He wrapped the rag around the hand, making a rough splint, and tied the broken fingers to the unbroken ones. The cold water dulled the pain a little. “Thanks,” Ethan breathed.
Silent Mike nodded and returned to his bunk. Ethan leaned back against the wall. He looked at Val.
A terrible bargain had just been struck in that cell. Val had bought them life with Ethan’s fingers. It was brutal jail logic.
But it worked. The door clanged again. The food slot opened.
“What’s going on in there?” the sergeant asked, sounding pleased. He had heard the screams.
Val went to the door. “Customer’s folding, boss. Fingers are wrecked.
Give him a minute to catch his breath and he’ll sign. Send the paperwork.” A stack of pages and a cheap ballpoint pen slid through the slot.
“Don’t mess this up, Val. By morning I want a full confession.” The slot slammed shut.
Val took the papers. Stood there looking at the white lined pages. Then he walked over and dropped them onto Ethan’s lap.
“There. Your sentence.” Ethan looked at the paper. With his left hand he adjusted his glasses.
The pain had settled into a deep throbbing ache. The adrenaline was fading, and now he was shivering with cold. But his brain, denied the use of one hand, began working twice as hard.
“You think this is the end, Val?” Ethan asked quietly. “You think you bought time?”
“I bought the night,” Val snapped, crouching in front of him. “Tomorrow Doran comes for results. And if you don’t give him what he wants, he kills us. Me for failing, you for keeping quiet.”
“I won’t keep quiet.” Ethan raised his eyes. There were no tears in them now.
“I’ll talk. Just not about what Doran wants.” He nodded toward his broken hand.
“You took away my ability to type. But you gave me something else. Anger.
Real anger. Not computer anger.” With difficulty, grimacing, Ethan pulled a tiny pencil stub from his pants pocket—something they had somehow missed during intake.
“You got a plan, hacker?” Val asked. “Or are you just talking to distract yourself from the pain?”
“I have facts.” Ethan shifted the pencil into his left hand. Awkward, unfamiliar, but possible.
“Doran wants me to take the fall for the bank money. But that money is sitting in his accounts.” “So what?” Corkscrew sneered from the corner. “You gonna tell the DA?
Who’s going to listen to you, four-eyes?” “The DA won’t,” Ethan agreed. “But the people Doran stole that money from will.” He looked at Val.
“Val, you know who really owned that bank, don’t you?” “Central.” “It wasn’t just businessmen.
It was mob money. Doran stole from the same people who bought him.”
Val went pale. “Stealing from the mob isn’t a charge,” Ethan said. “It’s a death sentence.
If a note with proof gets out to the man who runs this city, Doran won’t just lose his job. They’ll find him in his office with his throat cut.” “Can you prove it?” Val asked hoarsely.
“Yes. But I need a line out.” “There is no line out.
We’re isolated.” “There is,” Ethan said, nodding toward Silent Mike. “He’s not quiet for nothing, is he?
He’s a runner. The kind who builds lines between cells. I saw the tattoo on his neck. Spider in a web.
Jail mail.” Silent Mike slowly turned his head. For the first time, real interest showed in his eyes.
“You notice too much, four-eyes,” he said. “I notice exits,” Ethan replied. “Val broke my hand to buy us a night.
I’m offering to buy us life. Yours and mine.” He pulled a clean sheet of paper toward him.
“I’m not writing a confession. I’m writing account numbers and an access code.” “To who?” Val asked.
“To the man who really owns this town. An old mob boss they call North.” The cell went silent.
North was a legend. An old man said to be locked in another wing on a life sentence. Or in special housing. Stories varied.
Getting word to him was supposed to be impossible. But if it could be done…
“If the note reaches North,” Val said quietly, “Doran’s finished. But if it gets intercepted…” “Then we’re dead,” Ethan finished.
“But we’re dead already, Val. You said so yourself.” Val looked at Ethan’s broken fingers, then at Silent Mike.
“Can you make the line?” he asked. Mike sat for a moment, weighing the risk.
“Maybe. Through the food workers. But we need a package.”
“You’ll have one,” Ethan said, beginning to scratch numbers onto the paper with his left hand. “Actually, you write. My handwriting’s garbage now.”
Val sat beside him and took the pen. For the first time in the history of that pressure cell, the executioner became the secretary of his victim. “Talk,” he said.
Ethan closed his eyes and pulled the right file from memory. The pain in his hand became background noise. The numbers started coming.
The game had moved to a new level. The stakes were set. On the table was the head of the jail’s operations chief.
A strange upside-down order settled over Cell 208. At the filthy table sat Big Val, folded awkwardly over a cheap sheet of paper. In the hand that usually broke bones was a dime-store ballpoint pen.
He formed letters carefully, with effort, like a first grader learning cursive. Across from him sat Ethan, pale as chalk, clutching his mangled hand wrapped in wet cloth.
Sweat ran down his temples and caught in his stubble. His glasses, missing one arm, barely stayed on. But he was the one dictating.
“Account 405-B-12 at North Capital, Cyprus.” Ethan’s voice dropped to a whisper whenever the pain surged. “Beneficial owner: Blue Horizon Holdings.
Registered through a shell. Authorized user: Elaine Doran.”
Val stopped writing. Looked up. “His wife?”
