Inside

Hoping he’d have the chance to retaliate if he was shanked, Virgil listened for any movement that might alert him. But Buzz defused the tension instead.

“Those tattoos you got,” he said.

Virgil faced him again. “What about them?”

“You part of the Brand?”

“No.” Buzz was referring to the Aryan Brotherhood, the most dangerous of all prison gangs. Small but ruthless, they didn’t accept many new members. Virgil had heard that Tom Mills and Tyler Bingham—two of their most powerful leaders—were incarcerated at Pelican Bay. Probably in the SHU.

“You belong to another gang, then. I can tell.”

Virgil hadn’t tattooed any obvious Crew insignia on his body. He hadn’t been that indoctrinated. The gang was the best social network USP Tucson had to offer, and once Pretty Boy, Shady and a guy they called Tucker, who’d since died in a police shootout, became his brothers it was tough to let go. He still missed Pretty Boy and a couple of the others. But his tats weren’t the same quality you could get on the outside. Anyone who knew that would realize they signified some type of affiliation.

“What’s your point?” Virgil said.

“My point is you better clique up in here right quick.”

Virgil shrugged as if he’d heard it all before. Truth was, he had. “Why?”

“Something’s gonna come down.” He scowled. “I was hopin’ to get out of here first, but…I think it’s gonna happen sooner rather than later.”

So that was what had Buzz on edge. It wasn’t just getting a new cellie. “What is it? Trouble with the Nuestra Family?”

“What do you know about the NF?”

“They’re in charge here, right?”

“Hell, no! Who’s been telling you that shit? They’re afraid of us.”

“And who’s us? Public Enemy Number 1?”

Buzz bared his arm to show off a pitchfork tattoo. “The Hells Fury, that’s who. We’re the ones runnin’ this place.”

“So what’s going down?”

He shook his head. “Ain’t sayin’.”

Virgil gave Buzz a few seconds to think before speaking again. “Who should I clique up with?”

“Someone you can trust, man.”

“What if I can’t trust anybody?”

“That’s your problem.”

There was no time to say more. A loud buzz sounded as the locks retracted and the doors slid open. It was mealtime.

Virgil sat alone at a table in the dining hall, his back to the wall so he could protect himself if need be, and watched the other inmates. It was important to note who hung out with whom, where each group sat, how they interacted. The next few days would be the most dangerous of his life, even more dangerous than when he’d gone to prison the first time. He was better able to defend himself now, but that could convince him to take risks that might not be wise. Or, because he hoped to change his life and had plans for the future, he could have the opposite problem. He might hesitate when he shouldn’t, reveal his reluctance to fight or kill, and destroy any chance he had of gaining the respect he needed. Although he couldn’t be too reckless, he couldn’t be too cautious, either, couldn’t lose the edge his anger had always given him. Those who held power, on both sides of the law, would want to establish where he belonged in the pecking order. And the only way they could determine who he was and what he might do was to test him.

Virgil wasn’t looking forward to proving himself. Even if he managed to survive and convinced Buzz to sponsor him, he’d have to assault an HF enemy for initiation purposes and make it brutal enough to be decisive and believable. That would be tricky to orchestrate without actually hurting someone. He’d have to work out the details with Peyton if he hoped to make a fake stabbing look real; he wasn’t sure that could be faked. Coordinating with her wouldn’t be easy. The more often he contacted her, the more often he risked exposure. He couldn’t call her unless they were allowed on the tier. If there was really as much unrest here as Buzz had intimated—and Virgil saw no reason to doubt him—he might not have the opportunity to use the phone. Pelican Bay could go into lockdown and stay that way for months. The prison had a long history of resorting to those measures. Wallace had said as much while they were driving to Crescent City from Sacramento. All conversations from pay phones were taped, anyway. Virgil had known they would be, of course, but the associate director had warned him of that, too. Wallace had filled him in on a lot of things…including how badly he wanted to get into Peyton’s pants.

Catching himself, Virgil tried to put Peyton out of his mind. It required constant effort, but thinking of her made him more anxious than he already was. Especially when he acknowledged that Wallace was set on making his desires real, and he wouldn’t be around to do anything about it.

While drinking some milk, he let his gaze circle the room again. Blacks ate in one corner, Mexicans in another. There were some stragglers in between—fags, misfits, even a couple of transvestites.

Buzz ate with a group of whites across the room. Not all of them were tatted up to the degree Buzz was, but the amount of ink extending beneath the sleeves of their prison-issue blue shirts and on their necks and heads added to the intimidation factor. They counted on that; it was part of the reason they got so many tattoos.

As Buzz spoke to those around him, he nodded toward Virgil. When the group realized he was paying attention, they rose to their feet and openly glared at him. One even called out, “You think you’re a badass, huh?”

Virgil wanted to ignore them and eat his dinner, but he couldn’t. Such aggressive behavior was the equivalent of throwing the first punch. They were disrespecting him to see if he’d take it. If he didn’t retaliate, it would be that much harder to win their respect later. Maybe it would be impossible. And if he couldn’t gain any power in here, there’d be no purpose in staying. It would all be over. For him. For Laurel. For Laurel’s kids.

So instead of finishing his meal, he shoved the tray aside and, with a grin, gave them the finger.

Fortunately, Peyton hadn’t been in any hurry to leave the prison. She’d worked late, then lingered in her office, trying to figure out a way to see Virgil before she went home. She thought it might put her mind at ease to know he was okay and in good spirits. But before she could make any arrangements, she received a call from an officer named George Robinson in Facility A letting her know there’d been an altercation in the dining hall.

Four men had attacked one. “Simeon Bennett” had been involved and was injured. Robinson gave her the names of the others, too—names she recognized as members of the Hells Fury. Virgil had jumped into the thick of prison politics and created a disruption, because that was what he had to do.

Either he’d get what he wanted or he’d die trying.

She feared it would be the latter.

“How badly is he hurt?” she asked.

“Which one?” Robinson wanted to know.

Aware that she was pressing the phone too tightly to her ear, she eased up. “The new transfer, Simeon Bennett.” She knew it might seem strange that she’d ask about one convict specifically, but she didn’t care. She had to know if he was okay.

“Hard to tell,” he responded. “He’s covered in blood. We’ll know more once we get him cleaned up.”

Oh, God, it’s happening, she thought. But that wasn’t what she said. She kept her voice as cool and impersonal as she could, given that her heart was beating in her throat. “I’ll be right there.”

He didn’t bother to respond. The phone clicked and she jumped to her feet.

She was rushing down the hall when the warden hailed her from behind. “Peyton?”

Reluctant to stop, she considered ignoring him but couldn’t bring herself to do it. It was far too apparent that she must’ve heard him. “Yes?” she said, turning back.

“May I have a word with you?”

He wanted to tell her what he’d come to her office to discuss earlier, no doubt. But she didn’t have time for it. “I’m afraid I’m in a hurry, sir. Could we discuss it tomorrow?”

His expression told her he didn’t appreciate her response. “Where are you going?”

Most of the administrative staff was already gone, but she still hesitated to discuss Virgil in the open, where