Sino, his face streaked with blood like war paint, like a deranged angel of death. He hissed, “Hey, bandajo, where you goin’? I’m gonna cut yo’ ass in a hundred pieces and then I’m gonna burn yo’ puta ass, bitch.”
Max was unable to move and as Sino closed in on him he thought, After everything, this is it. He felt his bowels loosen and then Sino’s eyes went wide, his mouth made a silent O and he looked down at the shaft of wood that had been driven through his chest. He fell forward.
Arma, leader of the white supremacists, bent down, put his boot on Sino’s back, pulled out the shaft, said, “I’ll be needing that, spic.”
Max was trying to form words that would express his thanks when a crew of Crips appeared, armed with homemade clubs, knives, even a frying pan.
Arma turned to face them, then said to Max, “We’ll go down like white men, right, boy?”
Max thought, Like fuck we will, and took off, looking back to see Arma disappear beneath a sea of Crips.
Then Rufus grabbed Max’s arm, pulled him through the inferno.
Before Rufus could drag Max to the next tier, a guard came running. It was the guy, Malis, who’d once been nice to Max in the yard. He stopped, begged, “Save me.”
A tiny con grabbed the guard and said, “Your face is dirty,” and threw a jarful of acid at him. Max watched in disbelief as Malis’ face began to literally melt, peel off in layers. The con dropped the empty jar and ran, a knife coming loose from his belt and clattering to the floor as he went. Max whipped it up almost by reflex, grateful to have something deadly he could hold in his hand rather than just a broken broomstick.
Rufus was pulling Max along again, going, “Gotta get yo’ ass in gear now, boss.”
As Rufus dragged Max through the smoke and chaos, it hit Max hard that he hadn’t killed anybody yet. What the fuck? He was The… A.X., the alpha dog, the Big Boss, the Springsteen of the Big House, and he was what, getting yanked along like he was some kind of fucking sissy? He had to take somebody out, that’s what he had to do. His rep was on the line. He had to show Rufus that The… A.X. was one sick-ass muthafucka. Also, he knew that this was a moment he’d look back on his entire life. This moment would define him, make him proud. Didn’t all the World War II vets go on and on about all the nips they took out? Didn’t the Vietnam dudes reminisce about the gooks they’d blown away? This was Max’s war, the high point of his life, and if he choked now, didn’t come through with at least one killing, he’d never forgive himself.
They went down a flight of stairs, stepping over bodies, then headed toward the delivery entrance. Up ahead in the smoke Max spotted a guy. He had a flashback to the time he’d killed all those drug dealers, blew ’em to smithereens, and that gave him the confidence boost he needed.
Holding the knife, he broke free from Rufus and charged the guy. He was roaring as he ran, making crazed animal noises like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. He plunged the blade into the guy’s back, and it was fucking harder than it looked in the movies. It wouldn’t go in more than an inch at first and he had to use both his hands to work the blade in there. The whole time he was screaming his ass off, drooling like a rabid dog.
When he was through he let go of the body, letting it fall to the floor. The guy looked dead all right. Fucking wasted.
He wiped the blade of the knife on the dead man’s pants, then looked back at Rufus, expecting to see a terrified, respectful look from his soldier.
Instead he got, “Fuck you do that for, boss?”
Max, still pumped, said, “Didn’t like the way fuckin’ Crip was lookin’ at me. Bro had to go.”
Rufus said, “Man, that wasn’t no motherfuckin’ Crip. That was our ride, yo.”
Max didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, said, “The fuck’re you talkin’ about?”
“That was K, man. He was with us an’ shit. He was gonna ride our asses out in the truck.”
Max felt like, well, like a fucking moron, but he had to cover and went, “Your man was planning to double- cross us. Soon as we cleared the gates he would’ve wasted us both.”
Rufus wasn’t buying it, went, “K wasn’t gonna double-cross nobody, yo. K was my boy an’ shit. Man, I been with the nigga since I got inside, knew the bitch on the outside, too. I been plannin’ this breakout with him, shit, since my first day in lockup.”
