Book Excerpt – The First

The First
by Kipjo K. Ewers

    Publication Date: Jul 18, 2013
    List Price: $11.95
    Format: Paperback, 377 pages
    Classification: Fiction
    ISBN13: 9780615836690
    Imprint: EVO Universe
    Publisher: EVO Universe
    Parent Company: EVO Universe

    Read a Description of The First

    Copyright © 2013 EVO Universe/Kipjo K. Ewers No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission from the publisher or author. The format of this excerpt has been modified for presentation here.


    Monday 11:30 PM, Mountain View Unit in Gatesville, Texas, prisoner 28301:014 stared at her prison door as if she was watching a movie. She barely touched her meal of medium rare steak, mashed potatoes with chives, and macaroni on the side. Her dessert, which she mostly ate, was a double chocolate banana fudge sundae with sprinkles on top. Quietly she sat holding a thick leather bible in her small hands. As she waited, the sound of heavy boots and chains got closer. Not an inch she stirred through the clicking and clanging of the cell door opening as a shadow casted over her.

    “Dennison, it’s time,” a rough voice announced.

    In less than two minutes her arms, waist, and legs were in restraints. After confirming the security of her shackles, the female correctional officer of the group handed her back her bible. She proceeded to pull out several envelopes from out of it handing them to the female C.O.

    “Could you please make sure these get mailed? They have stamps and addresses on them.” Dennison requested.

    The female correctional officer took them with a silent nod. Dennison took one final deep breath as she gazed out into the hallway of the prison.

    “Okay, I’m ready,” she exhaled.

    Monday 11:35 PM

    She walked the halls of cellblock D clutching the black leather bible tightly as if to crush it while flanked by two large male correctional officers from behind and the female correctional officer in front. The sound of her chains clanking like Ebenezer’s ghost, along with the heavy boots and gear of the officers, were the loudest thing on the block that night. As she walked, she could feel the eyes on her. She could hear the sniffles and the whispers; she started to count her steps in her mind. The procession came to a stop at thirty paces as she reached her first destination.

    The correctional officer to her left turned her.

    “Five minutes,” he sternly reminded her.

    “Thank You,” she gratefully nodded.

    Quickly she shuffled over to the bars of cell 28.

    A young woman barely in her twenties with raven colored hair in cornrows trembled with head bent as she gripped the bars sobbing. Resting the bible between the bars, Dennison placed her hands on top of her hands as best she could despite the hindrance by the bars and her restraints.

    She leaned in close, kissing her on the top of her head causing the young woman to whimper.

    “No more tears now,” she whispered to her, “two more weeks and you can see your babies, and God help you if you ever come back here…because I’ll be watching. Car boosting days are over…you hear me?”

    Her words only made her cry harder as the young woman fought to hold her hands through the bars. As Dennison tried her best to comfort and silence her tears; the young woman’s cellmate, a woman two shades darker

    than Dennison with longer dreads than hers walked up to the bars standing next to her. She stood a thick yet fit four inches over Dennison. Prison had chiseled her face and demeanor, but it could not take away the motherly eyes she looked at her with.

    She playfully nudged the young woman in mourning from behind.

    “Come now; soldier up,” the older woman softly ordered her, “Our girl’s going home; she got too much on her mind than to deal with your tired ass and the water works.”

    She placed a gentle hand on the sobbing young woman’s back, then placed her other hand on top of Dennison’s hand.

    “I shall miss, our talks with one another,” the older woman uttered in her best Tom Cruise impersonation.

    It was enough to make Dennison burst into laughter.

    “I shall too,” she responded in her best Ken Watanabe voice, “they were just…perfect…”

    The two women laughed over the young woman’s whimpering sobs.

    The older woman finally choked up. She quickly swatted away her tears so they would not flow.

    “I’m sorry,” her voice cracked, “I know you don’t need this shit now.”

    “It’s okay, happy tears,” Dennison said with a trembling smile fighting back her own tears, “Remember, I’m going home…”

    “Yeah, you are,” her elder tried to match her painful smile, “you’re going home…”

    “I’m going home,” she said again attempting to use a more convincing voice.

    It did not work as her body violently began to tremble, which made the older woman hold her hand tighter.

