with gravity to crush the trachea with his shinbones. He was surprised when Leroy rolled away with the quickness of a much smaller man and Lang hit unforgiving concrete.
Both antagonists made it to their feet at the same time.
Lang glanced quickly around the cell. There wasn't room to stay more than a few inches out of his opponent's grasp, and the disparity in their size would make any clinch fatal to Lang.
Warily, he moved from side to side, awaiting Leroy's next attack.
Or, better, the arrival of the guards. Time was on his side now. The roar from those cells who had a view into his was getting deafening. How could -his keepers not hear?
A trickle of blood bubbled on Leroy's lips as he still tried to regain full lung capacity, but there was no disability in his eyes nor question as to his intent as he glared across the few feet that separated the two. Then he bobbed his head as though having made a decision. A hand went inside the jumpsuit and returned with a flash of metal. A knife. No crudely made prison shank, the black man held a stiletto, its long blade reflecting evilly from the overhead lights.
If Leroy had just come in that morning, how the hell would someone have had the time to smuggle him a weapon?
There wasn't time for academic speculation. The large black man held the blade away from his body, cutting edge up. Crouched in a stance that enabled movement in any direction, his eyes searched Lang's, waiting, for the first flicker that would indicate what his intended victim was going to do. Unlike a gun, success with a knife depends on reaction to an opponent's move. Aggressive slashing and jabbing is more likely to lead to a struggle for the weapon than the intended result.
In other words, Lang realized, he was facing a professional. Seconds expanded indefinitely as Lang felt a trickle of icy sweat course down the side of his face. Neither man wanted to make the first move.
Fine with Lang. Sooner or later, a guard would show up and disarm Leroy.
With the Atlanta Department of Corrections, it was likely to be later.
If ever.
Leroy must have realized the same thing. He began a slow shift from side to side, an attempt to force Lang- to commit himself. Instead, Lang shot a glance toward the bunk, bending knees as though to move. Leroy shifted his weight, not a lunge but a subtle move that would require perhaps a quarter of a second to return to a direction neutral stance.
It was enough.
Lang threw himself toward the wall opposite the bunk. Rolling as he hit the floor, his fingers caught the edge of one of the mattresses, wrapping it around his body like a jelly roll.
As Leroy struck, knife aimed at Lang's midsection, Lang unwound the padding, leaving nothing but cotton and stuffing to take the impact of the steel. Lang jerked the remaining end of the mattress, snatching both blade and attacker's hand upward, for an instant exposing the entire lower body.
In the fraction of a second before Leroy could recover, Lang put his entire soul, body, and weight into a kick to the other man's left knee. He was rewarded with the sound of crunching patella and tearing tendon, followed by a scream of pain that drowned out the noise of the cell block. The knife was a comet of light as it spun through the air.
Lang had it in his hand before Leroy could grasp his shattered joint. The larger man-lay on his side, embracing what was left of his knee. Once certain Leroy was no longer a threat, Lang propped the knife up on the floor, leaning against the bunk, before stamping his foot down on it. The steel snapped in half.
Lang was stuffing both pieces into Leroy's pocketless prison suit when he looked up to see a guard working the lock of the cell's door. Behind him three others stood, truncheons in hand.
'What's going on here?' demanded the man with the keys in hand.
'Leroy here was demonstrating the lotus position and seems to have twisted his knee somehow,' Lang said. 'I'm afraid he might have hurt himself.'
The guard didn't even bother expressing skepticism. 'Yeah, sure. Fighting gets you time in isolation,' he said, pushing Lang against the wall while one of his companions twisted Lang's arms behind his back so the first could snap on the cuffs. ''You'll have plenty of time to think things-over.'
Two of the guards marched Lang toward the elevator while a third used the radio on his belt to call for a stretcher for Leroy.
Lang had no idea how long 'he had been in the eight-by-eight cell. Here the door was solid steel and there was no window, so night and day were the same. His stomach's complaints told him he 'had not eaten in a long time.
When he heard footsteps stop outside his cell, he expected to see a food tray slide through the door's slot. Instead, there was the snick of a bolt being drawn and the door swung back. Standing in front of it was Detective Rouse.
Lang rolled off the single cot and stood. 'What a pleasure, Detective, to see you again today. I would invite you in, but as you can see, I'm a little short of places for company to sit.'
Rouse glared back before snapping at the guard at his side, 'G'wan, unlock that door.' To Lang he said, 'N'mine the smart-assin', jus' come on out. You're bein' turned loose.' Lang could not suppress a sudden intake of breath. ''And to whom do l owe my most sincere thanks?'
'The Frankfurt, Germany, Police, Mr. Reilly. You gotta be the luckiest man alive. We e-mailed 'em we had you, and they e-mailed us back th' man you assaulted-'
''Allegedly assaulted,' Lang corrected as he stepped out of the cell.
'Yeah, yeah.' To describe Rouse as annoyed would be like describing Death Valley in July as warm. 'The Germans couldn't find the guy. Seems he gave them a false address.'
Why wasn't Lang surprised? ''And the cop who supposedly was a witness?'
Rouse took Lang by the elbow, steering him toward the elevators. 'Germans got their problems jus' like we got ours. Citizen doesn't have a beef, why go to the trouble? Not like either us or them got a shortage of work to do.'
At the elevator bank, Rouse pushed the Down button.
'Oh yeah, Frankfurt police asked what I could do to see 'bout the cost of repairs to two cars replacin' two others.'
The door hissed open and Lang, Rouse, and the guard stepped inside.
'So,' Lang asked, 'what did you tell 'em you could do?'
'Not more than ask politely, Mr. Reilly. I figger that's a civil matter, an' I don' even want to hear how you tore up four police cars.'
The elevator came to a stop on the floor Lang recognized as the location of booking. 'Tell 'em to send me a bill, Detective. I'll see that it gets paid.' He left Rouse staring in disbelief as he went to get the return of his personal property.
He was leaning on the counter that divided the room, counting his cash and inspecting the items that had been returned to him, when he caught the eye of the woman on the other side. Blond hair from a cheap bottle, she was exhibiting middle-age spread rampant. Her rump was fighting what might be a winning battle against the seams of her uniform pants. Buttons on her blouse strained against breasts of Wagnerian proportions.
'One of my cellmates, guy name of Leroy, got hurt a few hours ago. Can you tell me if he's okay?' She eyed him with the suspicion of one in a business where the customer is always wrong. Lang gave her his most engaging smile. 'He was just booked in this morning.'
She moved to a point across the counter, running a hand around the edge of frizzy hair. 'Y'remember the cell number?'
Lang gave it to her and she moved to a computer, where she began to slowly click the keyboard.
'What'd you say his name was?'
'I only got his first-Leroy.'
She shook her head, an effect of a lion shaking a scruffy mane. ''Ain' no Leroy nobody in that cell. Fact is, ain ' no Leroy been booked in today.' She gave him a smile, a glimpse of tobacco-yellowed teeth. 'But then, the day ain' over.' Lang felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. 'You sure?' She nodded, again with leonine effect. 'I make mistakes, but this ain' one of 'em.'
Lang knew the answer, but he had to ask. 'If no such person was booked in here today, how'd he get in the
