the Second Horseman (2006)

Kyle Mills

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And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.

-- Revelation 6:4
.

Chapter
ONE

"Five-card draw, gentlemen. Now let's start paying attention, okay?"

Brandon Vale shot the cards out of the deck, skimming them across the table to the five nervous-looking men surrounding it. After a quick glance at his hand, he slapped it down next to his teetering mountain of loot and scanned the faces of his opponents. All were staring at their cards as though they contained the meaning of life and, based on his experience, they would continue to do so for a lot longer than necessary.

The tinny sound of machine-gun fire started on the far side of the room and he turned in his chair, squinting at the television bolted to the wall while he waited. The lenses in his glasses were only two weeks old, but had never been quite right. Prisons tended not to attract the top people in their fields and the fact that the optometrist who had given him his exam was half blin
d h
imself didn't speak highly of his qualifications.

They were good enough, though, for him to see the unmistakable outlines of tanks and running men accompanied by the increasingly familiar sounds of war. Sudan, Israel, Iraq, Afghanistan -- one of those sandy countries full of people who liked to fight over crap that happened a thousand years ago or all that "my God's better than your God" nonsense. He knew the type, of course. You couldn't swing a dead cat in his chosen profession without smacking the hopelessly self-destructive, truly violent, or utterly sociopathic. If you were really careful and lucky, though, you could avoid them. Not so easy if you lived in Baghdad, he supposed.

The men sitting in the chairs bolted down in front of the TV were separated into knots of similar skin color: black, brown, and a few white guys who were basically sturdier, meaner, more impressively tattooed versions of himself. All perked up a bit at the violence.

The story quickly faded into something about the Federal Reserve, though, and its audience sagged in disappointment. The truth was that they were only there in hopes of catching a glimpse of Ann Coulter o
r s
ome other talking-head hottie.

Brandon Vale squared himself to the table again and examined the man responsible for the prison's rather somber viewing habits. He probably weighed about the same as an Italian sports car and was roughly as fast and powerful. His skin was preternaturally dark, making the whites of his eyes seem to glow and partially obscuring a tattoo of a hooded KKK guy dangling from a graphically broken neck.

As one of the prison's many converts to Islam, Kassem was always interested in following "the struggle" while hanging out in the rec room. And after what happened to that neo-Nazi power lifter, there weren't many people willing to argue.

After a quick round of timid betting, Kassem slid his discards across the table. "Three."

Brandon had barely dealt the first one when the man suddenly jumped to his feet, causing the floor to shake perceptibly.

"You're dealing from the fucking bottom of the deck, you bitch!"

Brandon shook his head calmly. "I wasn't, actually."

"Oh," Kassem said, obviously disappointed. He sat back down to a cautious round of polite laughter.

Brandon had landed in prison for a fairly sizable diamond heist in which the jewels had never been recovered. That, in addition to the fact that he'd refused to rat out a single person he'd ever worked with, had given him some basic credibility and maybe even a touch of mystique. The bottom line, though, was that he was still a skinny, thirty
-
three-year-old guy who hadn't been in a fight since grade school. And that girl had kicked his ass.

He'd been there only a few days when Kassem had "asked" him to join the informal prison poker club. Being a guy who was always interested in a profitable enterprise, Brandon had been quietly watching the games from a safe distance and had noticed a few unusual complexities. It seemed that the people involved played hard and recklessly until about fifteen minutes before lockdown. At that point, they started tossing away good cards like they were dipped in anthrax and let Kassem win everything on the table -- generally cigarettes and IOUs for unknown services to be performed at some future date.

Since Brandon didn't smoke and wasn't anxious to perform any mysterious prison services, he'd decided to remain at that safe distance. There was no refusing Kassem'
s i
nvitation, though, and he found himself in the awkward position of having to tell the truth: That he was an on-again, off-again professional gambler and brilliant card cheat.

Miraculously, Kassem had been bored with winning -- though still completely unwilling to lose -- and saw Brandon as just the diversion he needed. In the end, they'd negotiated a deal that worked for everyone. The other players would donate a few "chips" to Brandon at the beginning of the game and he would sit in, helping them with their technique and teaching them to spot cheats. Then, at the end of the game, his winnings would be distributed based on an arcane calculation that had less to do with how people played than it did with who was the most physically dangerous. A good facsimile of life, actually, and one from which he was now happily exempt. His relationship with Kassem had made him instantly untouchable, giving him an opportunity to get to know virtually everyone incarcerated there and become almost universally popular. An achievement previously thought impossible.

"I think this is the last hand," Brandon said, giving fair warning to everyone that it was time to discard anything promising an
d l
ose everything they had. Betting turned from cautious to manic.

"To you, Kassem," Brandon said.

"Two pair. Deuces and threes."