    “Dennison, two minutes,” the correctional officer said a bit forcefully reminding her that her timed request was almost up.

    She turned nodding and quickly took the Bible she had handing it to the older woman.

    “This belonged to my mother,” she got to the point, “she’s not going to need it back. She’s got like a ton of them. Something to remember me by, I left you both a little goodbye note on the inside, please read it.”

    “Dennison…,” warned the correctional officer again.

    Dennison nodded as she tried to pull her hand away, but the younger woman still clutching her left hand refused to let go.

    Her elder stepped in to pry her off of Dennison before the guards did.

    “Come on Bishop,” she gently coaxed, “you got to let her go. You got to let her go honey.”

    “No! No! It’s not right!” hollered Bishop holding on for dear life, “No! No! No!”

    With bitter reluctance, the young woman forced by her older inmate broke her grip. Collapsing to her knees, she curled herself into a ball, and emitted a gut wrenching howl as if she was dying. Dennison gave a final wave as she shuffled off falling back into line and lead off by the guards.

    The silver haired woman quivered as she finally allowed her tears to fall.

    “An innocent woman right there!” she gripped the bars screaming, “God help you all! God help you all!”

    11:50 PM

    She walked through the door held open for her by one of the officers. As her eyes winced while adjusting to the harshness of the medical lights above, she finally got a glimpse of the table.

    “Oh dear god…,” she whimpered as her legs went out from underneath her.

    Almost everyone went down after seeing the table; it was the final gut check etching the cold hard realization that what was happening was real. The male officers on instinct caught her as she went down, it was the one and only time they showed compassion as they allowed her to compose herself before helping her back up to her feet.

    As they lead her to the table she started to chant her mantra, “I’m going home…I’m going home…I’m going home…”

    She kept repeating the same words to herself as they removed her shackles for the last time. They allowed her to remove her shoes and socks before positioning her on the table, and strapping her down. She liked being barefoot, and wanted to be so one final time; stretching her toes and the chant helped to keep her from breaking down into tears, but it could not stop the uncontrollable shivering her body was going through. Finally, the lab technician walked over with the needle, she closed her eyes as he found her vein and stuck it in her arm; she barely felt it going in as he checked it before taping it down to her arm. Silent tears poured from her eyes blurring her vision as she shook her head. But this was not a bad dream. She was not going to wake up.

    With the final checks made, the Warden stepped in to begin the proceedings.

    “The time is now 11:55 PM as we prepare to proceed with the execution of Prisoner 28301:014 Sophia Dennison by the state of Texas,” he began to announce, “By lethal injection for the crime of Capital Murder. At this time the condemned will be allowed to say a few words.”

    She drew a quivering breath as she looked at the double mirror hiding from her the witnesses sitting on the other side listening to her final words, and who would watch her draw her last breath.

    “I…stand here before you…declaring my innocence,” she began to find her words, “As I did four years ago…I now go to my Maker in peace…knowing despite all my other sins…which I have owned, the one sin that I am truly clean of is the one I am condemned to die here…for…tonight…”

    Her body shook violently while her tears heavily rolled. The First 8 “I…did not…murder my husband,” she fought to get out her final words, “And I forgive you all…for what you’re about to do…to me…”

    Timidly she nodded her head giving the cue for the lab technician to flick the switch lowering the table to a horizontal position; her vision became blurrier as her tears now flowed like a waterfall. Despite being nearly blind, she could make out the three clear canisters lined one after another…all she focused on…was the one that would put her to sleep.

    “I’m going home…I’m going home,” Sophia softly sang, “I’m going home…I’m going home…”


    The warden gave the nod, as executioner pushed the button pumping the sedative within the first cylinder into the tube heading for her arm, a final light smile appeared on her face as her eyes began to flutter.

    “I’m going home,” she continued to sing to the end; “I’m going…home…I’m going…”

    The machine then pumped the fluid from the second cylinder.

