Prison Code Read online

  Bolan was a heartbeat ahead of him.

  The soldier was no arm wrestling champion, but he had spent his adult life digging fighting positions, rappelling down ropes, climbing sheer rock faces and buildings, and all too often hanging by his hands. Decades of battle on every continent had given Bolan a grip like a clam and fingers like cold chisels. He was no martial arts expert, but he often lived, trained and fought beside men who were. He had worked very hard at perfecting a number of techniques in what he considered his candy store of useful flavors. This technique had many names, but in Chinese kung fu it was called eagle’s claw. It could be used on various parts of the human body, but Bolan had put in the hours to master it mostly so that he could make opponents drop a weapon without crippling or killing them. Bolan’s thumb ground between Schoenaur’s wrist bones to bore into his radial nerve. The soldier’s second finger parted muscle and tendon to grind into the captain’s inner wrist to find the ulnar nerve. Bolan squeezed and tried to make his finger and thumb meet in the middle.

  Schoenaur went white.

  The soldier’s eyes burned into Schoenaur’s as they shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”

  The guard captain tried to squeeze back. There was no doubt Schoenaur’s grip strength was inhuman, but Bolan had not only short circuited two of the three major nerves that would get Schoenaur’s fingers firing, but he had turned the captain’s neurons into an electrical fire burning out of control from his fingertips to his shoulder. Sweat broke out on Schoenaur’s brow. He was no longer trying to break Bolan’s bones. The captain was using every last ounce of will not to scream.

  Bolan suddenly released his grip and spoke loudly enough for everyone on the tier to hear. “Thank you for being so understanding, Captain. I won’t break dietary restriction again. Thank you for not reporting this.”

  It was profoundly disturbing that Schoenaur hadn’t screamed, much less dropped to his knees. However, scores of eyes on the tiers saw Schoenaur’s fingers twitching and convulsing as he withdrew his hand. It was another bad sign that he let his hand fall to his side rather than cradling it. He smiled at Bolan and spoke so that only the two of them could hear. “You’re dead.”

  Bolan nodded. “I get that a lot.”

  Schoenaur spoke aloud. “Just once, Cooper. Because you’re a fucking terrorist from Gitmo, I have to let you slide. Don’t let it happen again.” The captain and his retinue stormed down the catwalk and the door slammed shut behind them. In the population, terrorists were in the same league with child molesters and arsonists. They weren’t popular. Schoenaur hadn’t done him any favors, but it beat having every bone in his gun hand broken.

  A voice spoke aloud from three cells down the tier. “Motherfucker shook hands with Schoenaur.”

  Murmuring and close conversations began breaking out around Cell Block C top to bottom and stem to stern.

  Chapter 5

  “YOU’RE A GOD,” Rudy opined. “A dead god. Like dead as a doornail, but still a god.”

  “You know people keep saying that.” Bolan shrugged. “I feel healthy as a horse.”

  Rudy took a bite of his spaghetti and eyed Bolan’s tray. “Not for long.”

  Bolan considered his fourth meal of nutraloaf. Bobbie-John’s candy bar loomed large in his memory and was sorely missed. The soldier’s milk ration had been replaced by a bottle of water. The seal had already been cracked. Bolan held the bottle up to the glare of the sodium lights above. There were no visible signs anyone had done anything unmentionable in it. Then again, there was a laundry list of things you could put in a bottle of water that were clear, tasteless, odorless and could mess with every part of a human’s body fatally or otherwise. Bolan had taken out the Todd, had not been taken out by Kal, and had faced down Schoenaur. The soldier had taken the first three rounds. The enemy had just won its first round of psychological warfare.

  Minor though it was, Bolan was eating dry nutraloaf tonight.

  Rudy was right. Everywhere he went, which wasn’t far, given his current restrictions, he got nods and murmurs of respect. The Aryan Circle by contrast had been remarkably reticent about the whole Schoenaur situation, and that spoke volumes to Bolan.

  The soldier steeled himself to the task at hand.

