“There's money on your fucking head and I intend collecting,” the big man bellowed, as he moved through the steam and the spray.
Cutter turned and looked at the tiny knife in the big man's hand, and grinned.
“With that?” Cutter responded, almost laughing.
“It'll be more than enough to cut you. You're gonna bleed and you’ll feel it…every stroke, every slice, every thrust. You’re going to die slowly and painfully,” he taunted, flipping the knife from one palm to the other.
“You don't really want to do this,” Cutter suggested, shaking his head. He knew what was coming, but really didn't want a part of it.
“Fuck, yeah, I do!” the big oaf replied, his eyes wide with excitement. Munster was a man who lived for the fight, and in the prison, there was no one who could match him.
The big man lunged at Cutter with his knife hand. Cutter saw it coming and tried to move back, but didn’t move far enough, the knife gouging his shoulder.
The blade wasn't sharp and clean. It didn't slice. It gouged, tearing at the flesh. Blood trickled from the jagged wound.
Cutter threw himself back against the far wall, as the big man came at him again. Cutter figured he may have underestimated his opponent. For a big guy, Munster was remarkably quick and agile.
With Cutter against the wall, Munster swung his knife hand in a savage arc, aiming for the throat. Cutter ducked under the wild swing, and thundered two hard punches into Munster's belly. They took the wind out of the big man's sails, stopping him in his tracks.
Cutter slipped off the wall, and kicked hard, into Munster's ankle, with the side of his foot as he moved past. This threw the big man off balance just as he was about to stab at Cutter once more. Instead he found himself falling away, and raised his knife hand to counterbalance his shifting weight.
Cutter saw the opportunity, rushed forward and grabbed the knife hand at the wrist, and twisted the big man's arm back. With his free hand Munster tried to punch Cutter's face, but the momentum was with Cutter, and it ended up being only a glancing blow. Cutter swung Munster back around, towards the tiled wall. The prisoners all moved to the side, as the combatants barged through.
Munster swung at Cutter again with a balled fist, punching him in the ear. It stung like a motherfucker! Cutter ignored the pain, focusing on his knife hand. He smashed that hand repeatedly into the tiled wall. Munster's knuckles became bloodied and bruised with each blow. Finally he dropped the knife, and Cutter released his grip. He shouldn't have. Munster wasn't finished yet!
The big man reached out, and grabbed Cutter by the shoulders. Cutter twisted away, but only to have a wild uppercut from the big man catch him on the nose. Blood ran down Cutter's face, dripping from his chin and spiralling into the shower water at their feet.
Both men backed off for just a second, eyeing up their opponent. Munster was the first to move, throwing a big roundhouse right, which Cutter ducked under easily. In response, Cutter thudded two hard jabs into the bigger man's kidneys.
Munster roared in pain, and charged at Cutter, scooping him up in his big arms and pushing him into the tiled wall once again. Then he threw a flurry of wild punches. Cutter raised his arms in defence, most of the blows hitting his arms.
Angered that he couldn't get a clean head-punch in, Munster, reached for Cutter's arms and tried to pull them down. In that instant, Cutter, grabbed one of Munster's wrists, and twisted it around. Munster spun like a top, his back now facing Cutter. Then the big man was unceremoniously kicked in the small of the back. He fell in a heap, on the shower block floor. The prisoners who were looking on, burst into laughter. Munster didn't find it funny.
Embarrassed, and in a fit of rage, Munster bounded to his feet, turned and charged at Cutter once more. Cutter sidestepped, and threw his arm out, catching the big man around the neck. Cutter tightened his grip, and then sharply twisted. Cutter snapped Munster's neck as if he had been opening a jar of chutney. Munster slumped to the floor, the spray from the shower washing over his lifeless naked body.
The prison guards marched Cutter to the hole. Solitary confinement. Cutter hadn't intended to kill Munster, but instinct had taken over. All his years of training, and the skills he had acquired, couldn't just be turned off, like a person could flick off a light switch. He had been trained to react, in just that way. His disposal of Munster was a textbook manoeuvre. In the theatre of war, you were rewarded for such a feat. In civilian life, you were punished.
Still, Cutter was trying to move on from that kind of life. He wanted to get away from all the killing and butchery. But yet, he didn't feel bad about killing Munster. In fact, it felt good. It made Cutter feel alive again. He had spent three months in hospital, healing from the bullet and knife wounds inflicted by Zheng Li. Each day in bed, he had felt like he was getting weaker – like he was losing his edge. Then came the fight with the Triads. He had been lucky on that occasion.
But the fight with Munster proved one thing. He hadn't lost his edge. He was still very capable, and very dangerous.
The steel door to the hole was opened, and the guards unceremoniously pushed Cutter inside. The door was quickly slammed shut, blocking out the light. In the darkness, Cutter felt his way to the wall and sat down against it. He was in for a long stay.
Grant LaCosta knew he would receive a call from the prison some day. The truth, however, was he didn't expect it to be so soon. He had just finished playing a vigorous game of squash with the Minister of Defence, when his mobile chirped. He excused himself, and picked it up.
“LaCosta,” he said breathlessly.
“It's Warden Van der Meer at Ironbark Correctional Facility. That prisoner, Cutter, that you wanted me to keep an eye on, he's got himself into a spot of trouble.”
“How so?”
“He's killed a man. It was self-defence, in the shower block.”
LaCosta whistled lowly. “He doesn't play well with others, does he?”
“No. There's talk there's a price on his head. I am worried other prisoners will go after him. I can't have the prison turned into an abattoir. I need something done about him. I need him out of here.”
“I'll see what I can do,” LaCosta said, as he rang off.
Solitary confinement didn't bother Cutter. It gave him time to get back in shape. In the dark, he exercised. He started with one-hundred push ups, then one-hundred sit ups. The fresh scar-tissue on his stomach, courtesy of Zheng Li's knife blade had healed well, but was thick, and ached when he stretched. Cutter ignored the pain, and kept at it. Then he stood, and shadow boxed for forty minutes, pounding an invisible opponent into submission.
The iron door to the cell swung open, and a man stood silhouetted in the door-frame. Cutter shielded his eyes against the light, as the man took two paces into the room.
“Have you changed your mind yet, Cutter?” the man asked.
Cutter recognised the voice. It was Grant LaCosta, the spook who had tried to recruit him, when he had first been brought to the prison.
“I already told you I am not interested,” Cutter grunted.
“Yeah, that's what you said. But now, I think you need me,” LaCosta responded cockily.
“How's that?”
“The Triads have put a bounty on your head.”
“How much?”
“Seventy-five thou.”
“Phew. It's nice to be popular, eh?” Cutter said sarcastically.
“The thing is, in prison, while there's a price on you, they are going to keep coming after you – in the showers, in the yard, whenever. To the men inside, seventy-five thousand dollars is a big chunk of change. It's more than some of them earn in two years. And all they have to do is stick a knife into you, or smash your head against a wall. Anything, as long as you're dead, they're in the money.”
“And you can change that?”