    It was now Tuesday 12:01 PM…


    Tuesday 6:30 AM, Mountain View Unit, Gatesville, Texas:

    SAC (Special Agent in Charge) Mark Armitage had seen it all; his ten years in the army and his almost fifteen year career in the FBI had exposed him to terrorist cells that threaten national security, drug cartels, missing and exploited children; things that would leave lesser people with eternal nightmares. Nothing surprised him these days, especially the night he came home to an empty house and divorce papers on the bed his wife and him used to share. Neither did the 2:30 AM call from his Executive Assistant Director to get on the first plane from Washington down to Gatesville ASAP. By right, he should have his job, but Armitage chose to remain a field agent. He knew a desk job would see him one night with his service weapon in his mouth, blowing his brains out the back of his skull. In the field meant, he was in the shit, which meant his mind was preoccupied with other things besides ending his own existence.

    He slowly drove his rental car up to the metal door entrance of the Mountain View Unit, the section of the Gatesville women’s prison created solely for prisoners on death row. The usual media whores were out in full force, taking pictures, video footage, and waving their microphones while screaming questions, expecting answers that they had no business getting. This was usually a normal scene for him except for the National Guard keeping the inquisitive media and residents at bay instead of the local police or even state troopers.

    A Private First Class in full gear holding his M16A2 walked up to the window of his rental car giving Mark the cue to flash his badge and credentials.

    The Private nodded and radioed to open the doors blocking the outside world to the prison letting him in; it was then that Armitage realized the need for the extra firepower.

    Inside the Mountain View Unit was a war zone. There was a huge gaping hole in the side of the main building, and a massive hole in the side of the forty-foot wall, which enclosed the facility. A large personnel vehicle now blocked the hole keeping residents and nosey reporters from getting in. There was also an obliterated watchtower, and two destroyed vehicles, one smoking and one still on fire covered in debris from the watchtower partially brought down. The local fire department continued to put the hose to it to kill the flames from one of their trucks. Littering the inside of the compound were local police, state troopers, special agents, correctional officers, and the National Guard. Paramedics were also on site attending to the wounded comprising of both correctional officers and local police.

    Mark had to admit, rioting was a common thing that could break out in regular prisons both male and female; but this was a battlefield; something he had never seen in his career.

    As he parked and stepped out of his rental looking around, a familiar face amidst the chaos fueled his sentiment with just a look as he walked up to him. “Ain’t never seen no shit like this in my life Mark,” Dustin greeted his partner.

    “What the hell happened here?” Mark asked his oldest friend as he looked around at the damage all around him.

    “Prison break,” Dustin began filling him in, “One dead C.O.; several guards and police badly injured.”

    “Only one dead?” Mark scanned the yard again surprised that the amount of damage around him only caused one fatality.

    “Yeah, what’s left of the poor bastard on top of the smashed in squad car over there,” Dustin pointed to the caved-in Impala with the Gatesville police colors smoking and covered with debris from the massive hole made in the front of the building from the eighth floor.

    The only thing of the dead seen from Armitage and Mercer’s distant view was a leg as forensics took pictures of the scene before the paramedics removed the body. “How many broke out?” Mark asked as he walked with Dustin to the prison.

    “One,” Dustin dryly answered his partner.

    “Just one,” Mark asked stunned, “So what are we looking at, organized gang or a terrorist cell?” “No one broke in to break her out,” Dustin nervously returned, “She broke out all by herself.”

    Armitage gave Mercer the look that it was too early in the morning for jokes; Dustin returned the look meaning that this time he was not yanking his chain.

    “Dustin, you’re telling me one inmate did all this damage?” Mark looked around is disbelief.

    “Just walk with me,” Dustin motioned not prepared to explain to him fully what happened yet.

    Armitage followed Mercer into the facility where they went through security and saw some of the injured that was brought down from the eighth floor; some were talking to field agents and accounting their version of what they saw, while others just sat there with blank expressions on their face unable to speak much less comprehend what they saw. Armitage continued to follow Mercer in as they took the elevator heading for the video surveillance room on the second floor.

    “At 12:00 A.M. this morning, now escape convict Sophia Dennison was scheduled for execution by lethal injection.” Dustin began to rundown the events of six and a half hours ago.

    “What was she in for?” asked Mark.

    “Four years ago she murdered her husband, Lieutenant Robert Matheson, a former decorated Iraq War Marine Vet in cold blood, stabbed the poor bastard like forty-one times in their bed, bitch was found two states away in an airport hotel in Oklahoma with a one way flight to Brazil,” he began to explain.

