He poured lethal measures and nobody complained. He toasted, “To jolly good company, what?”
No one answered him.
They drank in silence, getting the good stuff to ignite in their system. When they’d killed the scotch and the contents of the room’s minibar, the woman said, “You’re not fucking Lee Child.”
Sebastian nearly laughed at the double entendre.
“Child?” Yanni asked. “Where child?”
Then Sebastian, scotch calm, said, “Ah, you’ve rumbled me, the game is up as old Sherlock used to say, or was that afoot? I’m actually Lee’s half brother. We don’t get on, and truly, I’m chuffed with his success.”
Yanni, tired of a conversation he was having trouble following, pointed his finger at the woman, asked, “Why are you here?”
She’d drunk the scotch way too fast and it loosened her tongue.
“I thought he was stealing my book,” she said, wagging a finger in Sebastian’s direction.
“Your book? What are you talking about?” Sebastian asked.
She told them all about some bloody awful book she was writing about Max Fisher and Angela, and about the murders Fisher had committed, and how he’d apparently become a feared man in prison. Sounded like a real winner all right. The punters would surely be rushing to the stores to buy that one.
Then she told them about a prison break at midnight.
Sebastian had a lightbulb moment, said, “Prison break?”
“Yeah, there’re going to be riots, big riots. I’m a big riot!” She looked at her glass. “What’s in this shit anyway?”
Sebastian egged her on, going, “So about the prison break…”
“Oh, yeah, it’s at midnight tonight, at least that’s what The… A.X. said. The… A.X.!” She laughed. “You believe that’s what he calls himself now? He put a ‘the’ in front of his name and he has initials. Initials! Is he a character or what? I’m gonna make a fortune on this book and Pulitzer, look out. Oh, and Angela, I’m dying to meet that crazy bitch. She’s going to be in the getaway car with some IRA guy. Is this gonna be a trip or what?”
Yanni put a switchblade to the woman’s throat said, “Shut up, cunt, and take us to this she-devil who killed my cousin. Now.”
The woman continued to smile drunkenly until her eyes focused on the knife and she started to scream. Yanni backhanded her in the face and knocked her to the floor.
Sebastian upended his tin cup and, patting its bottom, drained the last trickle of scotch. “Oh, lordy,” he said, “was that really necessary?”
Eighteen
Let the riots begin…
Max was dozing when the riot began. He was gently stirred by Rufus who said, “It’s on, boss.”
Max, still groggy, heard what sounded like the seventh circle of hell and smelled smoke, lots of smoke. He asked, “The riot?”
A click sounded and their cell door slid open.
Rufus said, “They already got in the control room, yo. The man, he gonna come down hard, we got to move, know what I’m sayin’, make it to the laundry truck. Once they bring in the troops, we gonna be fried meat.”
He handed Max a bandana, said, “Rap the rag round your mouth, breathe through your nose, and stay real close, yo. Gonna be biblical out there.”
Max was terrified and exhilarated all at once, and the bandana, shit, he felt like The Boss. He grabbed the bottle of Chivas, swallowed a fiery amount and handed it to Rufus who drained the rest. Then Max picked up a broomstick they’d stowed under the bottom bunk, broke it in half, said, “Rock ‘n’ roll.”
The tier was chaotic, cons running everywhere, and Max saw one of the guards being held by a Crip, broken bottle to his neck. The Crip looked at Max, winked, then slashed the guard’s throat.
Max felt the Chivas rebel and he let Rufus get ahead as he bent over, gagging. Then, out of the smoke, came Sino, his face streaked with blood like war paint, like a deranged angel of death. He hissed, “Hey, bandajo, where you goin’? I’m gonna cut yo’ ass in a hundred pieces and then I’m gonna burn yo’ puta ass, bitch.”
Max was unable to move and as Sino closed in on him he thought, After everything, this is it. He felt his bowels loosen and then Sino’s eyes went wide, his mouth made a silent O and he looked down at the shaft of wood that had been driven through his chest. He fell forward.
Arma, leader of the white supremacists, bent down, put his boot on Sino’s back, pulled out the shaft, said, “I’ll be needing that, spic.”
Max was trying to form words that would express his thanks when a crew of Crips appeared, armed with homemade clubs, knives, even a frying pan.
Arma turned to face them, then said to Max, “We’ll go down like white men, right, boy?”
Max thought, Like fuck we will, and took off, looking back to see Arma disappear beneath a sea of Crips.
Then Rufus grabbed Max’s arm, pulled him through the inferno.
Before Rufus could drag Max to the next tier, a guard came running. It was the guy, Malis, who’d once been nice to Max in the yard. He stopped, begged, “Save me.”
A tiny con grabbed the guard and said, “Your face is dirty,” and threw a jarful of acid at him. Max watched in disbelief as Malis’ face began to literally melt, peel off in layers. The con dropped the empty jar and ran, a knife coming loose from his belt and clattering to the floor as he went. Max whipped it up almost by reflex, grateful to have something deadly he could hold in his hand rather than just a broken broomstick.
Rufus was pulling Max along again, going, “Gotta get yo’ ass in gear now, boss.”
As Rufus dragged Max through the smoke and chaos, it hit Max hard that he hadn’t killed anybody yet. What the fuck? He was The… A.X., the alpha dog, the Big Boss, the Springsteen of the Big House, and he was what, getting yanked along like he was some kind of fucking sissy? He had to take somebody out, that’s what he had to do. His rep was on the line. He had to show Rufus that The… A.X. was one sick-ass muthafucka. Also, he knew that this was a moment he’d look back on his entire life. This moment would define him, make him proud. Didn’t all the World War II vets go on and on about all the nips they took out? Didn’t the Vietnam dudes reminisce about the gooks they’d blown away? This was Max’s war, the high point of his life, and if he choked now, didn’t come through with at least one killing, he’d never forgive himself.
They went down a flight of stairs, stepping over bodies, then headed toward the delivery entrance. Up ahead in the smoke Max spotted a guy. He had a flashback to the time he’d killed all those drug dealers, blew ’em to smithereens, and that gave him the confidence boost he needed.
Holding the knife, he broke free from Rufus and charged the guy. He was roaring as he ran, making crazed animal noises like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. He plunged the blade into the guy’s back, and it was fucking harder than it looked in the movies. It wouldn’t go in more than an inch at first and he had to use both his hands to work the blade in there. The whole time he was screaming his ass off, drooling like a rabid dog.
When he was through he let go of the body, letting it fall to the floor. The guy looked dead all right. Fucking wasted.
He wiped the blade of the knife on the dead man’s pants, then looked back at Rufus, expecting to see a terrified, respectful look from his soldier.
Instead he got, “Fuck you do that for, boss?”
Max, still pumped, said, “Didn’t like the way fuckin’ Crip was lookin’ at me. Bro had to go.”
Rufus said, “Man, that wasn’t no motherfuckin’ Crip. That was our ride, yo.”
Max didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, said, “The fuck’re you talkin’ about?”
“That was K, man. He was with us an’ shit. He was gonna ride our asses out in the truck.”