“I know.” She sat like that for a minute. Then she stood, walked to the safe, and opened it.
She took out her pistol, removed the magazine, and counted the rounds. Eight exactly.
Full load. She slid the magazine back in. Racked the slide.
The click sounded louder in the quiet than it should have. She set the pistol on the desk, sat back down, and looked at the photograph. “They think they broke me,” she said softly.
“They’re wrong.” Her voice was even. No tears. No tremor. Olivia leaned closer to the picture.
“They’re going to die, Dad.” The words dropped into the silence like a stone into water. The ripples moved through her slowly, but they kept moving.
She put the photograph back in her pocket. Stood up.
Walked to the mirror. She looked at her reflection. Uniform buttoned to the top, bruises hidden, eyes steady.
“Keep it together, Liv,” she told her reflection. “Just a little longer.” Then she switched off the light and stepped into the hall.
Somewhere far off, a bunk creaked. One of the inmates was still awake. Olivia kept walking.
Her steps were even and firm. For the next two days, Olivia lived by the clock. Every movement, every glance, she logged in her mind like evidence.
On the morning of December 16, she stood at lineup, uniform buttoned, eyes forward. Greek, Tank, and Scalpel came out in the third row. Greek gave her the slightest nod, like an old acquaintance.
She gave him nothing. After lineup she went to Unit Three. Cell Nine.
The door was open for morning inspection. The orderly stood off to the side. “Everything in order?” she asked evenly.
“Yes, ma’am.” Olivia stepped inside. Greek was on the lower bunk by the wall, hands behind his head.
Tank was asleep across from him, turned toward the wall. He snored softly. Scalpel sat on the upper bunk, legs hanging down, smoking into his fist.
She moved slowly, pretending to check the bars. She memorized everything. Greek always got up first, at 5:50 sharp.
Tank rolled toward the wall at midnight and slept till wake-up. Scalpel always smoked before lights-out in the restroom, three cigarettes in a row. That evening she made a second round.
In the Unit Three restroom, Scalpel stood by the window, blowing smoke through the crack. Olivia walked past without stopping. He turned.
“Good evening, Officer Carter.” She did not answer. She only marked the details. The restroom window looked onto the inner yard, and there were no bars overhead.
Something could be passed through there. On the night of December 17, she stayed in the duty office after lights-out. Luke and Dan dozed in the next room.
Olivia locked the door, pulled an old tin box from under the nightstand, and opened it. It had been her father’s.
Inside was a fighting knife. Black stacked handle, narrow double-edged blade with a fuller down the center. He had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday.
“If it comes to it, strike first, Liv, and don’t stop.” She ran a finger along the blade. The steel was cold and razor sharp.
Olivia laid the knife on the desk beside her notebook. She opened to a clean page. Wrote carefully.
“Cell Nine. Wake-up 5:50.” “Greek—lower bunk by wall.
Tank—across from him, back to aisle. Scalpel—top bunk.” “Smokes in restroom before lights-out at 11:30.
Hall lighting breaker is in panel 7B, third switch from top. Spare key to Segregation 11 is in the duty safe.” “Safe code—9874.”
She closed the notebook. Sat in silence for a minute. Then stood and walked to the phone.
Dialed Major Collins. It rang a long time. “Collins?”