    “Why’d she do it?” he asked.

    The motive did not mean anything to him. Mark wanted info to understand the mind state of the fugitive he would be hunting.

    “Two point five million dollar trust fund,” Dustin responded.

    “Say what?” Mark furrowed his eyebrows, “You mean insurance…”

    “No trust fund.” He clarified, “Kid got it when he completed boot camp. Father is a well-known Four Star General who comes from old money, and I mean after the Civil War days money. He’s also got a lot of connections in both the military and private sector. Did very well for himself in both, poor kid was so trusting he dumped all the money into their joint savings and checking accounts, red flags went up when it was all transferred into her personal account within the same bank which she got a month prior. She transferred the money the same night she killed him. They had actual footage of her withdrawing some of the money in cash from an ATM, driving through a toll heading to Oklahoma and checking into a hotel near the airport there.”

    Mark and Dustin got off on the second floor of the building walking to the surveillance room; he rushed to get there with Mark following.

    “Was he crippled or something?” Mark asked.

    “Took shrapnel to the chest from an I.A.D, badly burned left arm, and lost sight in his right eye…other than that pretty healthy,” Dustin responded.

    “So how did she overpower a Marine?” a now perplexed Mark asked, “She kill him in his sleep?”

    “Worst,” Dustin answered with a face of disgust, “she injected him with a serious paralyzing neurotoxin. Numbs everything except for nervous system…poor bastard felt everything…and get this…she did it after she banged him.”

    “How did she get a hold of…?” Mark began with his next question.

    “She’s a licensed neurosurgeon, graduated with a full scholarship to Texas Southwestern,” Dustin answered his unfinished question, while rushing to get to the surveillance room, “She did her residency at Memorial Hermann till graduation and got a position there. Records show she lifted it from their research facility.”

    “Okay, so how did she escape before her execution?” Mark threw out the driving question.

    Dustin uneasily hesitated again before he answered. “She didn’t escape,” he fumbled with his words, “she was executed.”

    His answer stopped Mark dead in his tracks.

    “Wait! What? What the hell you mean she was executed?” he held his hands up in frustration, “Then what the f…?”

    Dustin grabbed his arm ushering him to keep moving. “Just walk with me man,” he growled.

    “Dustin so help me if you don’t start making some damn sense,” was what Armitage thought as he snatched his arm away and continued to follow him into the security observation room; one of the correctional officers in the room tensely monitored the series of screens as they walked in.

    “At twelve midnight, Sophia Dennison was executed,” Dustin finally began his explanation; “she was pronounced officially dead by the local county coroner at 12:05 PM…then this happened…”

    Armitage watched the video feed at 12:07 PM, one of the officers present within the room walked over to remove the thick leather restraints from a now deceased Sophia Dennison. Out of nowhere, the pronounced dead arched her back gasping for air almost scaring the life from the 6’2” correctional officer who reeled back in fright. As the pastor in the room fainted, everyone else within the room and on the other side of the observation window began freaking out at the terrifyingly miraculous resurrection.

    Mark watched in disbelief as the 5’6” 110-pound woman in a hyper-hysterical state fought to sit up ripping both her 6-inch thick arm restraints from the very table itself.

    “Get me out! Get me out! Get me out! Get me out! Get me out!” were the first three words she began to rant.

    Armitage would have thought it a fluke, a rush of adrenaline if his still 20/20 vision did not show the same woman snapping the restraints for her chest and waist right from the table itself sending pieces of metal attaching the restraints to it flying. As she sat up, a correctional officer overcoming his shock and fear rushed over to restrain her. With a swipe of her arm, she swatted a man who had at least 150 pounds on her clear across the room slamming him violently into the wall behind him. He dropped face first onto the ground like slab of beef.

    After effortlessly popping the last two restraints from her legs, Dennison rolled off the table dropping to her knees.

    “I remember! I remember! I remember! I remember!” she sniveling repeated, “I remember! I remember! I remember! I remember!”

    “Dennison! St…Stay down!” ordered a frightened second male Correctional Officer.

    She ignored his order as she fought to her feet stumbling and falling against the glass partition, separating her from the audience who had watched her execution on the other side.

    “I remember! I remember!” she continued to babble, “I remember! I remember! I remember!”

