---

The Vault was designed to keep people in, but to Sinclair Abbot, it was just a really big building with a few more doors and a few more locks.

Pulling daily laundry duty was the keystone in Abbot’s setup to escape the Vault whenever he wanted. Each morning he would be roused by the guards, taken down to the first sublevel, and put to work cleaning bed sheets and uniforms. Most of the guys that got assigned to laundry duty had hopes of getting out for good behavior, but the Spymaster knew it was the perfect place to hide a change of clothes.

As soon as the Guardsmen left him to work, Abbot raced down the second row of industrial sized washing machines and grabbed his smuggled clothing out from under one of the empty laundry bins. A pair of jeans, a t-shirt, steel-toed work boots, and a worn windbreaker instantly changed him into a regular person that enjoyed life outside prison walls.

From there Abbot hopped on top of one of the huge driers and disconnected the ventilation tube that allowed the hot air to escape. He always smirked when he shimmied up the piping and into the duct work of the prison, wondering why anyone would place laundry machines in a penitentiary that were obviously big enough for a man to hide in.

He had rerouted the sensors throughout the ventilation shaft months ago, allowing him easy access to the entire complex. He could get anywhere without being detected with ease, including outside of the building.

He made his way to a part of the shaft that slid down sharply. Sliding down the metal frame, Abbot knew he was only a couple hundred feet away from tasting fresh air. Once the shaft flattened out again, Abbot crawled the rest of the way to the end grating he had jarred loose a dozen times already. He passed several more sensors along the way, all useless from his electrical expertise.

The grating slid back and let him out into a waste dump where most of the facility’s refuse was deposited before being transported away. Abbot quickly hopped across the dump, taking careful precaution not to dirty his illusionary clothing, and cracked open a dumpster on the other side. It smelled horribly, but there he waited until the next garbage truck arrived to take away the day’s offering.

Right on schedule, the truck arrived and picked up the dumpster only a few minutes after he settled himself in. The giant metal arms on the sides of the truck reached out, plucking the dumpster up with ease and tipping it over, spilling its contents into the back of the vehicle, and Abbot along with it.

From there he would catch a ride into the nearest town, where he would quietly slip away to the nearest bus depot. His assignments had mostly been within Colorado and the surrounding states, as he couldn’t afford to go too far without fear of getting back in time for roll call. If he ever missed that the Guardsmen would instantly put the Vault on lock-down and come looking for him.

Abbot smiled, taking pleasure in his last job even it was for a weakling like the Walrus. After making Trapster’s delivery he had decided that the next time he left the Vault it would be for good. With the law firm he had hired to represent him deciding to change lawyers on him, it left a hole in his otherwise unblemished cover. There were people he didn’t want to know where he was, and if the law firm decided to document the change, he might have trouble staying hidden. Getting his name on the grid, no matter how insignificantly, was bad for business and possible his life.

He had been prepared to leave that morning and never go back, but for two hundred thousand dollars he would take the chance.

---

Denver was only about an hour away by bus. Abbot made it there safely, guised as a typical tourist. Upon jumping out at the bus depot, the Spymaster casually walked the few blocks to his destination. He wanted to hurry but knew that the less attention he drew to himself, the better.

Hubert’s directions were very precise. The Colbert Paper Factory sat on the south side of Denver amongst a modest industrial area. Apparently the crew ready to bust him out were just sitting around waiting for the right moment, biding their time at the factory that served as a front for their operations. Who would have guessed that the Walrus had such loyal henchmen, or that he had people working for him at all?

Abbot approached the factory cautiously. He was beginning to get that weird feeling again, but decided to shake it off when he thought about all the money he would be raking in. When he was done here he would head back to the Vault, confirm the completion of the assignment with the Walrus, and then bust back out the next morning to collect the cash. From there he could escape to anywhere in the world. He had killed a diplomat in Peru once, and it seemed like a nice place to retire.

The loading dock entrance was open just like Hubert had said it would be. Abbot slipped in, his honed skills not letting up a single sound. He took several steps inside and let the door slide shut behind him. The interior of the complex was dark, like a bad scene from an even worse movie. Water dripped somewhere in the background, but the large room remained silent. There was no machinery operating, no people working…nothing.

That’s when the weird feeling in the back of Abbot’s head turned from a minor annoyance to a blaring scream, but it was already too late.

A flood light snapped on and washed over him, coating Abbot in a yellowy hue. His eyes adjusted quickly but the rest of the building was still blanketed in darkness. Then, like raging gunshots in the still of the night, rhythmic clapping echoed throughout the factory.

“Good job, my long lost associate,” a voice spoke out from the darkness as the clapping died down. “And here I thought I was going to have to wait a little longer. You’re better than I remember.”

Abbot froze in place. He recognized the voice the moment he first syllable hit his ears. The man he had been so cautious about avoiding how not only found out where he was, but had apparently set him up. Now he knew why that weird feeling had been with him since the conversation with the Walrus. Somehow, some way, Hubert had been compromised.

