The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(41)

“Knife’s taken care of,” Westie said. “Give it to me tomorrow morning. By the time we’re ready to move, it’ll be stashed safe halfway to the visitation center.”

I nodded. “Good. I’m getting in touch with my people today, making sure we have ‘visitors’ lined up for each of us.”

“Not sure about the route.” Paul took a drag from the cigarette, clutching it in trembling fingers. He nearly dropped it passing it over to Jake. “I spent the morning in the library, pulling together whatever I could, but any maps I could scrounge up were either too vague to be helpful or ten years outdated.”

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “We’ll just have to play that part by ear. As long as we can make it to a good-sized town, ditch the buggies, and steal fresh rides and some civilian clothes, we’ll be fine.”

Jake put the cigarette to his lips, glancing over his shoulder as he exhaled a plume of gray smoke.

“Think I’ve got a diversion planned out. On my shift this afternoon, I’ll move all the pieces into place.” He handed Westie the cigarette. “Holy shit, we’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

Westie grinned. “First men to ever escape the Iceberg. Hell, I bet they’ll make a movie about us. George Clooney might play me.”

“You don’t look anything like George Clooney,” Jake said.

“Said might, not would. Don’t piss on a man’s dreams.”

“Shit,” Paul hissed. “We gotta split up. Don’t look, but Jablonski’s up on the guard tower behind us. He’s watching.”

Jake arched an eyebrow. “So? Fuck Jablonski. Let him watch.”

“You’re not the one who got him angry,” Paul said. “We don’t need attention, not from him, not right now. I’ll see you guys later.”

“Paul, c’mon—” Westie said, but Paul waved him off and stomped toward the picnic benches.

“He’s tense,” I said. “He’s got reason to be. You heard they grabbed Simms last night?”

“Another poor bastard gone to Hive B,” Westie said. “Everyone’s heard. What of it?”

“We heard them talking. Our cell’s next on their hit list. Only reason they didn’t grab one of us last night is because one of the guards had a grudge against Simms.”

Jake let out a long, low whistle. Westie offered me the cigarette. I was tempted, but I shook my head.

“Did they let on what they’re taking people for?” Jake asked.

“Nope, but it’s nothing good. All that matters right now is making sure we’re long gone before their next shopping trip.”

“Hold up.” Jake’s eyes narrowed. His head was on a swivel, glancing left and right. We slowed to a near stop.

“Aw, Christ,” Westie muttered. “Apaches on the warpath.”

I frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“You ain’t been here long enough to read the signs. All right, casual-like, take a peek over toward the weight benches.”

Body language was the same book, inside prison and out. Raymundo and his crew were taut as steel coils compressed to the breaking point. That much I could see.

“Watch the blockers,” Westie told me.

I figured he meant the men only pretending to work out, the ones who just happened to be standing in the line of sight from the guard towers, inching sideways to cover the convicts behind them.

The ones crouched in the scrub, digging with their hands.

Over at Brisco’s table, his boys jumped up like ants boiling out of a kicked-over hive. Some ran for other patches of scrub; others walked fast, hands casually down by their waists but flashing finger signals like they were sending out an emergency telegraph in rapid-fire sign language. Silent panic washed over the yard, a dry tsunami of looming dread.

One of Raymundo’s diggers came up from a crouch. The sunlight glinted off the steel spike in his hand.

The world froze, for just a heartbeat, under the Nevada sun. A single moment crystallized in time.

Then the crystal shattered.

A convict fell with a grunt, blitzed from the side, a shiv buried in his guts. Another went down under a pile of bodies, kicking and punching. The violence swirled around us, a siege in miniature as the Calles launched their attack, war-cries splitting the air. Jake, Westie, and I went shoulder-to-shoulder, forming a loose triangle.

“Where’s Paul?” Jake shouted.

“By the picnic tables,” I said. Then a wave of panic hit me. “Where’s Buddy?”

Talking to his chess pieces. Oblivious to the world as a Calles with a shiv ran up on him from behind.

The air turned to molasses. I charged, too slow, trying to close the gap. “Hey, *,” I shouted. “I’m the one you want!”

I lunged, throwing a wild punch, and he turned just in time for me to feel the cartilage of his nose splatter under my knuckles. He staggered back, but he wasn’t alone; hands looped under my arms, grappling me and pinning me in place. They hauled me around, and the next thing I saw was Raymundo’s fist slamming into my stomach like a pile driver, blasting the air from my lungs.

Raymundo held up his weapon—a razor blade wedged onto the end of an old toothbrush—so I could get a good look.