    They scattered in terror and disbelief as a second officer lunged to tackle her to the floor. Much to his own shock and dismay Dennison’s apparent adrenaline rush allowed her to stop him in his tracks, in the struggle she managed to grab him by the front of his shirt lifting him off his feet.

    “No!” she screamed.

    Sophia threw him backwards as if tossing a stuffed teddy bear. His near bone-crushing blow against the wall behind him was anything but that of a stuffed bear tossed. He too dropped face first hitting the concrete floor with a sickening thud, while pieces of the wall crumbled to the floor from the impact.

    She stood there clutching her skull; she appeared to be in excruciating pain shaking like a leaf. In frustration, she screamed pounding on the reinforced observation glass cracking it.

    “I…got…I got…to get…out,” she switched her blathering chant.

    She hit the glass again with a heavier shot giving it a large shatter pattern. It looked as if an aluminum bat hit it; one more shot would send glass raining everywhere. On the other side of the glass people screamed backing up terrified at what they were witnessing. As a disoriented Dennison looked to deliver another blow four guards swarmed on her for a dog pile attempt…it went horribly wrong.

    Armitage beside himself now witnessed as one woman tossed around highly trained correctional officers like rag dolls. There was no finesse to what she was doing; making it obvious that she was not a trained combatant, but her strength apparently was beyond what the four guards could handle combined.

    With one swipe of her hand, she accidentally backhanded a male guard into a tailspin; in an attempt to break free, she threw an elbow into another’s chest.

    The shot lifted him off his feet and folded him in half as he hit the floor back first; he rolled to his side gasping for air as if she broke his sternum; reports would later show that she actually shattered it. The female guard in the mix hung desperately onto one her legs in a failed attempt to bring her down. Dennison’s movements thrashed her around like an ankle biter holding onto a mop. The last standing male guard having enough grabbed his baton and let loose a skull crushing shot to her skull. It staggered her and drew blood, but she remained standing, while he stood taken aback that his metal baton was now bent in half.

    “What the f…,” said the stunned male officer.

    Before he could not finish his sentence, a bloodied Sophia with a possible fractured skull and severe concussion swung for the hills hitting him dead in the chest. The force of her punch sent him flying through the shattered glass into the observation room hitting a couple of witnesses knocking them down like dominos.

    She was in daze as she wiped the blood off her face, while additional yelling and screaming now filled the lethal injection room; realizing the window was broken, she advanced to freedom, but felt a weight on her right leg. It was the female officer still holding onto her.

    “Let…me go…please…let me go…,” a disoriented Sophia pleaded.

    “I can’t do that Sophia…,” a terrified female correctional officer bound by duty returned.

    Sophia reached down grabbing her by the front of her shirt lifting her from the ground into the air with one arm.

    The officer screamed and held onto Sophia’s arm for dear life.

    “Please Sophia,” she pleaded with her, “You know I got kids…please…” “I…I’m not…” Sophia tried to reassure her.

    Before she could calm down the officer and explain to her that she only wanted her to let her go, a voice called out, “Dennison!”


    Was all that rang out as she staggered back a bit releasing the officer who scurried away for cover, she looked down to see the front of her green prison scrubs become red. As she tried to advance forward, gunfire erupted into the lethal injection room. Armitage watched in disgust as bullet after bullet tore into the young woman’s body via panic fire. It took twenty shots to bring her down to her knees, and five more to drop her, one hitting her skull, which snapped her neck back as she crashed onto the now bloody floor lifeless once again.

    It should have been over, but Armitage remembered what Mercer said. Dustin watched the godfather to his children turn to him with a visage he had never seen on him before, one of fear.

    “You said…she escaped,” Mark uttered with unsettling nervousness.

    Dustin turned again to the correctional officer.

    “Fast forward the tape,” he ordered.

    The officer sweating bullets turned the dial making the video fast forward in double time mode. The guards who did the shooting came in to check if she was actually dead while securing the room. Additional guards now came in along with the Warden himself. The witnesses on the other side tried to move closer to look as well, but the officers moved them back and then ushered them out of the room all together to safety. County and state police now appeared along with local detectives. The on-site forensics doctor walked in to inspect and pronounce her definitely dead for a second time. Additional forensics now came into view taking pictures. Armitage’s eyes widen as the feed moving at fast forward speed revealed something happening underneath everyone’s noses within the room. Armitage shuddered as he tried to believe what he was seeing.

