Seven prison terms, four killings in the file. His eyes were not angry. They were empty, like whatever could burn inside a man had burned out years ago.
Then out came Ruden, known as Tank. Close to two hundred sixty pounds, shoulders broad, heavy step like the ground gave a little under him. Crooked grin, like he did not much care who he hurt next.
Last came Miro, called Scalpel. Thin, quick, long fingers, almost elegant. Former EMT.
Once he had treated people. Now, people said, he cut them up neat and clean, no anesthesia needed. “Name, offense, sentence,” barked Major Collins, unit commander. Greek answered first, voice low and calm.
“Gregory Ivan Savel. Murder, aggravated assault, armed robbery. Twenty-three years, maximum security.”
Tank gave a short grunt, like something amused him. “Victor Peter Ruden. Assault, homicide, robbery.
Seventeen years.” Scalpel smiled thinly, almost gently. “Owen William Miro.
Homicide, assault, kidnapping. Fifteen and a half.” Collins nodded to the floor officer.
“Unit Three. Lower bunks in Cell Nine. No talking.” Olivia stood still.
She already knew their nicknames from the intelligence packet she had read the night before. She knew Greek never raised his voice, but when he whispered a room got colder. She knew Tank could break ribs with one move.
And Scalpel could stitch a wound so neatly you would never guess he had left glass inside it. Roll call ended.
The inmates were sent off to work detail. Olivia went back to the duty office, sat down, and opened the file folder with their records. The photos were old, black and white.
In one of them, Greek looked straight into the camera like he already knew he would beat the system one more time. She closed the file and looked at the small mirror on the wall. Ordinary face. Tired. No bruises yet.
Good. At lunch, Major Collins stepped into her office. “Carter, you saw them?”
“I did.” “And?”