  He broke his loaf in two and looked for obvious signs of tampering. The fact that the food looked like a browned hunk of housing insulation and was stale left most lines of inquiry beyond ground glass up to the imagination.

  “My son gets processed in tomorrow,” Rudy stated.

  Bolan bit into what might as well have been baked sawdust, and struggled to chew and swallow it. “I look forward to meeting him.”

  A voice belted out from one of the Puerto Rican tables. “What’ch you lookin’ at, pink person!”

  All eyes went toward the doors. A welterweight Puerto Rican with bronze skin and a skull-tight bronze-orange afro stood up from the PR table. What could only be described as a steroid infested Caucasian monstrosity with a shaved head wearing overalls half rose to his six and a half foot height at the Aryan Circle table. The pink person swiftly turned purple. “You want a piece of me? That’s a Puerto-ri-can’t situation, Tavo!”

  Tavo unleashed a stream of Spanish invectives.

  Guards burst through the commons doors. The catwalk above rang with boots.

  Bolan ran his eyes quickly over the Aryan Circle table as shouting broke out. All eyes were on Tavo. The soldier scanned the Puerto Rican table and met the gaze of a stocky, well-built man with a high, tight haircut and positively satanic looking mustache and beard. Satan opened his right hand to stretch a rubber band between his thumb and forefinger like a slingshot. A foil packet appeared in his left, and the man sent a condiment flying with unerring accuracy across the space between their tables onto Bolan’s tray. The soldier swiftly palmed the packet. It was honey butter. Someone had written “Schoenaur? Nice” with a marker over the cartoon honeybee and cow.

  Bolan nodded his thanks.

  The “pink person” had already turned his attention elsewhere. “Not today, Tavo! Sit down! I’m eating!”

  The dining denizens muttered their disappointment for the loss of some grand entertainment.

  Bolan glanced down as a carton of milk slid across the linoleum floor from a table of African-American gentlemen and came to a halt by his foot. None of the Muslims looked his way. All appeared to be intent on the ruckus. Bolan hooked the carton with the toe of his issued shoe and pulled it in beneath the table.

  Across the hall Tavo sat down angrily.

  The Aryan goon glared in victory and went back to his spaghetti and meatballs.

  Bolan swiftly spurted honey butter onto both halves of his meal. He tore the pack in two and licked the foil before gnawing into the product-improved nutraloaf. “Who’s Tavo?”

  “Tavo is the closest thing to a star we have around here. He was headed for the Summer Olympics in London. They said he stood a good chance of taking the Gold, but he got mixed up in drugs and a shootout in a club, and wound up here.”

  Bolan eyed the skinhead monstrosity. “Who’s Frankenroid?”

  “That’s the Mad Dog, Sawyer Love. About five years ago Love was the hot thing for about an eye-blink in mixed martial arts. Then he got a dealer level steroid beef, possession of cocaine, resisting arrest, and multiple charges of assaulting a police officer and assault with the intent to commit grave bodily harm. Everyone knows it’s only a matter of time before Tavo and Love are going to meet in the Hunger Games. Love’s the current champion and has been since he was transferred a year ago. He’s jacked up some people. Word is Tavo has hands of stone, but the Pennsylvania boxing commission won’t be officiating this one. I think Tavo is in for a world of hurt.”

  Bolan raised one eyebrow. “The Hunger Games?”

  “That’s what they started calling it in here two years
ago, you know, since the movie.”

  “There’re fights.”

  “Closed circuit. I was the one who upgraded the computer feed and the cameras. You wouldn’t believe how big the Asian market is. Who needs MMA when you can watch American convicts tear each other apart for real with no rules?”

  Bolan could well believe. In his War Everlasting he had seen a price put on every aspect of human life. “And the winners get food privileges.”

  “That they do, among other things. You might have noticed that Love’s spaghetti has meatballs.”

  “What other kind of privileges?”

  “Internet, credit in the commissary.” Rudy made a face. “And like, you know.”

  “Like Bobbie-John.”

