Blackjack (24 page)

At the words “Death House,” a concrete-colored blotch semi-materialized high up on the wall behind the two men. As the goon squad moved in, “Death House” was repeated at below-human-threshold. Then …

“Hit!”

The guards began to club a prisoner repeatedly on his unprotected head, continuing even after the man slumped to the ground, blood running out of both ears.

A mural flashed on the overlooking wall. The ace and jack of clubs appeared, then immediately vanished, leaving some convicts blinking. And the TV monitors blank.

SEATING IN
the prison mess room was as radically divided as on the yard, but all races had to pass through the same serving line.

Tension crackled the air. No more perfect opportunity to plant a shank in an enemy’s back existed. The convict gangs deliberately ate in shifts—some designated to watch
the backs of their comrades while they ate, after which they would change places.

Guards patrolled up and down the aisles, as tightly wound as the prisoners. Something was going down. Something a lot bigger than any individual attack. But nobody seemed to know what that would be, or where it was going to come from.

AFTER SUPPER
, a group of Aryans positioned themselves to the far right of the shower room. A young white inmate walked toward them, a towel in his hand.

“Fish,” one of the thugs hissed.

The young white man stepped to the other side, and found himself on black turf, where he was immediately accosted. “You in the wrong part of town, Chuck!”

The white inmate turned away, mumbling apologies, but too late—he found himself surrounded by blacks. The same whites who had been ready to rape the young man now moved in to defend him, chesting their way forward.

The distinct sound of a shell being jacked into a chamber chilled the entire shower room. All eyes turned to a trio of guards: one kneeling, two standing, all ready to fire their “non-lethal” weapons. This was a kill-trained team, eyes unreadable behind their face shields, but there was no mistaking their orders.

“Better come with us,” one of the whites said to the young man, putting his arm around the kid’s shoulders.

“Thanks, man. I didn’t know.…”

“It’s okay,” the older man told him, comfortingly.

As he walked the kid toward the right side of the shower room, two of his crew stayed behind, watching his back. And waiting their turn.

“Fresh meat,” one said to the other.

“Yeah. Looks juicy, too,” the other responded.

As the words left his mouth, a tiny line of darkness appeared to circle one of the showerheads, throbbing as if it had a pulse. At the word “meat,” the circle became arrow-shaped, pointing down:

“Hit!”

AT THE
scream, the squad charged into the shower. They found one of the would-be rapists dead on the floor, his blood flowing into the drain. But even the most invasive search failed to turn up a weapon of any kind.

It wasn’t until the bag-and-tag team took the required photos that the presence of a tattoo on the dead man was noted.

“Must be a new one,” the camera operator said, looking at the jack of spades overlapping the ace of hearts.

By the time the body was wheeled into the infirmary, the tattoo had disappeared.

And the photos the team took never came out.

THAT SAME
evening, Cross was again having a smoke on the tier, leaning over to watch the activity below. He turned at Banner’s approach, and they began a conversation.

Suddenly, the Riot Bell sounded. The goon squad thundered past, sweeping convicts out of its way like a bulldozer.

“Goddamn it!” Banner rasped out. “They must’ve made another move. This keeps up, we might as well have it go all-out.”

IN THE
prison hospital unit, a white inmate was lying on a bed, the back of which was elevated to put it in something close to a sitting position. No injuries were visible, but his face was bleached out, as if his eyes had seen something too much for his mind.

He was surrounded. Not only by guards, but also by men in suits who must be Administration from the way the guards deferred to them.

One of the suits shook his head, and made a gesture. The others walked out with him, leaving the contingent of guards in place.

Within minutes, the suits walked through the corridor, grim-faced. They didn’t stop until they reached the Director’s office.

“
HE’S STICKING
to his story?” a gray-haired man asked the others.

“That’s right, Chief,” one of the suits replied.

“What’s
your
take on it?”

“I’m not sure, sir. The kid’s not lying. Not intentionally, anyway. Far as he’s concerned, some kind of creature just … materialized or something. Then it hacked four Brotherhood members into hunks of meat.”

“You think …?”

“I don’t know
what
to think. Those cons—the dead ones—they’re known booty bandits. No question what they had on
their
minds when they muscled that kid into that corner—we even found a little tube of Vaseline on the floor. So, if it wasn’t for the physical evidence, I’d say the
kid was flying on chemicals and he just hallucinated the whole mess. Hell, that’s what we’ve got him here for, right? Dope fiend?”

The suit looked up, his face grave. “He didn’t hallucinate those bodies.
God!
They were done the same way Towers was. Like there’s a goddamned
recipe
or something. And nobody saw a thing.

“Yeah, I know: in a place like this, nobody ever does. But this much is for real. Not even our own CIs know anything. And, with what we put on the table for them, they’d spill in a minute if they did.”

RUMORS WHIPPED
like a vicious wind, gusting throughout the prison on razor wings, passing from whisperer to whisperer, each time picking up speed and adding content.

“They got four of our guys!” Banner said to Cross. “Four! This is out of control.”

“
Now
you know why I’m here?” Cross asked.

“Yeah. And all glory to Odin that you are. I’ve got over twenty calendars in, and I’ve never seen anything like it. Even when they had us outnumbered five to one, they couldn’t make things like
this
happen.”

“I’m gonna need some stuff.…”

“Whatever it is, you got it,” Banner promised, as solemnly as a new bride.