    “Is…is she growing?” he stammered.

    “Now I know I’m not still drunk,” said Dustin reaffirming his suspicion.

    The two agents and the C.O. watched in disbelief as the “corpse” in the room went through a serious growth spurt; the video feed showed that about two hours and fifteen minutes had gone by.

    “Stop right there…move in…now play it,” Dustin commanded the officer, “Mark, tell me what do you see.”

    As the footage began to play with a closer shot at Dennison’s lifeless face, Armitage realized what his friend wanted him to see. Through the thick partially dried blood on her forehead, the bullet wound that pierced her skull was no longer there. Five more minutes had passed as a hand reached over to close her eye lids shut in preparation of placing her in a body bag. A scene out of a horror movie ensued as the dead came back to life again emitting an inhuman blood-curdling scream that took ten years off Armitage’s life just standing there.

    “Jesus…” Mark yelled while jumping backwards.

    He was visibly shaken as if he had seen a demon.

    “You wish,” Dustin responded also shaken despite this being the second time he had seen the footage.

    Armitage watched as the dead rose back to her feet for a second time. Screaming once again filled the room mostly from full-grown men. Those who had a gun did not ask questions as they drew on her ordering her to get down and surrender. The prison scrub pants she wore looked like knee high shorts confirming that she definitely went through a growth spurt while “dead”. Her first barefooted step sounded like a diesel hammer smashing into the concrete floor. Someone freaked out in the herd of officers and opened fire without order. Panic fire erupted within the room again hitting her from all directions; instinctively she covered up as smoke from gunfire fill the room.

    The shooting was more vicious than before, but something was evidently wrong. Ricocheting bullets hit two officers, one in the arm, and the other in the leg.

    “Cease fire! Cease fucking fire!” someone screamed through all of the mayhem.

    Majority of the gunfire ended because of empty ammo.

    The surveillance room filled with the audio sound of cursing and the relock and loading of weapons.

    Time felt like it stood still; Mark leaned in attempting to see through all the smoke and chaos. At that moment, a black and green blur came from out of the smoke emitting the same high-pitched inhuman scream.

    The sound of seasoned guards and officers screaming coupled with the sound of soft bodies hitting something extremely hard rang from the speakers. It was as if an F-1 tank was rolling through the halls. The gunfire erupted again, but grew less and less as the echoing of destruction increased from what the audio picked up.

    A shaken Armitage bore witness on the other screen as something extremely fast and powerful smashed through concrete walls and torn open steel doors on its way to freedom.

    Mark gave a wave to shut it off as additional gunfire and yelling came into play, he now got the picture of what went down. He leaned up against the console of the observation room rubbing his jaw trying to process what he just saw.

    “This can’t be happening…right?” as he finally looked at Dustin.

    “Look at this poor bastard Mark,” he gestured to the equally unnerved correctional officer running the surveillance system, “he was here when it was happening, and he’s seen the footage…how many times have you see it?”

    “Four…four times,” the correctional officer held up four shaking fingers.

    “Four times,” Dustin threw up his own four fingers,

    “I’d be the first guy to call bullshit on this, but as you can see him and several other people who was in the middle of it upstairs just saw super bitch bust out of prison!”

    Mark lowered his head and dug deep to find his buried nerve.

    “Who was the C.O. she killed?” he asked switching the topic for a minute.

    “Dennis Buck Wilford,” Dustin rattled off, “Sixteen year career, ten between here and the Gatesville Women’s Prison, father of two…husband; you don’t want to see that footage…shit was brutal. Bitch singled him out and put him through three concrete walls including the one she smashed through to break out, he lost one of his arms during the second impact, and is now a puddle of goo on top of the obliterated cop car you saw outside.”

    Mark rubbed his chin one more time. He got up walking out of the room to clear his head and get back into the game as his partner followed.

    “I want to know who she is,” Mark ordered, “Every detail…most importantly any medical records…if you can find out when she got her first period I want that too.”

    He snapped his fingers thinking, going down the standard list of protocol and field training gained over the years.

