Richard Stark - Breakout

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors 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.

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

First eBook Edition: September 2009

ISBN: 978-0-446-56480-9

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 doesnt 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 hasnt 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 isnt 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)

Westlakes ability to construct an action story filled with unforeseen twists and quadruple-crosses is unparalleled.

San Francisco Chronicle

Whatever Stark writes, I read. Hes a stylist, a pro, and I thoroughly enjoy his attitude.

Elmore Leonard

Elmore Leonard wouldnt write what he does if Stark hadnt been there before. And Quentin Tarantino wouldnt 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 beatwhether 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

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

Butchers Moon

Comeback

Backflash

Flashfire

Firebreak

W hen the alarm went off, Parker and Armiston were far to the rear of the warehouse, Armiston with the clipboard, checking off the boxes theyd 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 theyd come in, dismantling the alarms and raising the overhead door.

Then what was this alarm, five minutes after theyd 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 whod 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 whod done the job would earn a nice percentage.

But that wasnt 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, hed gone to see what he could lift from the office. But Walheim hadnt 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 wasnt 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.

D o 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 whats inside, the grim satisfaction of somebody whose negative prediction has come true. Ronald Kasper, he said, and frowned at Parker. That isnt 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. Thats 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. Youve got his fingerprints.