“I was.” Her voice was flat. “You took that.” He stared into her eyes.
There was no fear in them. Only cold understanding. “This about your sister?” he rasped.
“It’s about all of it.” She pulled out her father’s knife. The blade flashed in the weak light.
Greek jerked, trying to drag himself away. She pinned his good shoulder down with her knee. “Hold still. It’ll only be worse if you fight.”
She worked methodically, without emotion. Just like in medical school labs. Precise cut. Careful control of bleeding.
Only this patient was getting no anesthesia. Greek let out a terrible scream when the cold blade bit in. She cut everything away cleanly, with no wasted motion.
Then she forced it into his mouth while he was still choking and breathing. His eyes bulged from shock. “Swallow,” she said quietly.
“It’s yours.” He gagged and coughed on his own blood. Olivia stood and walked to Tank.
He was half-conscious, but his eyes were still open. She bent down and did the same to him. Cut away what was left and pushed it deep into his mouth so it would stay there.
Tank convulsed once, then again, and went still. Scalpel lay on the floor face down. She turned him over without hesitation.
He was still alive, breathing weakly, crying in little broken sounds. “Please. I used to be medical too. I know how bad this hurts.” “You do,” she said coldly.
“That’s exactly why I’m doing it.” The blade went in, she cut, and shoved it into his mouth. He choked on blood, and his eyes rolled back for good.
Olivia wiped the knife carefully on his dirty shirt. Slid it back into her waistband. Then she picked up the pistol.
Walked slowly to Greek. He was still alive, breathing hard, making wet choking sounds. “You’re the last one,” she said.
The final shot went straight into his head. The dead body slid down the wall, leaving a wide red smear behind. The cell went silent.
Olivia stood in the middle of the room. The concrete floor was slick with blood. The air smelled of powder, iron, and waste.
She took a clean handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the pistol grip. Then she placed it in Greek’s dead hand. His fingers were still warm.
She curled them around the black grip. Then she took a zip gun from her pocket. She had confiscated it from another inmate during a shakedown the week before.
She laid it on the floor beside Tank. Then she scattered spent casings across the floor. It had to look like they had been shooting at each other.
She placed two more empty casings near Scalpel. Now it looked plausible. Brutal inmate dispute, chaotic gunfire, mutual killing.
She stepped into the corridor. Pulled the heavy door shut.
Turned the key twice. Her footsteps in the dark hall were quiet and even. She went to the electrical panel and flipped the breaker back up. The lights came on at once.
Back in the duty office, she sat calmly at her desk. Her hands did not shake. She looked at her watch.
4:12 exactly. She picked up the radio. “Post Three, this is Carter.
Heavy gunfire in Segregation 11.” “Inmates have somehow gotten hold of a firearm. Send response team now.”
She set the radio down. Sat in silence for exactly one minute. Then stood and walked to the mirror.
Her uniform was clean. Her face was calm. She went back to the desk and took out a fresh form.
Wrote quickly. “On December 14 at 12:45 a.m., during a routine check of Segregation 11, inmates Gregory I. Savel, Victor P. Ruden, and Owen W. Miro attacked an officer. They gained control of a service weapon.
During the resulting exchange of gunfire, all three inmates were killed by gunshot wounds.” “Officer Carter was not injured. Signature. Stamp.”…
