felt the urge to take off, just to get out of here, whether or not that was part of the EDS plan. Freedom was so close. But bullets were flying around out there, and the mob attacking the jail might well be anti-American. On the other hand, if the authorities were somehow to regain control of the prison, Paul and Bill would have lost their last chance of escape ...

"I wonder where Gayden is now, the son of a bitch," said Paul. "The only reason I'm here is because he sent me to Iran."

Bill looked at Paul and realized he was only joking.

The patients from the ground-floor hospital swarmed out into the courtyard: someone must have unlocked their doors. Bill could hear a tremendous commotion, like crying, from the women's cell block on the other side of the street. There were more and more people out in the compound, flocking toward the prison entrance. Looking that way, Bill saw smoke. Paul saw it at the same moment.

Bill said: "If they're going to burn the place..."

"We'd better get out."

The fire tipped the balance: their decision was made.

Bill looked around the cell. The two of them had few possessions. Bill thought of the diary he had kept faithfully for the last forty-three days. Paul had written lists of things he would do when he got back to the States, and had figured out, on a sheet of paper, the finance on the new house Ruthie was buying. They both had precious letters from home that they had read over and over again.

Paul said: "We're probably better off not carrying anything that shows we're Americans."

Bill had picked up his diary. Now he dropped it again. "You're right," he said reluctantly.

They put on their coats: Paul had a blue London Fog raincoat and Bill an overcoat with a fur collar.

They had about two thousand dollars each, money that Keane Taylor had brought in. Paul had some cigarettes. They took nothing else.

They went out of the building and crossed the little courtyard, then hesitated at the gate. The street was now a sea of people, like the crowd leaving a sports stadium, walking and running in one mass toward the prison gates.

Paul stuck out his hand. "Hey, good luck, Bill."

Bill shook his hand. "Good luck to you."

Probably we'll both die in the next few minutes, Bill thought, most likely from a stray bullet. I'll never see the kids grow up, he realized sadly. The thought that Emily would have to manage on her own made him angry.

Amazingly enough, he felt no fear.

They stepped through the little gate, and then there was no more time for reflection.