Those at the table who hadn't yet laid down their hands groaned subserviently and dropped their cards. All except Brandon.

"Well?" Kassem said.

"You really want to see what I got?"

"I want to see."

"Think you can handle my game?"

"Put your fucking cards down before I bust your pencil neck," Kassem said, laughing.

Brandon slapped his cards down. "Five aces. All spades."

This time the groans were a little more heartfelt.

"I swear, I don't know what I'm gonna do with you guys," Brandon said, as the guard signaled for the room to be cleared. Kassem offered his hand, and when Brandon pulled away he had a thick, hand-rolled joint in his palm.

"Get some sleep tonight."

"Hey, thanks, Kas."

These generous little gifts went immediately to Brandon's psychotic cellmate, calming him enough for Brandon to actually relax in his bunk and read. These fatties ha
d b
een instrumental in his quest to get through the classics, though he had to admit to counting the comic book adaptations of Moby-Dick and Tess of the D'Urbervilles.

He took his place in line and began shuffling silently out the door, squashed uncomfortably between two profusely sweating mountains of murderous flesh. It didn't matter, though. His mood was currently immune to such minor irritations. In an hour his cellmate would be lying in his cot, stoned out of his mind, while Brandon lost himself in the inner workings of samurai society. It wasn't most people's definition of a stellar evening, but it was the best evening allowed by his current situation. And what more could you hope for but the best?

"Vale!"

He leaned out, crinkling his nose when it got too close to the armpit behind him, and squinted at the guard pointing to him with a nightstick.

"Front and center!"

Brandon leapt out of line and jogged back the way he'd come, stopping a few feet in front of the man.

"Yes, Sergeant Daly?"

As the guards went, it was generally agreed that Angus Daly was second most sadistic, third most corrupt, and a runaway winner at taking himself the most seriously. His uniform was always starched into something resembling cardboard and his hair was cropped into a flattop that came to an impressively sharp point in the middle of his forehead.

The oddest thing about Daly, though, is that he was one of the few people Brandon had ever met who hated him. He saw Brandon as some kind of int-/-lectual who looked down on workingmen like himself and who, after serving his time, would collect his hidden diamonds, move to the Costa del Sol, and live out the rest of his life dating supermodels. So Daly had taken it upon himself to make sure Brandon's time at that particular facility was as unpleasant as was practically possible.

Not that he'd been physically abusive in any significant way. What fun would that be? No, to his credit, Daly was more imaginative than that. Clogged toilet? Brandon was his man. And the tools and gloves necessary always seemed to have been conveniently misplaced. Warden's car stuck in the mud? Brandon was always the guy on the back bumper.

"Sir? Can I help you?"

Daly continued to stand there silently, waiting for the last of the long line of me
n t
o disappear around the corner. Then, simply, "Follow."

Brandon did as he was told, walking a few respectful paces behind the guard. He shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly feeling a bit cold, but knowing it was just his imagination. Despite all evidence to the contrary, the fewer people that were around, the less safe he felt. It was something about the gray rock the place was built from. The crumbling mortar. The heavy, artistic archways that evoked craftsmen long dead. He wasn't generally superstitious, but he was sure the place was full of ghosts. And Daly's weird fifties persona didn't help. Sometimes Brandon thought he might be the head ghost. That one day, when they were alone, the old guard would spin around and there would be a rotting skull where his face should be.

Daly finally stopped and unlocked a heavy steel door that Brandon had never seen open. It was painted roughly the same gray as the walls, as though it had been purposely camouflaged. Probably an effective strategy for most of the inmates, but it had the opposite effect on Brandon. He'd always wanted to know what was on the other side. Until now.

"Mr. Daly?" he said hesitantly. "Wher
e a
re we going?"

Daly shoved Brandon through the door and followed, locking it behind them.

The corridor they found themselves in was barely lit and ended after only ten feet at a similar door. Something about it felt really wrong. "Excuse me, sir, but --"

"Shut the fuck up!"

Daly pushed a rusty button on the wall and a moment later a loud buzz erupted from the door at the other end of the corridor. He pointed and Brandon started for it, listening to the dull echo of their footsteps swirling around him. He had to use his shoulder to get the door to move, but when it finally did, a wave of cold, wet air gusted in. A quiet, commanding grunt suggested that he should continue.

He'd never seen the tiny courtyard before -- it was one of the many sections of the prison that had been cheaper to close off than to renovate. The ground had turned to thick mud beneath the monotonous drizzle that had been hanging over the area for the past few days and Brandon was forced to curl his toes to keep from losing his shoes as he walked.

"This way," Daly said, starting purposefully across the yard. The lights from the guard towers caused the razor wire atop the stone walls to flash dangerously, but didn't penetrate to their level. Everything around them was dark, cold, and wet.