  “Yeah, he was going to be one of those privileges until he grew a spine and said no.” Rudy’s face twisted in memory. “Then the Todd bit it out of him. We all heard the screams. The guards on duty didn’t do shit.”

  Bolan palmed the empty foil honey butter packet and slid it up his sleeve. “Who’s my Secret Santa?”

  “That’s Billy Cachon, known as Billy the C. The Puerto Rican king. He runs La Neta in here.”

  Bolan had worked with members of La Neta in Puerto Rico as allies, and dealt with others harshly as foes. They were the most powerful Puerto Rican gang in the continental U.S., both in prison and outside. Bolan turned his gaze back to the Aryan table and watched Sawyer Love chew spaghetti with his mouth open. The soldier turned his gaze to the head of the table and found the man known as the Force watching him. Force had deceptively sleepy eyes, but as the two men locked gazes, the force behind those eyes was palpable.

  Force tried to read Bolan and failed, save that he confirmed what he already knew: Bolan was the most dangerous single individual in Duivelstad.

  The soldier confirmed what he had already suspected: the Force was the master of his domain and a stone-cold killer of men.

  Force broke eye contact and said something to a brutal-looking, greenish-haired man beside him. Bolan returned his attention to Rudy. “The Hunger Games. You said a man can earn library privileges, or a conjugal?”

  “Give the fans a good fight and—oh, shit! Are you serious?”

  “Don’t tell the warden I asked. Suggest to him I might be a good candidate, like you want something out of it, and he’ll need to convince me.”

  “So I’m carrying your water now, too?”

  Bolan took the carton on the floor between his feet and deposited it beside Rudy’s hip on the bench. “No, you’re carrying my milk to my cell for me for later. Then you’re going to talk to the warden.”

  Rudy shook his head as he untucked his shirt to facilitate the milk smuggling. “Asshole.”

  * * *

  PATRICK RUDOLPHO ENTERED the cell block carrying his meager belongings. Catcalls, whistles and innuendo greeted him. He had long hair, was whippet lean and held his chin up as he walked into the storm of hazing and sexual harassment. Zavala and Barnes followed him up onto the tiers. Rudy stepped out and gazed on his son. The reunion was nothing to celebrate. The hacker simply held out his hand. His son shook it. The hazing faded significantly. Every inmate inside knew the story, and every inmate inside was a man of woman born. Father and son cons stood on the third tier shaking hands in Duivelstad. Even the most jaded lifer found the scene emotionally challenging on some level. Bolan leaned against the bars with his arms folded across his chest, and had to admit he was a little moved.

  Zavala and Barnes turned and left Patrick to his fate. Barnes paused. “Cooper.”

  “Yes, Officer Barnes?”

  “As of this afternoon you have yard privileges.”

  “Thank you, Officer Barnes.”

  “Try not to screw up.”

  “I’ll try,” Bolan replied.

  Barnes shot Bolan a look and followed Zavala down the stairs.

  “Dad,” Patrick said.

  “Son,” Rudy replied.

  “I’m sorry I did this to you.”

  “I can live with it. So can you. We have to. It’s your mother I worry about.”

  Patrick bit his lip.

  Bolan pushed away from the bars. “You have no idea the position you’ve put your father in. You have given his enemies leverage. You have put yourself within the grasp of rapists and torturers of every stripe, and that has put him within the grasp of evil men.”

  Patrick regarded Bolan warily. “You know, I have a custom, first-person shooter character who looks almost exactly like you.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Jesus, Dad. Who is this guy?”

  Rudy shook his head. “Has he mentioned the position you’ve put me in?”

  “I didn’t know you could buy mercs in prison, Dad.”

  Bolan smiled. “You can buy anything in prison, Patrick. Including you.”

  The young man flinched.

  “As of now,” Bolan stated, “I have your back. And your dad’s.”

  “Jesus, Dad, you hired this psycho? Why don’t you just make a deal with the warden?”

