In addition to the guard high above them in the gun tower, there were cameras mounted at strategic points around the yard. There were also two guards on the yard itself, both armed with batons, tasers and large canisters of pepper spray. The yard had been constructed in such a way that, unlike some of the older prisons Lock had seen on TV, every inch of public space was open to scrutiny.
For the first few seconds, Lock could feel the heavy weight of the other inmates’ stares, accompanied by an ominous silence. Then it was gone, as the inmates separated into their different racial groups: the black prisoners headed for the basketball court, the Hispanics settled themselves on some benches in the far corner of the yard and the white inmates gravitated to another set of benches.
Lock nodded towards this group. ‘Who are they?’
Lock’s nod drew narrowed-eye stares from the white inmates.
Reaper stepped in front of Lock and put a massive callused hand on Lock’s chest. ‘Yard etiquette 101,’ he said. ‘First rule, you never stare at someone, you never nod towards them, and you definitely never point at anyone on the yard. Unless, of course, you want to fight them.’
‘Point taken, but you still didn’t answer my question,’ said Lock.
‘We’re cool,’ said Reaper. ‘They’re NLR for the most part.’
‘NLR?’ Lock asked.
‘Nazi Low Riders.’
‘Not Aryan Brotherhood?’
‘No,’ said Reaper, stepping away from Lock and pivoting back round, his eyes sliding across the yard towards three gargantuan white inmates standing on their own next to the fence, arms folded. ‘Those three dudes over there are AB. Now, come on, soldier boy.’
Reaper began to walk. Conversations fell away to a series of whispers. The basketball game stopped. Even though no one stared, Lock knew that they were being watched.
Lock fell into step with Reaper. But rather than head towards his old comrades near the fence, Reaper was making for the larger group of Nazi Low Riders. Whatever the etiquette, the three Aryan Brotherhood members were now openly staring at Reaper.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Lock as they got within ten feet of the group of Nazi Low Riders.
The group parted and an older white inmate sporting a ratty mustache and a winged death skull tattoo which ran the length of his clavicle just beneath his throat stepped towards them.
He and Reaper clasped hands and then hugged.
‘It’s been a while, Phileas,’ Reaper said to the man.
‘Too long,’ said Phileas, motioning for Reaper to take a seat on the bench next to him.
Across the yard, the three Aryan Brotherhood members were mumbling among themselves. One of them spat at the ground.
Lock had been right about one thing: Reaper had never intended to step back on to the mainline without a plan in place. However, he still had a job to do, and who was to say that Reaper’s apparent defection from the Aryan Brotherhood to their rivals, the Nazi Low Riders, would be the last betrayal the yard would see?
Lock skirted around the benches so he was closer to Reaper, only to have a huge hand pushed hard into his chest. A Nazi Low Rider gang member sporting a swastika tattooed across the centre of his forehead stared down at him — no mean feat considering that Lock was six feet two inches tall.
‘Where you going, dawg?’ he asked.
Lock kept his gaze as even as his voice. ‘Just watching my cellie’s back, brother.’
‘Well, do it somewhere else.’
Lock stood his ground, but kept his hands down by his sides. His posture was loose and unthreatening. ‘Sorry, I can’t help you there, dawg.’
Lock’s challenge had the desired effect. The man took a step towards him. Lock brought the palm of his right hand up hard and fast, finding the man’s throat and snapping his head back. Lock followed this up by slamming his knee into the man’s groin. The Nazi Low Rider folded like a bad hand of poker.
One of the guards patrolling the yard started towards them, his hand on his canister of pepper spray. The guard in the gun tower swiveled his weapon in Lock’s direction.
Lock stepped back, ready to fight some more.
Phileas, who’d been talking to Reaper, turned to the man who’d been pole-axed by Lock. ‘Knock it off,’ he said. He tapped Reaper on the elbow. ‘Let’s take a walk.’
He and Reaper headed off to the track that circled the yard. Lock fell in behind them.
As he did so, the man he’d just attacked got to his feet and grudgingly put out his hand. ‘They call me Eichmann,’ he said, by way of introduction. ‘I keep an eye out for Phileas.’
‘Lock,’ said Lock, shaking Eichmann’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s not fall behind here.’
‘What the hell you talking about?’
Reaper and Phileas were already level with the three members of the Aryan Brotherhood. If they decided to rush Reaper there would be less than twenty yards to cover. Maybe Phileas had suggested that he and Reaper take a stroll for the express purpose of getting Reaper in close enough to the hit squad.
‘I’m talking about the Three Stooges over there by the fence,’ said Lock, staring straight ahead.
‘Don’t worry about them,’ said Eichmann. ‘We got the numbers on this yard now.’
‘Sometimes it doesn’t come down to numbers.’
‘So what does it come down to?’
‘The element of surprise,’ said Lock, heading straight for the three members of the Aryan Brotherhood.
Eichmann followed Lock as he zeroed in. When he was within five feet of them — a distance at which they would have to move towards him in order to strike a blow — he stopped. All three were under six feet tall, but what they lacked vertically they more than made up for in terms of sheer dumb muscle.
Lock greeted them with a nod. ‘Gentlemen.’
‘What you want?’ the Aryan Brotherhood member in the middle asked him, the blood vessels in his neck bulging.
‘I was going to ask you pretty much the same thing,’ Lock said. ‘You keep on sneaking romantic little glances over in our direction, and it’s kind of creeping me out. If you could stop doing it, I’d appreciate it.’
‘Hey,’ said the one in the middle, ‘this is our yard.’
Lock glanced over his shoulder at the dozen or so Nazi Low Riders assembled on the benches who were staring with menace at the three Aryan Brotherhood members. ‘Not any more it ain’t.’
The Aryan Brotherhood member in the middle took a step towards Lock. Lock raised his hands, palms open, shifting his right foot back a little and keeping his eyes on the man’s hands.
Like some kind of conjuring trick, there was a sudden flash of metal in the man’s hand, and he lunged towards Lock with the shank. But Lock managed to catch his wrist. Behind him he could hear the shouts of the guards and other inmates. The two other Aryan Brotherhood members rushed towards him, but Eichmann blocked them, taking a few solid punches for his trouble.
Lock lowered his body to give himself some leverage, turned the man’s wrist, and snapped it with a dull crack. The blade fell from his hand, landing in the dust. Lock used his hold on the man’s broken wrist to pull him slowly down towards the ground.
The guards were close now; Lock could smell the oxygen-suffocating odor of pepper spray. He let go, and took a couple of steps back.
A baton crashed into his side. Then the guards rushed past him and Eichmann to deal with the three Aryan Brotherhood members, ordering them to the ground. All three finally complied, one taking a blast from a guard’s taser first.
Lock and Eichmann rejoined the group of Nazi Low Riders as more guards arrived, herding everyone back towards the confines of the unit. Lock was worried that he would be pulled from the group, but the guards seemed more concerned with restoring order. At the main door leading back into the unit, he watched as the three Aryan Brotherhood members were hustled through a gate in the chain-link fence and out of the yard.
Lock caught Reaper’s eye.
‘What was that about?’ Reaper asked him.