“No greetings and salutations?” the voice continued. “I’m hurt, Abbot, I really am.”

“What do you want?” Abbot asked, summoning whatever courage he could muster. He subtly reached back and tried the door he had walked through, but found it already sealed shit. His mind was racing with ways to escape, but he knew that all the obvious routes would already be covered. The man hiding behind the spotlight that had so tactfully cornered him would have made sure of that.

“What I want…” the voice began.

The sound of heavy boots slapping against the floor reached Abbot’s ears as his host stepped forward. The overhead lights suddenly clicked on, revealing his capture in subtle, ambient light. Across the factory floor up on a catwalk was the very man the Spymaster had been terrified of being found by. It was the reason he had refused to leave the Vault, the reason he had tried to stay hidden within the prison, the reason why he wanted to get out of there.

The bleached white skull face of the Taskmaster stared Abbot down, an impossibly toothy grin sending a shiver down his spine.

“…is my money back. You remember that, don’t you, Abbot? Six million. You took it from me without asking, and now I’ve come to collect.”

“It’s gone,” Abbot replied.

The Taskmaster’s cloak hugged his form, hiding whatever weapons he had brought with him to the factory. “Bullshit,” the Taskmaster spit out. “Don’t you fucking lie to me. I trained you, I know when you’re lying.”

“Apparently not. I pissed your money away on booze and whores, so you can go screw yourself.”

“Tsk, tsk,” the mercenary replied. “I bring you into my home, I show you the ropes of being a supervillain, and what do I get in return? A not-so-subtle poison in my latte and an empty bank account. Don’t worry, the poison didn’t kill me. I’m still trying to figure out how you got into my vault, but then again, I suppose vaults are something you’ve become quite familiar with.”

The Spymaster caught site of a window on the far side of the room. There were bars over the inside of them, but he was sure he could pop them off with one solid kick. The Taskmaster might not have bothered to seal a window that already had bars over it. He only needed a few moments to get there and then he would have his chance at freedom. He relaxed his stance and began circling in the general direction of the window, acting as casual as possible given the circumstances.

“I was hiding in the Vault to avoid you,” Abbot said. “Not like you could come get me if I was being watched by a platoon of Guardsmen day and night. It was the perfect place to wait you out.”

“Ah, but you didn’t really wait, did you, Abbot?” The Taskmaster parted his cloak and hopped onto the railing of the catwalk, stepping off into the open air and landing quaintly on the ground. “What with all these little missions you do for the other inmates. I’m sure you did it for oodles of money, but let’s be honest here…you were subconsciously hoping I’d find you. Why else throw caution to the wind and take all these field trips if all you wanted to do was sit in a jail cell and wait for me to move on to other targets?”

“Maybe you’re right,” Abbot replied. They were circling each other now, but he was halfway to the window. “Or maybe I’m just one greedy son of a bitch.”

“Once I found out where you were hiding yourself, it wasn’t hard to persuade that fat, blubbering fool to con you. He’s got a girl, did you know that? Cute, too. He’d do anything for her apparently. I fed him a nice, juicy story, knowing you wouldn’t be able to stay away from the dollar signs.”

Abbot kept his breathing steady and his eyes glued to the Taskmaster. The villain’s photographic reflexes made him one of the most dangerous men alive. Abbot had been on the receiving end of his skills more than once, and it never ended in his favor. “Are we going to talk all day or what? I’ve got appointments to keep.”

“Where’s my money?” Taskmaster demanded.

“Gone.”

“Last chance, Abbot. Give me what you owe and I promise to only break your arms and legs. You can consider your face and spine a gift for being such a good little boy.”

Abbot didn’t answer, instead choosing to whip around and run the last twenty feet to the barred window. It was his only chance for escape and he wouldn’t get a better opportunity. He covered the gap in mere seconds, leaping into the air at the last moment and spinning the back of his heal into the covering. The bars rattled, but stayed connected to his only exit.

“Oh, please,” Taskmaster said, now much closer to Abbot then before. “I’m insulted that you would think it was that easy.”

The Taskmaster was on top of him instantly, slamming his knuckles down into Abbot’s chin with enough force to dislodge a filling. Abbot ducked under the next blow and retaliated with a harsh uppercut, connecting at the last second and stifling the Taskmaster’s next attack.

Abbot spun around again, this time extending his other arm and catching Taskmaster’s throat with a precise chop to the mercenary’s neck. He immediately threw his other fist directly at Taskmaster’s skull mask, hoping to crack the horrendous face in half. He pushed all of his strength into the hit, only to completely miss when Taskmaster ducked underneath it.

“You forget what I’m all about already?” the mercenary asked mockingly. “I expected this fight to be better.”

