People turn to see what’s going on. It’s only a matter of seconds before hands grab hold and drag me through the crowd toward the center of the room.
I’m shoved forward. I stumble out of the crowd and steady myself against one of the tables. I finally see what all the cheering is about. The inmates surround an open area in the rec room where two prisoners were in the middle of a fight.
Everyone is looking at me. Even the fighters.
Jesus. I peer closer at them. It’s Travis and Deacon. Both of them are Woods. I haven’t seen them since cleaning out the Glasshouse earlier in the day. They both look exhausted. Deep cuts and gouges cover their faces, dripping blood into the water.
“Mr. Constantine,” calls a voice.
I look up. Leaning over the second-floor railing is an inmate called Dexter. He’s a Blood, though I don’t think he was ever the leader. More a lieutenant who did what he was told. But judging by the way everyone turns their attention to him, he’s the boss in here.
“Welcome to our courtroom,” he says.
I look around. There are bodies lying off to one side. All of them Woods. “Seems more like an execution chamber.”
Dexter shrugs. “You say potato, I say righting a thousand years of wrongs done to the black man.”
“Right…”
“Don’t stress, though. You’ll get your turn to sacrifice yourself to the cause.”
“I’m not big on charity work.”
“That’s okay. You can just stand there and get killed. All the same to me.”
Dexter turns his attention back to Travis and Deacon. Travis realizes the fight is about to kick off again and doesn’t wait around. He rushes forward, leaping over one of the tables and launching himself straight at Deacon.
Cheers and screams erupt once again. Deacon turns in surprise. Throws his arms up to catch Travis in midair. They collide. Travis’s arm is already moving. A blur. In and out, in and out. I can see something plastic in his hand. A toothbrush, by the look of it. Deacon uses the weight of Travis landing on him to flip him over and body-slam him onto a table. He brings his forearm down, trying to hit Travis in the throat. Travis rolls off the table. He lands in the water and surges to his feet. He’s a wiry guy, fast.
The shouting and cheering is deafening now. Deacon is faltering. The adrenaline stopped him from maybe feeling the stab wounds, but now he looks down at his side. There are about ten small puncture marks there, all of them streaming blood.
Travis grins and goes for him again. He leaps in the air, kicking Deacon full in the chest. They both land in the water. Travis scrambles to his hands and knees, grabbing hold of a struggling Deacon and jamming the toothbrush into his throat.
Jesus. I wince as the volume of the crowd goes even higher. Inmates screaming in joy, others swearing and cursing over Deacon’s body. Small bits of paper change hands. These guys are betting on the fights. God knows what they’re using for currency.
Dexter raises his hands in the air and the Bloods gradually fall silent.
“We have a new contender!” he shouts. “Jack Constantine. Ex-cop, ex-army, ex-husband…” I tense up as this raises a few laughs. “An intense guy, I think we can all agree. Someone who likes to act as if he’s pretty cool. Am I right?”
More cheers. The Bloods closest to me give me mocking shoves, and I stagger forward a few steps into the cleared circle.
“Now we’ll see what all that experience has done for him. Never let it be said I’m an unfair man. Seeing as our friend here has had training, I think we need to even the odds a little.”
He raises two fingers at someone in the crowd. The Bloods clear a path and two men are shoved forward into the circle.
I’ve seen them around. Sanchez and Jensen. They’re not Woods, though. I think they’re Ñetas. They’re both armed. Sanchez has a bread knife, while Jensen is holding what looks like part of an office chair, a long piece of metal with the coaster still attached. Not sharp, but it’s enough to brain me if it connects with my head.
The two of them share a look, then split up, coming at me from either side. I look desperately around. Most of the inmates surrounding us are armed. I try to grab a metal pole from one of them, but he holds on tight. Those standing next to him punch and shove at me until I’m forced to let go.
I turn back just as Sanchez comes for me, swiping the knife back and forth through the air like he’s a ninja or something. He looks ridiculous. I wait for him to get within reach, throw a dummy punch that he jerks his head back to avoid, then lash out with my foot, kicking him in the nuts. He folds over and I follow through with a fast jab to his face. His head snaps to the side, but instead of going down, he lashes out blindly with the knife.
I jerk back out of reach. This is bullshit. I need a weapon. I lunge at the closest inmate and punch the guy in his throat. He’s holding a smaller version of the cleaver that Ramirez carried around. I grab it from his hand, whirl around, and am barely in time to block a slash from Sanchez’s knife.
I shove him away and bring the cleaver down on his forearm. I grabbed the cleaver the wrong way round, and it’s the blunt edge that connects. I hear the crack of breaking bone. Sanchez cries out and drops the knife, falling to his knees.
Jensen has disappeared. Only one place he can be. I swing the cleaver around behind me and slam the same blunt edge into his windpipe. He drops, gagging, choking for breath.
There’s a change in the noise coming from the
