The Midas Code

The handcuffs were the type used by most law-enforcement agencies in the US. When the cuffs were closed, the audible click was the pawl engaging the gear in the ratchet, which prevented the gear from opening, locking the cuffs. But if a shim were inserted between the pawl and the gear, the ratchet wouldn’t engage, leaving the cuff free to open.

The stays in his collar were thin enough for the job. He just had to make sure Phillips didn’t realize the cuffs weren’t locked.

Sherman knelt, placed the cuffs on his ankles, and locked them. He couldn’t prop them open with a stay because they’d come undone as soon as he began to walk, exposing his plan even before it got under way.

He stood and put the cuffs on his wrists as Phillips watched. He made sure to keep the stay hidden as he put the cuff on his left hand. As he closed the cuff, he jabbed the stay into the narrow opening. After a few clicks, he felt the shim slip under the pawl. Now it would slide freely if he tried to open it.

The stay was in place, but Sherman was afraid the cuffs would fall open if he raised them. He held them against his body, backed up, and rotated to show that the ankle cuffs were in place.

Phillips unlocked the door and threw it open. He had the Taser at the ready if Sherman didn’t comply. It wasn’t armed with the cartridge that shot the leads out to twenty feet, so the shock could be applied only at close quarters.

“Let’s go,” Phillips said, bored by the tedium of this daily show.

Sherman shuffled out. The chair was in the same place. Crenshaw held the camera. No one else was there.

Phillips put the balaclava on. Sherman sat and was blindfolded as usual. The rustle of the newspaper told him when they were filming. He recited his name. Nothing new.

After a few seconds, Phillips said, “All right. That’s good enough.”

The blindfold came off.

“Get up,” Phillips said as he pulled the mask off and faced Sherman. Crenshaw was already heading back to his workbench, his iPod earbuds blasting away.

Sherman didn’t move.

Phillips sneered. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“I heard you,” Sherman said.

“Then get your ass out of the chair and back into your cell.”

“Make me.”

“Oh, so you want to ride the lightning again. Doesn’t bother me.”

Crenshaw had his back turned to them. With a wicked smile, Phillips pulled the Taser from his belt.

“At least I get to enjoy part of my day,” he said.

He walked up to Sherman and reached out to tase him in the neck. He came at Sherman slowly, his eyes glinting in anticipation of the paralyzing reaction to the shock.

Sherman quickly worked the left cuff open. When the Taser was within a foot of him, his hand shot out, grabbing Phillips’s wrist. The surprise on Phillips’s face was total, giving Sherman the moment of hesitation he needed. He twisted the Taser down, forced it against Phillips’s leg, and pressed the trigger.

Phillips’s body seized in agony, and he collapsed. Sherman leaped on top of him, sending another jolt into Phillips’s chest.

Sherman stole a look at Crenshaw, who was just turning to see what the commotion was. His opportunity to disable Crenshaw wouldn’t last long, and there were guns on the table.

Phillips’s pistol was in his waist holster. Sherman drew it, dropped the Taser, and rolled off Phillips’s torso. As he raised the gun, Crenshaw spotted him, threw the metal table over, and dove behind it. Sherman’s shots pinged off the underside.

Phillips shook off his daze faster than Sherman had expected and grabbed the Taser. He lunged toward Sherman with it, the high-voltage prongs chittering with sparks, but Sherman snapped off a shot before Phillips could reach him, and the man dropped in his tracks as the bullet blew off the back of his skull.

Sherman had to get the key. As he rifled frantically through Phillips’s pocket, he fired three more shots at the table to keep Crenshaw down. He found the key chain in Phillips’s front pocket, along with a cell phone, and unlocked one of the ankle cuffs so that he’d be mobile.

As Sherman got up to find cover, a bullet slammed into his thigh. He cried out but didn’t go down, knowing that he would be a sitting duck for Crenshaw. As rounds pinged off the concrete walls, he hobbled over to his cell door, leaving a thick trail of blood behind him.

The heavy steel door provided plenty of protection. He winced as he collapsed to the floor behind it. He was only now aware of the frenzied shouts coming from the other cells.

Sherman undid the remaining locks on the cuffs and threw them aside. Then he dialed 911.

After two rings, he heard, “911 emergency. How can I assist you?”

“My name is General Sherman Locke. I’m being held hostage by terrorists. I’ve killed one, but I’m pinned down by another.”

“Can you tell me your location?”

“No. I don’t know where I am. Zero in on the cell signal.”

“All right, sir. I’ll have the police there as soon as I can. How many assailants are there?”

“Just one more, I think.”