“Go to sleep, Sam,” Val rasped in his ear. “Go to sleep.”
Corkscrew thrashed, kicking, clawing at Val’s arms. His face turned dark red, tongue protruding. Val tightened the hold.
The veins in his forehead stood out. He poured into that grip every ounce of hatred he had for the cell, for Doran, for the wreck of his life. “Val, enough!” Silent Mike shouted. “You’ll kill him!”
But Val didn’t hear. Blood rushed in his ears. Then came a dry, ugly click.
Like a branch snapping. Corkscrew’s body went limp instantly. His legs stopped scraping the floor.
His head dropped at a wrong angle. Val stood there a few more seconds, holding a corpse. Breathing hard.
Then he let go. The body fell at his feet like a sack of laundry. Corkscrew’s eyes stared at the ceiling, glassy and surprised.
Silence filled Cell 208. Only the sink dripped. And blood.
Val’s blood dripped from his cut arm onto the floor. Ethan’s blood soaked his sweater. Val stared at the body.
His hands shook. “I… I killed him,” he whispered. “I killed him.”
He looked at Ethan. There was horror in the former cop’s eyes. “That’s murder, hacker.
Murder in a cell. I’m done for. Life, maybe worse.”
Silent Mike walked over to the body. Felt for a pulse at the neck.
Then shook his head. “Gone. Neck broke.
Clean.” Ethan, grimacing, pulled his legs under him. He found his glasses on the floor.
One lens was gone, but the frame was still usable. He put them on. The world sharpened again, and it was ugly.
A body on the floor. Blood. Two criminals.
But Ethan’s brain—that cursed biological computer—had already rebooted and begun processing the new inputs. A body was bad. A body meant crisis.
But a body was also a resource. “No, Val,” Ethan said quietly. “This isn’t murder.”
Val swung a wild look toward him. “You blind? There’s a dead man right there.
I snapped his neck.” “This is self-defense.” Ethan’s voice strengthened.
He spoke fast, clean, stripping away emotion. “Listen to me. Corkscrew attacked all three of us.
He had a weapon.” “And who’s going to believe that?” Silent Mike muttered. “Three big men kill one skinny junkie.”
“They’ll believe it if we frame it correctly.” Ethan stood, using the wall for support. His head swam, but he forced himself upright.
“Look. I’ve got a stab wound. Val has cuts on his arms.
Corkscrew had a weapon.” “How’d he get a shiv in a pressure cell?” Val frowned.
“Stashed it. Or a guard passed it to him.” “Exactly.” Ethan raised a finger. “A guard.
Or Doran himself. Val, think like a cop. We have a body. We have motive.
Corkscrew either snapped from withdrawal or was ordered to clean up witnesses. We defended ourselves.” “And what does that get us?” Val asked. “We still catch time.”
“It gets us chaos.” Ethan’s eyes flashed behind the broken lens. “The boss does not want a body in a pressure cell during inspection.
A body means the DA. It means outside investigators. It means scrutiny from people Doran can’t control.
He won’t be able to bury this quietly.” Ethan smiled.
It was a frightening smile. Bloody teeth. “We are not hiding the body.
We’re putting it where it can’t be missed. When that door opens in the morning, they won’t see a broken programmer. They’ll see their attack dog dead and us still standing.”
“You want to blackmail Doran with a corpse?” Silent Mike scratched his head. “I want to show him he’s lost control,” Ethan said.
Corkscrew was his man. His informant. Now he’s dead.
We just destroyed his eyes and ears in this cell. Doran will understand. We know he ordered us hit.
And we’re willing to play hard.” Val looked at his bloody hands. Then at Ethan.
There was something almost demonic in the skinny man. He turned catastrophe into strategy. Death into leverage.
“What do we do?” Val asked. He had accepted Ethan’s leadership again.
“Clean yourselves up. Bandage the wounds.
Don’t wipe the blood off the floor. Let him see it. Put the shiv by Corkscrew’s hand.”
He looked at the clock. “Ninety minutes till wake-up. We meet inspection standing.
Not like victims. Like men who just won a fight.” Silent Mike silently tore another strip from a sheet.
Ethan sat on the bunk, pressing the torn sweater against his shoulder wound. The cell smelled of death. The heavy sweet odor of a body releasing itself mixed with blood.
But Ethan breathed evenly. He knew that somewhere in another wing, old North was reading their note.
And somewhere in the city, on bank servers, numbers were beginning to move, changing owners, burning bridges and careers. The three of them sat facing the body. Former cop, convict, and hacker.
A strange impossible team, welded together by blood. “What if Doran just has us shot in here?” Silent Mike asked quietly. “Calls it a riot?”