It was starting to hit Max just how badly he’d fucked up.
He said, “I know you don’t wanna believe your own man would fuck you over, but I got spies working for me, okay? And this guy, J-”
“K,” Rufus said.
“K, L, M, N, O, P,” Max said. “Who gives a shit what his name was? The guy was a fuckin’ rat, all right? So forget about him. He’s better off dead.”
Max reached into K’s pocket, found a set of keys, then Rufus said, “Yo, K got the uniforms too. Gotta put that shit on.”
Max found the uniforms, tucked under K’s shirt. They were bloody, but what the hell were you gonna do?
They put the uniforms on as fast as they could, then they made it all the way down and the laundry truck was right there. Shit, this stupid plan might work.
They were about to get in when Max heard, “Hey, dude.”
He turned and saw Arma, battered, covered in blood. Shit, he looked like Bruce Willis at the end of the first Die Hard. He was still holding the bloody wooden shaft, going, “You ain’t turnin’ nigger on me, are you, dude?”
Angela and Sean were in the sedan at the meeting point, about a mile away from the prison. They could hear the alarms sounding and knew the riot was on. Angela had taken time over her appearance, thinking, What does a girl wear to a riot besides a fookin’ Kevlar vest? She’d decided on basic black. Not only was it appropriate but it made you look thin, she hoped. Sean, well fashion was not his gig. He was wearing the green army jacket beloved of the boyos, they practically slept in them, along with his de rigeur combat pants and Doc Martens with steel toe cap. On his knee, he had a pump shotgun, and there was a mess of other weapons in the back. Angela had selected the SIG, she was familiar with that baby and you know, it sort of accessorized her outfit. Sean reached in his jacket, took out a flask, drank deep, offered it to her, and she took it, swallowed, raw Jay and by Jaysus, it burned.
Sean said, “A…a… a… d-d-d-d-d-drop… of… of the… c-c-c-c-creature.”
He reached in his other pocket. If he produced snacks, she’d shoot him.
He didn’t, but he did take out a grenade.
Catching her eye, he said, “Been sav-v-v-ing it f-f-f-f-f-f-for… a… s-s-s-spec… ial… occ-c-c-c-c-c-c- asion.”
Even from where they were, they could see the smoke rising from the prison and the wail of sirens had started, like a hurt banshee. The copters would be there soon. She looked down to check out the SIG in her lap and saw a tent in Sean’s pants. She muttered, “Like, now? ”
Not far from them but out of their line of vision were Sebastian and Yanni. They were watching Angela’s car.
Yanni was slugging from a goatskin bag – where the hell had he got that? – and Sebastian knew it was ouzo. Sebastian was taking the traditional route, gin and tonic, in a plastic bottle. It was whispering to him, “Nothing to worry about.”
Right.
In the distance, Attica was burning, but here things were calm. For now anyway. Sebastian had begged Yanni not to just rush over to Angela’s car and blast away, and for once Yanni had listened to him. It was the possibility there might be money to be had if they waited for Fisher to show up that had convinced him. They were here to wreak vengeance – but a little profit would be nice, too.
Yanni had a Ruger and the metal glinted as he turned it this way and that, waiting. He handled it like someone who had long experience with weapons. Sebastian was carrying a Walther PPK, for the love of Bond and Britain. He’d once gone pheasant hunting and managed to hit the gamekeeper, to the delight and hoots of his fellow drunken shooters. He’d give a lot to be back there now.
Paula was lying across the back seat, still sleeping off her booze and the clout to the head.
Yanni shifted suddenly and they saw a laundry truck pull up. An old guy – Fisher – and a huge black man jumped out. They piled into Angela’s car and the car pulled slowly away, no massive getaway, just a cautious stealing pace.
Yanni hit the ignition and smiled grimly, said, “Poli mallakas.”
Sebastian took a long swig from the gin and hoped he wouldn’t bloody castrate himself during the ride.
