“Looks that way,” Ethan said, finally letting himself relax. The muscles in his back, locked tight for six hours, began to loosen.
It seemed the worst was over. Doran had been neutralized by his own fear of the mob. The enforcers had become allies.
Death, which had paced the cell all night, seemed to step back. A false calm settled over the room. Silent Mike climbed back to his bunk to catch a little sleep.
Val smoked and stared at the ember. Ethan tried to find a position that didn’t aggravate his hand. No one was watching Corkscrew.
And Corkscrew was not asleep. He lay on his side watching Ethan. His pupils were black and huge.
In his withdrawal-ravaged mind, one thought spun in circles. They had ruined everything. In his twisted reality, the picture looked different.
Doran was power. Doran was authority. Doran had promised a fix and parole.
And these three? They had sent a note to North. They had declared war on the boss.
When Doran found out, he would destroy them all. And Corkscrew too.
As an accomplice. Corkscrew understood one thing. The note was gone.
It could not be called back. But maybe he could make it right. Maybe he could prove to Doran that Samuel Krivens had stayed loyal.
If I shut down the source… if I bring him the head of that four-eyed freak… Doran will understand.
Doran will reward me. He’ll give me a fix. He’ll let me out.
Corkscrew slowly slid a hand under his mattress. There, hidden in a ripped seam, he had a reserve. Not the aluminum spoon.
A real shiv. A razor blade melted into the handle of a toothbrush.
Small. Sharp as a scalpel. A close-quarters weapon. He wrapped his fingers around it. His palm was slick with sweat.
Below, Val crushed out his cigarette. “All right. Lights out. Get a couple hours.
Tomorrow’s going to be rough.” Val turned toward the wall, exposing his back. That was the opening.
Corkscrew slid soundlessly from the top bunk. He was light as a shadow. Junkie-thin, he moved without a sound.
Ethan sat in the corner with his eyes half closed. He was smiling at something only he could see. Probably numbers.
He didn’t notice the shadow peel away from the wall. “Hey, hacker,” Corkscrew whispered. Ethan opened his eyes.
Corkscrew stood in front of him. His face twitched. Saliva shone at the corner of his mouth.
“You think you’re the smartest guy in the room?” the addict asked softly. “Think numbers are going to save you?” Ethan frowned.
“Sam, lie down. It’s over.” “Yeah,” Corkscrew nodded.
And steel flashed in his hand. “It’s over. For you.”
He sprang. It was the leap of a cornered rat. Fast, erratic, insane.
“Val!” Ethan shouted, trying to shield himself with his good arm. Val reacted instantly. Old cop reflexes.
He spun on the bunk, reaching to intercept the addict. But he was a fraction too late. Corkscrew crashed into Ethan, knocking him to the floor.
The blade flashed. Ethan felt a strike in his shoulder. A hot, sharp bite of steel.
“Take that! Take that, you little freak!” Corkscrew shrieked, stabbing wildly. “You son of a—” Val roared.
The giant lunged, grabbed Corkscrew by the back of the shirt, and hurled him across the cell. The addict flew into the table, overturning cups, and hit the floor. But he sprang right back up.
There was no fear in his eyes now, only madness. “I’ll kill him!” he screamed, waving the bloody blade. “I’ll prove it to Doran!
I’m the only real man in here! You’re all traitors!” Ethan lay on the floor, clutching his shoulder. Blood seeped between his fingers.
The sweater darkened. His glasses had flown off and now lay crushed under somebody’s boot. “Drop the blade, Sam!” Val growled, advancing.
“I’ll kill you!” “Don’t come closer!” Corkscrew held the weapon out. “I’ll cut you!
I’ll cut all of you!” Silent Mike jumped down from his bunk. Now he and Val were closing in from both sides.
In Cell 208, the smell of victory vanished. What remained was the smell of a slaughter about to happen. The false ending had fallen apart. The note was gone, but death was still locked in the room with them.
And death had the face of a junkie with a razor in his hand. The air in the cell turned thick, almost red. Corkscrew was no fighter.
He was a rat cornered by withdrawal and fear. But in a tight space, a madman with a blade is more dangerous than a trained boxer. He didn’t attack so much as flail.
The razor-shiv whistled through the air in wild figure eights. “Stay back! I’ll cut every one of you!” he shrieked, spraying spit.
Ethan crawled backward toward the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the concrete. His shoulder burned. His sweater was warm and sticky.
Without his glasses, the world had become a blur of moving shapes, and that was the worst part. Not seeing death, only hearing it. “Drop it, Sam!” Val barked.
The giant stepped forward with his arms spread, blocking Corkscrew’s path to Ethan. Val understood: if the hacker died, so did their chance. Doran would never leave witnesses alive.
Corkscrew gave a wild little laugh and lunged. Not at Val’s chest—under his arm. He aimed for the gut.
Despite his size, Val moved with old police reflexes. He got his forearm in the way. The blade sliced skin.
Blood sprayed. Val growled but didn’t retreat. He caught the addict’s skinny wrist.
“Got you, you little—” But Corkscrew was slick with sweat and twisted like an eel. He bit Val’s wrist.
Then slashed again, opening the bicep. Val roared. His grip loosened.
Corkscrew tore free. There was no reason left in his eyes, only huge black pupils and one goal. Doran.
The fix. Parole. Kill the hacker.
He darted toward Ethan, raising the blade for a strike to the neck. Ethan pressed himself into the corner. He saw only a blurred shape rushing at him.
He lifted his good arm, knowing it wouldn’t matter. System error. Fatal crash.
Then a shadow appeared from the side. Huge. Heavy.
Silent Mike. He didn’t try to grab Corkscrew. He just swung.
The heavy stool—the same one they had used to threaten Ethan earlier—smashed into the addict’s side with a dull crunch. Corkscrew grunted. He flew into the wall.
His head struck the heating pipe, and he slid down, but somehow tried to get up again. The endurance of a junkie on adrenaline was not normal. “Finish it!” Ethan shouted.
It didn’t sound like him. It sounded like instinct. Corkscrew raised the blade again.
He wasn’t screaming anymore. He was making a hoarse wet sound, staring at Val with the empty eyes of a man already gone. Val stepped toward him.
There was no pity left in him now. Only the cold fury of a man betrayed twice—first by the system, then by his own cellmate.
Corkscrew thrust the blade forward. Val caught the arm midair. The wrist cracked.
Corkscrew shrieked, dropping the shiv. Val spun him around, back to chest, and locked a thick forearm around his neck. A textbook chokehold…
