The Sanctuary

27

“KILL HIM!’’ THE warden’s order echoed through the hard yard.

The first to come wasn’t Randell. The big man had heard something that made him hesitate. The first was one of the heavily tattooed men behind Danny, and he came like a bull, rushing at full speed as if this were a street fight and he could simply overwhelm Danny by force.

Without turning, Danny waited, using the sound of the man’s feet slapping on the concrete to judge his distance. The other tattooed member joined the rush, to the right and slightly behind the first man.

By not turning, Danny offered his attacker the false perception that victory was imminent, that if he only moved faster and reached Danny before he could turn, he would be able to break his back from behind. This belief drew the man into a final headlong rush.

Slane was now on the move as well. That made three coming in, no contact.

Danny spun to his right when the tattooed man was only one step away. Hooked his arm behind the man’s back, and shoved hard. The off-balance attacker flew forward and collided head-on with Slane.

A bone snapped. They both crashed to the ground with Slane beneath, screaming in pain.

But now the other tattooed man arrived, swinging his fist at Danny’s head like a club. Danny shifted and blocked the blow down and away with his forearm. In any other circumstance he would have caught the arm and wrenched it back for either a break or a dislocation.

As it was, he helped the man find the ground with a kick at his ankles and quick shove at his back. Arm deflected and twisting, the man landed on his shoulder with a grunt.

Slane was moaning. He’d been struck with a head to his arm, now broken. The first attacker was back on his feet, facing him like an ape. But Danny had disrupted their circle and he now backed away from the three standing men, hands lifted in partial surrender.

“I don’t want to fight, but I’ll defend myself. Please, this isn’t necessary.”

“Fight!” the warden roared.

All but Slane found their feet and came together, screaming bloody murder. Four grown men unfamiliar with tactics any more strategic than brawling with fists or backstabbing with shanks. Without a dark corner from which to spring, without an element of surprise, with only their fists and muscles, they were at a hopeless disadvantage.

They came fast, sure that four abreast could overwhelm one man. But all four had two legs, and all eight of those legs were propelling them forward.

Danny feinted back one step into a half crouch, but instead of retreating he surged toward them and threw himself down, perpendicular to their path.

He hit the ground at their feet and crashed through them.

The two on the ends had time to jump, but still he caught one of them by the foot. The two in the center—Randell and one of the tattooed men—took the full weight of Danny’s body on their ankles. Their forward momentum carried their bodies where their feet could not go.

Another bone snapped. Three of the men sprawled headlong onto the concrete. Two rolled and came up, panting. The tattooed man lay on the floor near Slane, twisting with the pain of a broken ankle.

Danny had missed the skinny one entirely, and now the man twisted back to take a vicious kick at Danny’s head.

There was no way to avoid the contact. Danny arched his back and took a glancing blow on his temple.

The man left his legs exposed, and Danny could have struck the side of his knee, perhaps disabling him with one kick. But doing so stood a good chance of putting the man out of commission for more than a single fight.

Instead, he rolled away and came up in time to deflect a second blow aimed at his head. This time he took the man’s feet out from under him.

The skinny, bald man landed on an unpadded seat. Hard.

Danny backpedaled on light feet, hands up. “You don’t need to do this. You must understand, I won’t fight, but I must defend myself. Please…”

“You call that not fighting?” Slane blurted from the ground.

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

The warden wore a mild grin, whether truly impressed or shocked and attempting to cover it, Danny didn’t know.

“You’ve made your point,” Danny said.

“Have I?” The warden held up his hand toward Randell, who was circling in, eyes crazed. “No, I don’t think I have. The point is, we accept only deviants in this place. Bring your broken and wounded and I will make them whole, isn’t that the way it works? I will rehabilitate you. But you, Danny, don’t want to accept that you’re broken. You’re as evil as the rest of them, but you really do think you’re better. How can I help you if you don’t first show me just how broken you are?”

“I am broken!” Danny shouted.

“Then kill him!” The warden jabbed his finger at Slane. “Kill the man who broke my rules and killed young Peter. An eye for an eye. Take his life!”

“I can’t!”

Pape stopped. Stared at Danny for a moment.

“Captain?”

Bostich took one step away from the wall. “Yes, sir!”

“Kill Slane.”

A beat of silence.

“Shoot him, sir?”

“He broke a fundamental rule and killed a man, did he not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then do the same to him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bostich lifted his rifle, aimed at Slane, who was just beginning to grasp what was happening, and shot him through the head before the first cry of protest could be heard. The loud crash of gunfire echoed through the room.

Slane dropped flat, hole in head.

“Now,” the warden said, addressing Danny. “Kill Randell.”