    “I want to know who came in to see her during her time here,” he continued, “conjugal visits if she had any; and anything in her prison cell is ours. Anyone she spoke to and made friends with here I want to interview. Call brass and put her on the terrorist watch list right underneath Bin Laden…with a precaution not to engage. We need to know who or what the hell we’re dealing with first. Family and friends, where is she originally from?”

    “Mount Vernon, New York…small town outside of the Bronx…Parents are still alive; father is from Belize, mother is from Jamaica…she’s a first generation born U.S citizen of three children, eldest to a brother and a younger sister,” Dustin recited the information on his note pad that he pulled from his jacket.

    He had a skill of gathering vital Intel at the drop of dime. “So she met her husband here in Texas?” Mark rattled off another question.

    “Correct, late husband is from Houston, they went to the same college; they got married and resided there,” confirmed Dustin.

    Mark did not need Google or an FBI database with the big man at his side.

    Mark then began to set up his ability to strategize ignoring the fact that he was dealing with an individual that could possibly be on a superhuman level.

    “So she’s either heading back to Houston, or going to New York,” he speculated, “either way find out where else she traveled to…vacation…business…whatever. Did anyone see her bust through that wall last night from the outside?”

    “You mean like the NCADP?” Dustin scoffed, “Bro, this is a red state. A local news team was in the front doing a story about her execution, no one saw anything, nor did they get any footage. We checked.”

    Mark nodded continuing his course of action.

    “Then we need to keep this contained inside here,” he commanded, “speak to the Warden and the Chief of Police, tell them to convey to their people that no one is to talk to anyone about what went down here, failure to comply means being charged with obstructing a Federal investigation. Last thing we need is mass hysteria in the streets. What are the chemicals they used to administer the execution again?”

    Dustin quickly searched his mini-note pad running through the notes he took earlier.

    “Usual stuff,” he squinted to read his own writing, “Sodium thiopental used to induce unconsciousness, pancuronium bromide for paralysis and respiratory arrest, and potassium chloride to stop the heart.”

    “Chemical residue to the lab,” Mark ordered, “I want to confirm if that’s what they really are; on top of what she ate

    for her last meal.”

    “You might want to speak to this guy over here,” Dustin motioned to another agent.

    The agent brought forth one of the watch tower guards stationed earlier that morning.

    “This is Sergeant Michael Wexler,” Dustin introduced, “a guard and tower watchman #2 of the four towers, also a former Army Ranger and Sniper.”

    “Army…infantry,” Mark addressed a fellow military man, “What can you tell me that I don’t already know?”

    Sergeant Wexler responded as a man still military forged despite not wearing the colors.

    “After the escape inmate exited the building from the eighth floor of the facility destroying the squad car she crashed onto on the way down with Office Wilford killing him,” he began his rundown, “she hit the quad running. I tracked and hit the target with an Armor Piercing M2 round to the back of her skull.”

    “What are you doing with that type of round in this facility?” an inquisitive Mark asked.

    “Being prepared for anything sir,” responded Sergeant Wexler with a true soldier’s only answer. “Continue,” Mark nodded.

    “She went down hard,” Sergeant Wexler continued with his assessment, “But was up again in less than a minute, I believe the round barely pierced her skull. I then proceeded to fire a total of eight rounds after that hitting the target in different parts of her skull, neck, and chest, and that was in addition to the other rounds fired from the other three tower guards. Each round after the first initial one was ineffective right up until she threw a patrol car at me and I had to bail from my nest.”

    Mark held his hand up stopping him, while attempting to wrap his brain around what the sergeant just said.

    “She threw…a car…at you?” he slowly asked.

    “Yes sir,” Sergeant Wexler responded without hesitation, “The smashed up Charger outside buried by part of the tower. I believe it was on instinct, since it was the closest thing to her at the time, the shot also appeared to be lucky; she seemed disoriented all the way till she smashed through the courtyard wall.”

    Mark began to wonder if Sergeant Wexler was superhuman.

    “You don’t seem the least bit shaken,” he raised an eyebrow.

    “During my tours I’ve seen a lot of things sir,” Sergeant Wexler smirked, “nothing much shakes me.”

