Harris arrived ten minutes before Sam was due, insisting that Sharp still take the lead on welcoming him to the prison and then insisted he bring Sam to his office. Not wanting to look like a lap dog to his subordinates, Sharp made a silent promise to show Sam who was really running Ashcroft.
As the security van pulled through the final gate and slowed to a complete stop, he smiled. His uniform was in pristine condition, his navy shirt wrapped around his impressive frame. His handgun, a SIG Sauer P226, was strapped to his belt, with fifteen bullets ready to go. Despite not being the best shot in the team, Sharp was the most bloodthirsty and wouldn’t hesitate to fill Sam with the entire magazine if he got the chance.
The rain had relented, but a brisk wind blew around the van as the officers stepped out, identifying themselves before leading Sharp to the back of the van.
They unlocked the doors and threw them open, the brightness illuminating the van like a flash grenade and causing Sam to hold his hand up to protect his eyes.
Sharp smirked, happy at the discomfort of a man who thought himself above the law.
Above him.
With his meaty hands clasping his hips, he stood, allowing the brightness to bathe him in shadow.
‘Welcome to hell.’
Sharp mentally patted himself on the back for his opening line, one which he’d used on a number of new guests. While his colleagues may have rolled their eyes at his dramatics, he was always keen to set the tone immediately.
‘Get the fuck out of the van.’
Sharp stepped back, ensuring one hand was visibly on his sidearm and sure enough, with a little stiffness, Sam Pope stepped out, his eyes still squinting as they adjusted to sunshine once more.
With his hands cuffed, Sam took in the grand structure of the prison, his bruised eyes scanning the building as if searching for an exit point. Sharp allowed him a few moments, wanting the severity of his future to sink in before he cleared his throat.
‘Welcome to The Grid,’ he began, slowly pacing. ‘I’m Deputy Warden Sharp. You will address me as such from now on. You will not speak until spoken to. You will not move unless told to. In fact, you will only breath because I’ve allowed you to. Is this understood?’
Sharp spun on his heel dramatically, his eyes locked on Sam, who nodded. The lack of fear in Sam’s eyes irked him.
‘You will abide by the rules which we will make clear. Any deviation from the rules will result in one week in solitary confinement. You will have one hour a day to exercise. You will have three meals a day, one of which will be in the canteen for up to an hour. Any attempt to veer from the designated routes to and from your cell will result in one week in solitary confinement. Is this understood?’
Sam sighed and nodded. Having grown up in the military and spending most of his life as one of the UK’s elite soldiers, the drill instructor act was borderline pathetic. But realising he was in no position to question it, he played along. Sensing Sam’s lack of fear, Sharp strode directly at him, daring Sam to break his stare. His breath was warm, a stale smell of coffee wafting between the stained gritted teeth that he spoke through.
‘You’re in hell now, soldier boy. And I’m the fucking devil.’
Sam didn’t respond, but he refused to break the stare. The deputy warden suddenly feigned to lunge at Sam, in a lame attempt of intimidation. When Sam didn’t move, Sharp shot a furious glance at the other armed officers. To placate his own ego, Sharp drove a solid fist into Sam’s bruised ribs, driving the air completely out of him. Coughing and gasping for breath, Sam dropped to one knee, battling the urge to fight back with every fibre of his being.
There was no doubt in his mind that he would easily defeat Sharp. But with his hands cuffed, a number of armed guards trained on him, and his future in the man’s sadistic hands, he refused to rise to the bait.
This was one fight he would not win.
After a few moments and a couple of exaggerated shakes of his hand, Sharp turned to his men with a cruel smile.
‘Get him up.’ He turned back to Sam. ‘Let’s go see the Warden, shall we?’
* * *
Harris sat behind his large desk and peered through the window, the gloom of another spring afternoon hanging over the surrounding woodland with an awful sense of foreboding. A storm was coming, not just outside, but within his prison.
Ashcroft was the most high-tech, secure premises in the entire country, and he was proud to run it. He had spent the last thirteen years overseeing the government’s plans to effectively eradicate the most dangerous criminals within the confines of the law. Sure, there were liberties taken by some of his staff. Sharp suffered from ‘little man’ syndrome, but he couldn’t fault his deputy’s commitment to the cause.
There hadn’t been a riot in over five years.
No deaths in the last decade.
The inmates who resided within his prison were the worst of the worst. Mass murderers. Serial rapists. High profile gangsters. But somehow, Harris had nurtured an atmosphere of peace and for the most part, they all towed the line. Their actions while free men had determined their futures and they’d all resigned to their lockdowns.
But Sam Pope arriving had given him a headache.
Usually, Ashcroft were notified a minimum of two weeks in advance if a sentencing would lead to him welcoming a new inmate to their final resting place. The fact this had come in on the day had thrown him off, but Harris made a concerted effort to stay away from the bureaucracy of the police service. As far as he was
