They set to work moving the coffins from the back of the hire truck to her pick-up. Chance could tell that the man was surprised by her physical strength. ‘You sure you should be lifting stuff?’ he asked her.
Chance smiled sweetly. ‘Dude, your belly’s bigger than mine. What do you think Pilgrim women did when they were pregnant? Sit home and eat bonbons?’
He laughed and they carried on.
As they lifted the final coffin he told her to be careful. ‘This one’s got that real special delivery.’
Chance felt her heart quicken. ‘The pressure plates?’
‘Calibrated to the weight you asked for.’
Slowly, they maneuvered the coffin from the truck and slid it along the bed of the pick-up. Then Chance covered all three coffins with a green tarpaulin.
‘The money’s here,’ she said, walking round to the front of the pick-up, opening the passenger-side door and grabbing the briefcase. She flipped open the two catches and held the contents up for inspection.
The man smiled at the thick bundles of hundred-dollar bills. His tongue flicked across his lips.
She looked past him to the rear of the truck. ‘Damn, that tarpaulin’s come loose. Could you fix it for me?’
‘Be my pleasure, honey,’ he said.
She put the briefcase down on the ground and reached back into the cab of the truck, grabbing a loaded Glock 9mm. ‘You’re so sweet,’ Chance said, leveling the gun at him and firing two shots into the man’s back from less than ten feet away. He took a step, his body twisting round. Then his legs folded and he fell, face down. She closed in on him, firing two more rounds into the back of his head.
Satisfied he was dead, she got back into the red pick-up, picked up her cell phone and called Cowboy, one of the two men she trusted most in the world. Along with his friend Trooper, Cowboy was a dedicated Aryan warrior. They had been by her side through the toughest of times, and in a world where trust was in short supply she knew they would stand by her come what may. They had proved as much when they’d helped her resolve the Prager situation.
Cowboy answered on the first ring.
‘I got it,’ she said.
‘Any problems?’
She stared in the side mirror at the man’s body lying flat, blood puddling out around him.
‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Plain sailing.’
14
A blue-steel light filtering through the bars of Lock and Reaper’s cell announced the dawn of a new day. Along with the other inmates in the unit, Lock and Reaper had spent the remainder of the previous day confined to their cell. Having been escorted from the yard, the three members of the Aryan Brotherhood had failed to reappear. Lock guessed they had been transferred either to another unit or solitary, and not before time.
Regardless of the reason, and even with them gone, Lock knew there was no way he could afford to relax. The Aryan Brotherhood was a powerful organisation whose tentacles stretched out beyond their immediate membership, and its leadership wasn’t about to give up without a fight.
Finishing up a breakfast of fluorescent pink ham, bread, butter and an apple, washed down with milk, Lock put down his meal tray and nodded towards the stack of books on the floor. ‘Mind if I take a look?’
‘Go right ahead. You might learn something.’
Lock flicked past Reaper’s well-thumbed copy of Mein Kampf and settled instead on an equally dog-eared edition of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. He held it up. ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?’
Reaper looked up. ‘It wasn’t Sun Tzu who said that.’
‘Who was it then?’
Reaper laid aside his food tray and hopped down from his perch. ‘Michael Corleone in The Godfather.’ He plucked the book from Lock’s hands and held it up. ‘No, what Sun Tzu said was this: “Engage people with what they expect. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment — that which they cannot anticipate.”’
Reaper seemed to be reciting the passage from memory.
‘And what does that mean?’ Lock asked him.
Reaper hopped back up on to the top bunk with a grace that belied his age. ‘You’ll know it when you see it.’
‘An extraordinary moment?’
Reaper chuckled to himself. ‘Oh, it’ll be extraordinary all right.’
Lock felt a ripple of concern. Since he’d stepped into the cell, Reaper hadn’t come across as a man worried for his life. He also seemed to be finding great amusement in a secret only he was privy to. The more Lock thought about it, the more suspect Reaper’s testimony seemed to be. There was a game being played, but he wasn’t sure it was the game Jalicia and Coburn thought it was.
Lock was torn from his thoughts by the sound of cell doors being opened on the ground floor of the unit.
‘OK, gentlemen,’ shouted Lieutenant Williams, standing with his hands on his hips, in the centre of the floor. ‘Showers. Two cells at a time. And just so you know, if there’s any more trouble in this unit, you’ll be back on lockdown.’
Inside their cell, Reaper wagged a finger at Lock, and smirked. ‘You hear that, soldier boy?’
Half an hour later their cell door opened and, stripped to the waist, Lock and Reaper stepped out on to the tier along with two Hispanic inmates from the cell next door. Lock signaled for Reaper to hang back but Reaper pushed past the two smaller Hispanics and made his way towards the showers, which were at the far end of the unit. Lock took his time, keeping an eye on the two Hispanics as they followed Reaper into the showers.
Reaper soaped up and set about washing himself. Lock and the other two inmates did the same.
Reaper closed his eyes and let the hot water cascade across his face. ‘Lock, will you stop looking at my ass.’
The two Hispanics sniggered and traded a look, then glanced over at Lock.
Lock stared at them. ‘What are you looking at?’
His challenge seemed to do the trick, as they quickly looked away.
Lock washed up as best he could with the gritty prison-issue soap, keeping an eye on the door leading into the showers. He thought about what Lieutenant Williams had just said about no one being allowed out of their cells if there was any more trouble.
They dried off, dressed and headed back up to their cell. Twenty minutes later, once everyone in the unit had been given the opportunity to get cleaned up, the unit’s cells were opened one at a time and the general housing inmates filtered out to work within the prison or to attend class. Lock and Reaper were left to last, which was fine by Lock.
Together, they stepped out on to an empty tier and walked down the stairs. Waiting for them at the bottom was Lieutenant Williams, who motioned them to follow him out on to the yard.
‘You see that?’ Williams said, pointing to the chain-link fence that encircled the yard area.
Lock noticed that every piece of metal on the fence, every attaching link, was slashed with a dash of purple paint. The colour was starting to fade though, ravaged no doubt by the sea air and wind.
Lieutenant Williams nodded towards a tin of paint and two brushes sitting next to the fence. ‘I want you to paint over every slash of purple that’s already there,’ he said.
Reaper shrugged. ‘Want us to count the bricks in the unit when we’re done?’
‘Watch your mouth, Hays,’ Williams said, marching back towards the unit.
Lock stared at the fence for a moment.
‘They mark all the pieces that someone might break off and use as a shank,’ Reaper explained. ‘If there’s no paint where there should be, it’s easier to see.’
Of course, thought Lock, a piece of metal from the fence provided the basic material for a very deadly weapon. It took a lot less energy to drive metal into someone’s body than plastic.