    Mark gave a slight smirk himself, nodding again out of respect.

    “Stick around,” he instructed him, “May have some more questions for you…is that a helicopter I hear?”

    Armitage looked at Mercer who shrugged his shoulders. They walked to one of the windows to see a jet black twin engine Sikorsky private helicopter descend into the court yard of the battle ridden Mountain View Unit.

    “Who the hell?” Mark asked with an irritated twisted look on his face.

    He was not ready for any more surprises.

    Dustin wore a matching visage of irritation.

    “Damn if I know…” he shrugged.

    The helicopter landed sending dust and fresh smoke from an ousted fire everywhere. After winding down, the door opened and the automatic steps folded down. A tall well-built man in a black crisp tailored suit sporting horn rim glasses and a buzz cut stepped out first.

    He waited as a medium built clean-shaven man with a two hundred dollar haircut and a ten thousand dollar light grey suit stepped out looking around at the mayhem as officers, soldiers, and agents looked back at him in bewilderment.

    Additional suits all in black, stepped out standing behind him. The last to exit the helicopter was a near dwarf like elderly man who had a Santa Claus disposition to him sporting a clear baldhead, long white beard and bifocals. His suit looked cheaper than Armitage’s and reminiscent of the 1950’s. Following him were three people in lab coats carrying silver cases.

    “Who is that?” Dustin sneered like a wolf defending his territory for an invading pack.

    “Don’t know,” Mark began to grind his teeth, “But I smell asshole…”

    Armitage watched as the mystery man looked up in his direction, brandishing what appeared to be an obnoxious smile. He proceeded to walk with his team following into the prison.

    Not liking the look he gave him, Mark motioned to his partner.

    “Five bucks says where he’s headed,” he snarled.

    “Lethal injection room,” Dustin said filling in the blanks.

    “Let’s get up there and greet our mystery guest…make sure he doesn’t piss all over our crime scene,” Mark gestured to Dustin.

    “This’ll be fun,” Dustin snorted.

    They left the second floor taking the elevator to the eighth, which housed the lethal injection room. Once they stepped onto the floor, Mark could see that the damage there was worse than what he saw on video footage. He looked around to see walls obliterated and steel doors ripped from their hinges like tin foil; his feet kicked around shell casings, which littered the floor from shotguns, semi-automatics, and handguns along with used tear gas and smoke grenades. The lingering smell of the gas made his eyes water a bit as he looked around in disbelief. Having seen enough, him and Dustin marched themselves to the lethal injection room to see their own team originally working the room now standing outside of it. The new mystery team was now inside taking pictures and samples. Mr. Mystery himself stood in the middle of the room with his back turned and arms folded taking it all in.

    The scene pissed Mark off to no end.

    “What the hell is going on?” he barked.

    “Uh…the gentleman there identified himself as a Director,” answered a nervous F.B.I forensics agent, “and told us our services were no longer needed. He instructed us to pack up and leave.”

    Mark looked as if he wanted to tear the agent’s head off with his bare hands.

    “Director of what?!” he scowled.

    Armitage palmed the agent out of the way before he could respond walking with blinders towards the man within the room.

    A solid six foot five frame bruiser of a man stepped in his way. The one that first exited the helicopter with the clean look down to his crew cut, and the M.I.B ensemble five thousand dollars more expensive than both Armitage and Mercer’s suits combined.

    “F.B.I,” an unimpressed Mark identified himself, “which means get the “Fuck” out my way…before I “Beat” you within an “Inch” of your life.”

    “I know who you are Special Agent Armitage,” returned the man in black unintimidated by Mark’s threat, “You and your teams’ services are no longer needed here.” “And who the hell are you?” Dustin chimed in backing his partner up.

    “Special Agent Stanley Slater,” the man in black pulled out his credentials identifying himself.

    Mercer eyed along with Armitage the shiny chrome black and silver badge with Slater’s ID identifying him as a Special Agent of the United States Government. It however did not identify his division or branch.

    “Never heard of you “Special Agent Slater,” Mark narrowed his eyes.

    “And you never will,” he coldly responded, “all you have to know is my division and credentials trump yours as far as this case is concern. Now I will say it again, you and [buy the book to read the rest]

    Read EVO Universe’s description of The First.