  “I did. Then the warden broke the deal. He stopped dealing and starting giving orders and making threats. When that failed he pulled you in. None of that matters. Rudolphos don’t earn for anyone except our Family. We don’t take orders from anyone outside the Family. The warden is going to learn that, the easy way or the hard way.”

  Patrick stared at his father with newfound awe, then warily at Bolan. “So?”

  Bolan shrugged. “So keep you head up, your ass down and your nose clean. If you know what’s good for you, do what your father tells you. If you want to live, do whatever I tell you whenever I tell you. I won’t tell you twice. I’ll just walk.”

  Patrick stiffened.

  The Rudolpho patriarch spoke. “Son, we’re in debt to this man.”

  Patrick was a new-school, young gun criminal, but he had grown up surrounded by wise guys. His father’s words rang through him. “Right. Got it. On it. So what’s the plan?”

  “Your father is going to pretend to capitulate to save your narrow ass and gather intel. I am going to continue to act like a wild card.”

  “What you want me to do?” Patrick asked.

  “Behave.”

  The young man bristled.

  “Stay close to your dad at all times. Some guys may call you Daddy’s boy, but most of the cons will respect the fact that you’re blood and do what your father tells you. If someone drops a punk card at your feet, don’t pick it up. Look to me. If someone drops the soap in the showers—” Bolan shook his head “—don’t pick that up, either.”

  The Rudolphos laughed. It was an unusual sound in Duivelstad, and the rare times it was heard it was mostly ugly. It was a sound that was becoming identified with the dangerous, blue-eyed newb. Bolan dropped his voice so that only Patrick and his father could hear it. “If everything goes to hell? There’s a book on my bunk. Leaves of Grass. You go next door and hand it to Kal. You say ‘Cooper is giving you your book back,’ and say ‘A Promise of California.’ You got that? Rudy, that goes for you, too.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means you have a fifty-fifty chance of Kal helping you or putting you in a wheelchair shitting out a plastic bag. It’s the nuclear option. I don’t recommend it unless all is lost.”

  Rudy just stared. Patrick didn’t understand what was going on, but he knew something big was. “Right.”

  “So now what happens?” Rudy asked.

  “You two have your family reunion.” Bolan stretched his arms and yawned. “Me? I’m going to take a nap. I have yard privileges after lunch, and I think it’s going to be a hoot.”

  Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  AARON KURTZMAN HUNCHED under the evil eye Price gave him. She watched hi
m squirm for several long seconds. “What’s the word?”

  “No word. Mack hasn’t logged on any of D-Town’s computers, and he hasn’t established an alternative line of communication yet.”

  “Nothing about his status on any of the penitentiary computers?”

  “If they’ve reclassified him or put him in for any kind of restrictions or punishment, it’s all off the record. His jacket going in was sparse in the extreme, and nothing has been added to it since.”

  “So he could be dead already, and we’ll never know until someone decides to input it the prison computer and file a report with State Corrections?”

  “Um, yes.” If looks could have killed, Kurtzman would have been splattered all over the walls.

  Price folded her arms. “Why don’t you just get Able Team and Phoenix Force transferred in, get what you need, burn the goddamn place to the ground, extract Mack and be done with it already?”

  “We don’t have permission to do that.”

  Price’s expression spoke volumes about all the times both Mack and Farm personnel had acted without official sanction.

  Kurtzman had been expecting this conversation and pulled his ace. “Though you’re right, we should send someone in to check on the lad.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Price’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  “You.”

  A very cold, almost imperceptible look of bemusement ghosted across the willowy blonde’s face. “He can’t have a conjugal for at least three more days, and last I heard that was a privilege they can grant or deny.”

  “No, I don’t have you in mind for that.”

  Price blinked and her face slowly turned to stone. She and Mack had enjoyed an on-again, off-again relationship in the past. “And why not?”

  Kurtzman sought for a diplomatic answer. “We all agree that whatever is going to happen is going to go down soon. When and if Mack gets a conjugal, it’s going to be our one golden opportunity. We can’t mess it up.”

  Price arched an eyebrow.

  “It may be our only opportunity to improve Mack’s TO and E.”