The Taskmaster threw his own harsh uppercut into Abbot’s chin, spinning around and slamming the side of his other hand into Abbot’s throat. The move was like a sinister reflection of the Spymaster’s own technique, mirroring his precise movements with ease. The strength behind the Taskmaster’s chop was greater than Abbot’s had been, causing the self-proclaimed master of espionage to fall to his knees gasping.

“Photographic reflexes, remember?” Taskmaster said as he stood over his adversary. “Any moves you picked up since we last tussled I’ll be able to mimic the very moment you use them. Shit, Abbot. You’ve gone soft hiding out in prison. Somebody make you their bitch or what?”

Abbot shook his head to clear his thoughts. He needed a plan and he needed it fast. He couldn’t beat Taskmaster in hand-to-hand combat without a weapon, and even then he doubted he would get that much of an edge. In a way the Taskmaster was the perfect combatant, able to make it seem as if you were fighting yourself.

“Only one who’s gonna be punkin’ out…” Spymaster muttered, “is you!”

Abbot slashed up with a shank he had kept hidden in one of his work boots. The sharpened piece of metal gouged into Taskmaster’s body armor, barely penetrating the thick hide he wore over his torso. Not wasting any time, Abbot wrapped his arms around Taskmaster’s neck and pulled his head down into his right knee, bashing the villain’s face in with enough momentum to shatter the cartilage in a person’s nose.

The prison escapee swung his knee back up for another hit, hoping that he would be able to stuff enough force into the impact to break Taskmaster’s facemask. A pair of hands suddenly stopped the vicious assault, slapping Abbot’s knee back down. Taskmaster followed the motion up by pushing both of his fists directly into Abbot’s chest, forcing the pair to split up.

Taskmaster took a step back and reset his stance. “Saw Wolverine do that once,” he explained. “Works better with claws, though. It would have ripped most of your chest out. I’ll have to make sure I pick some up after I kick your ass.”

Abbot fell into his own fighting stance and accessed the situation over again. He was already beaten, he was sure of it. It was just a question of whether or not Taskmaster would put him into a coma or outright kill him. Neither option sat well with Sinclair Abbot.

The Spymaster sprung at his enemy, deciding to just get it over with. By trade he was a patient man, knowing when waiting was necessary as part of the assignment. Being a master of espionage sometimes meant sitting in a tree for thirteen hours, or waiting half a day for the guards to change position. As perfected as his tactics in the field were, Spymaster was no match for the stolen techniques of the Taskmaster.

A quick snap kick was blocked by the mercenary, along with another, and another. Two jabs and a haymaker were deflected with ease, as well as the uppercut and headbutt. Abbot was getting tired and he was running out of patience. Why wouldn’t Taskmaster just end it?

Finally, the Taskmaster seemingly had enough of Abbot’s reckless attempts for survival. Catching Abbot’s fist in one hand, the Taskmaster yanked out a long whip from around his belt and spun it around Abbot’s throat. With one quick pull the whip went taut and Abbot felt the choking sensation of unconsciousness coming.

“Whiplash would kill me if he knew I had his weapon of choice duplicated,” Taskmaster said into Abbot’s ear as he slowly choked the life out of him. “Never was much for whips, but for this job I think it’ll do just fine.”

Blackness seeped into the edges of Abbot’s vision. His arms began to go numb and he started to feel lightheaded. He never would have guessed that this was the way he was going to go, but somehow it seemed appropriate.

“I don’t know what you did with the money,” Taskmaster continued, “but you’re more valuable to me alive. You hear that, Spymaster? You get to live today.”

The coiled rope around Abbot’s neck suddenly loosened enough for him to breathe. The whip was still tightly wound around his throat, but he could breath again. His vision returned and he felt the blood begin to circulate within his body once more.

“Killing you won’t get my money back,” Taskmaster said. “So, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to knock you out and alert the Guardsmen to your location. They’ll come and pick you up, whisk you back into a holding cell, redouble the security on you, and maybe even stick you in isolation with a twenty-four hour watch on your sorry ass.”

Abbot’s mind began to race as precious oxygen started to be supplied to his brain. He realized what was happening, and he almost wished the Taskmaster would kill him. Almost.

“That’s right, Spy Guy. You’re going to be on a tight leash back in the Vault, and I’ll know exactly where you on from now on. No more hiding in plain sight for you, my boy. You’ll be stuck in a ten-by-ten with no way out, alone with just one thought: I’ll be coming for you. Your life belongs to me, asshole.”

And with a flick of a wrist, Taskmaster activated the whip’s electrical shock, sending Abbot into a series of convulsions. Once Taskmaster decided Abbot had enough juice, he cut the power and let the master of espionage fall to the floor. Smoke billowed up from his dormant body along with the stench of burnt hair.

“Sweet dreams,” Taskmaster said. “Hope they’re good ones, because when I come for you it’ll be like a nightmare come to life.”

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Letters From Prison