Inside

“This is the first we’ve heard about Riggs having a weapon,” Peyton said.

“You should’ve known before, should’ve kept digging until you had all the facts before you handed down a decision.”

At the time, they’d believed they had all the facts. They’d interviewed everyone, spoken to John repeatedly, held off on making a decision until they felt confident they’d chosen the right course of action.

“Hutchinson is one of us,” Fischer said. “That means he deserves the benefit of the doubt.”

But just this morning, the warden had said they needed to make an example out of him, emphasizing that abuse would not be tolerated. He’d reacted the same way they’d reacted to the information available, which made him just as “derelict” in his duty.

Not that he’d ever admit it. He always acted as if he never would’ve made a particular mistake—after it was proven to be a mistake.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “So…now that the situation’s changed, how do you suggest we handle it?” Peyton wanted him to take full responsibility for the decision, so he’d have no room to blame her later if it was wrong.

“That’s obvious, isn’t it?”

She kept her mouth shut and waited for him to explain.

“Call Hutchinson in, apologize to him and make sure he understands that there’ll be no disciplinary action. And while you’re at it, try thanking him for risking his life to keep order.”

McCalley shot her a glance before focusing on the warden. “But there are still a lot of unanswered questions, sir. Shouldn’t we continue to investigate?”

“And draw even more attention to the fact that you suspended a man without sufficient cause? Hell, no! I don’t want our officers to think we won’t stand behind them when they need us most. What’ll that do for morale around here? We’re a family. Riggs had a weapon. Hutchinson acted to disarm him. That’s all we, or anyone else, need to know.”

Protect the family…. Peyton wondered if the C.O.s who’d scalded that mentally ill prisoner back in ’92 had relied on getting “the benefit of the doubt” when they’d been scrubbing the skin off his legs. She preferred to believe staff over prisoners, too, but checks and balances were an essential part of the system. “John didn’t say anything about a shank, sir,” she said. “I’m sure he would’ve mentioned it if it had been a real threat.”

“We have enough to worry about without going after our own,” Fischer retorted. “As long as no one can prove John acted out, we’re fine to assume he didn’t.” He turned to leave her office, but she called after him.

“Sir—”

He turned back. “Have I not made myself clear, Chief Deputy?”

“Yes, you have, but—”

“Just do as I say and quit arguing for a change,” he snapped and left.

Apparently the brutality issue had sidelined whatever he’d come to say. Or he wasn’t willing to discuss it in front of McCalley. Maybe he was so disappointed in how she’d handled the Hutchinson problem, he didn’t want to talk to her about it at all anymore. Lately, they seemed to disagree far too often. Only by sheer will was she able to implement some of his directives.

“You heard him,” she told McCalley. “Give Hutchinson a call.”

“I think he’s making a mistake,” he murmured.

She remembered John’s demeanor when he’d been in her office yesterday. If Riggs had had a shank, and John knew it, he definitely would’ve used that as part of his defense. “So do I.”

Ink wouldn’t leave Colorado, even though Shady had ordered him back to L.A. He was too pissed that Eddie Glover had lived. They’d gotten all the information they were going to get out of Eddie, so it shouldn’t have mattered, but to Ink killing Eddie had become an obsession. He talked about it constantly, said he wanted to add another tattoo to his body depicting him shooting “that miserable son of a bitch C.O.” All he ever craved was blood. As far as Pretty Boy was concerned he was a fucking psychopath. But no one else seemed to care.

Fortunately, there’d been too much activity at the hospital to finish Eddie off, especially when it served no better purpose than to appease Ink’s twisted desire for revenge. Pointblank had flat-out told Ink that every single Crew member would be lying in wait for him if he risked that kind of heat. So he’d finally quit raving about killing Eddie and fixated on going after Laurel again. They’d been arguing about how he was going to accomplish that all day.

“We won’t find her.” Pretty Boy lounged on a bed in the cheap motel where they’d holed up since the shooting. “There’s no reason for her to stay in Colorado. For all we know, she could be halfway across the country.”

Pointblank, who was on the other bed, had been watching television. At this, he finally deigned to enter the conversation. “We stay until we’re told to leave.”

“Ink has been told to leave,” Pretty Boy reminded him.

Pointblank motioned to Ink, who was fiddling with his gun at the desk. “That’s his problem. He’ll have to answer to Shady. You won’t. So don’t worry about it.”

“Shady won’t be pissed at me, not once I get the job done,” Ink said.

“And how do you plan to get the job done when we don’t even know where she is?” Desperate to be rid of him, Pretty Boy fantasized about waking up in the middle of the night and putting a bullet through his brain while he slept. Killing Ink might cause a backlash inside The Crew. The hit wouldn’t be sanctioned by the gang’s leaders. But Pretty Boy felt he’d be doing the world a service. He’d be doing Skin a great service, too. Except he wasn’t sure if he should be motivated by the loyalty that still lingered in his heart. How should he feel about his old cellie? Was Skin debriefing as the others claimed?

If not, why hadn’t he made contact?

Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe something else was going on….

“Shady’ll find her,” Pointblank—Thompson—said. “You heard what he told us when he called. He’s got some contacts in the CDC.”

But would they go crazy cooped up together before those contacts came through? At this point, Pretty Boy was having fantasies about putting a bullet through his own brain just to escape the monotony. “We’ll see.”

He got up to go outside for a cigarette. He never used to smoke. He’d taken it up a few days ago. The nicotine calmed his nerves, and the act of bringing the cigarette to his mouth kept his hands busy. Besides, it provided a good excuse to take a walk every couple of hours.

Thompson’s phone vibrated on the table as Pretty Boy passed by. When he glanced down, he saw that the caller was Shady and froze. Shady’s contact had delivered what they’d asked for. Shady wouldn’t be contacting them again otherwise. They’d already talked to him today.

“Hand me that,” Thompson said.

Pretty Boy hesitated. The last time they’d received orders from Shady, Ink had shot Glover, a corrections officer, and it’d been all they could do to keep him from going back and killing Glover’s whole family. Pretty Boy didn’t want to see anyone else hurt, especially Laurel.

“What’s up with you?” Pointblank snapped at his lack of response.

Ink grabbed the phone before Pretty Boy could reach for it and tossed it over to Thompson, who answered.

“’Lo?…No kidding?…Never heard of it…. Where?… Got it…. ’Course…. This is a step in the right direction, anyway…. If it’s not a big place, maybe we can find her on our own…. Sure…. Will do.”

When he hung up, he scooted off the bed and began stuffing his clothes into his duffel bag. “Get your asses moving,” he said. “We’re out of here.”

Pretty Boy remained rooted to the spot. “Where we goin’?”

“Town called Gunnison.”

“Never heard of it,” Ink said. “Is it close?”

“Not far, maybe two, three hours.”

Pretty Boy’s mind raced. That was as far as the feds had taken Skin’s sister? What had they been thinking?

They’d underestimated the network that served The Crew, didn’t realize that gang members had loyal