Deadlock

21

Blood vortexed across the room, splattering the far wall of the medical center’s triage area. Ty opened his mouth to scream. Despite the intense pain in his stomach, he thought quite calmly, abstractedly almost, That ain’t good.

He lay back as a woman’s face hovered above him. She was Asian. And really pretty. And somehow human in a way he’d forgotten, even in this short space of time, people could be. He tried to open his mouth again, this time to speak. Something bubbled at the corner. He reached his hand up and the tips of his fingers came away red.

‘Take it easy, Tyrone,’ the woman said. ‘I’m going to give you something for the pain.’

Ty felt a jab in his hand, like a cat scratching him, and a few moments later his arm went cold, and then there was a warm feeling, and he didn’t feel quite as bad.

He licked his lips, his tongue tasting iron behind the salt.

‘Am I gonna die?’ he asked, realizing the absurdity of the question. As if anyone was going to answer yes.

‘I don’t think so, but we have to get you stable.’

Ty grimaced with the pain. Damn. No one had told him that getting shot hurt this much. Another hot spike of agony stabbed through his shoulder. He could feel tears, hot and wet, forming in his eyes.

‘Jesus, make it go away,’ he groaned.

He tried to focus, to think of something. Anything.

He’d heard the first shot. But he’d been so lost in the violence that he hadn’t even considered stopping. Even though he realised now that the guard in the tower had no way of knowing who he really was, he somehow, stupidly, hadn’t believed that the first warning shot was just that, a warning.

Man, he’d been dumb. He’d gotten so far into playing the part he’d forgotten who he was, and now he was paying the price.

He felt himself grow weaker, a warmness spreading through his body. He tried to clasp his hands but felt his fingers fall away from his palms. His spine, arched with pain a second ago, gave way, folding into the mattress beneath him.

He closed his eyes, consciousness drifting from him. As his eyes closed, he prayed that he’d be able to open them again at some point.

The riot squad had moved the main culprits into different parts of the prison’s Secure Housing Unit. Lock had found himself in a cell next to Reaper. The cells could hold two inmates but such was the nature of the population in this part of the prison that almost all of the cells were single-occupancy. These men tended to express their distaste at having to share by killing their cellie.

Lock stared out through the perforated Arizona doors of his cell at a blank wall. Having Reaper back in the SHU had been part of his plan. Ty getting shot hadn’t. There was no word yet as to whether his friend was dead or alive, and no way of knowing either. The idea of Ty being dead made his stomach churn to the point where he thought he might throw up.

Reaper’s voice came from the next cell: ‘Hey, Lock.’ His tone was super-upbeat, like he and Lock were wealthy neighbors who by some stroke of fate had ended up in adjoining suites at the Four Seasons in Maui.

‘What is it?’

‘Wanna know something? You did real good out on that yard. Man, you would have made a great member of the Aryan Brotherhood. Shame about your toad buddy, though!’

‘His name’s Tyrone,’ Lock said through gritted teeth.

‘Bet he’s up there sitting on a cloud right now eating watermelon and chitlins.’

Despite his best professional instincts, Lock felt a surge of rage. If there wasn’t a wall between them he’d have ripped Reaper’s throat out. But there was a wall, and he wasn’t about to give Reaper the satisfaction of knowing that his taunts were having an effect.

‘Ty’s tough. He’ll come through.’

‘Hmm,’ Reaper said. ‘That’s too bad. Man, some of those tower cops can’t shoot for shit.’

‘Tell you what, I’ll paint a target on your back and you can go running round outside and give ’em some practice.’

‘Ooh, do I detect a hint of hostility from my so-called bodyguard?’

Lock moved from the door back to the bunk and climbed up. He ached all over. Even his bruises had bruises.

He himself had been shot before. Once. A single shotgun round in the chest, courtesy of a two-man assassination team he’d been chasing down who’d rigged a door. It had hurt like hell, even though he’d been wearing an anti-ballistic vest.

Reaper lowered his voice to barely a whisper. ‘Hey, I never asked for your help. But seeing as we’re both here, let’s not forget what’s at stake. If I don’t make that trial, no one’s going to be held to account for snuffing your buddy Prager, and this whole exercise will have been one big waste of everyone’s time.’