The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(60)

Laughter from the crowd. Clinking glasses. My stomach clenched.

“And Russell Finch. Stick-up man. No kills on the outside, two on this very floor. He’s smaller, but is he faster on the draw? Betting closes in thirty seconds, ladies and gents, so make your choices now!”

Slips of paper, some pink and some green, flew like a ticker-tape parade. The audience shoved them in fistfuls at the waiters and piled them on serving trays.

Lancaster stepped aside and nodded to the guards. They made their selections from the wire racks: a short-hafted sledgehammer, and a Black and Decker chainsaw with a fourteen-inch blade. The weapons went sliding across the smooth, hard floor, skidding to a stop near the convicts’ feet.

Antunez and Finch stared at each other, bodies tensed, knees bent and ready. Frozen in time. Then a klaxon rang out from the guard tower—one short, sharp air-horn burst. They scrambled for the weapons, snatched them up and jumped back, trying to get some fighting room. Finch hefted the chainsaw. He pulled the cord to start the engine. Nothing happened.

Antunez saw his chance and charged, whipping the sledgehammer down for a killing blow. Finch darted out of the way, frantically tugging the cord, wearing his terror on his face. Antunez overshot, stumbling, almost tripping over the hammer as he tried to recover.

On the fifth pull, the chainsaw sputtered to life, deadly teeth whirring with a screech like nails on a blackboard.

Antunez spun with another wild, desperate swing for Finch’s head. Finch brought up the chainsaw; its teeth chewed into the hammer’s handle, the sudden kickback sending them both staggering, fighting to keep a grip on their weapons. Finch screamed, shrill as the saw in his double-handed grip, and charged with the blade pointed straight for Antunez’s belly.

Antunez backpedaled, raising the hammer high, and brought it down on the saw. The chainsaw jolted from Finch’s grip, hitting the floor, kicking up hot orange sparks as the blade chewed into concrete. Stunned, Finch needed a second to recover. Antunez didn’t.

The iron head of the sledgehammer slammed against Finch’s skull like the grill of a freight train, buckling his head back and snapping his neck. Finch might have still been alive when he hit the floor. Antunez wasn’t taking any chances. He dropped the hammer and grabbed the now-silent chainsaw, revving it back to life with one brutal yank on the cord.

He pressed the grinding blade to Finch’s throat, wet gore spattering his face as he sawed what was left of the man’s head from his body, and the crowd went wild. I looked away from the carnage, but what I saw in the audience only made me feel sicker. They hooted and cheered, pumping their fists in the air like frat boys at a strip club. One couple, shadowed in candlelight, were wrapped tight in each other’s arms. Making out while a man was chainsawed to death for their entertainment.

The teeth chewed into Finch’s spine, got caught in the bone, sputtered again, and died. Antunez left the blade half-buried in his victim’s neck and staggered back, panting. His eyes were as glassy and dead as his victim’s. The guards quickly shackled him again, leading him away while the audience hammered their tables and screamed for more.

Warden Lancaster took center stage, laughing, waving the crowd into silence while his staff cleaned up the mess behind him.

“Now, how was that for an appetizer? Do we not deliver, ladies and gents? Do we not deliver?”

Under a fresh torrent of applause, the guards came back to our lineup. One grabbed Simms. Jablonski grabbed me.

“Time to pop your cherry,” he said, grinning like a hyena as he clamped his hand around my elbow.

“Hey,” I said, “Jablonski.”

He paused. Our eyes met.

“Just so you know, I’m going to kill you.”

He snorted. “Better do it fast. I’m betting you’ve got about three minutes left to live. Got a chunk of my next paycheck riding on it, as a matter of fact.”

They stood us in front of the crowd, side by side, and unlocked our shackles. I felt the heat of the audience’s eyes, a gang of hungry raptors eager for their next meal. They sized me up like I was a piece of meat in a butcher-shop window.

“Leroy Simms,” the warden announced with a flourish. “Stick-up man, extortionist, arsonist. One-time winner—and what a fight that was! Can’t go wrong betting on this big bruiser.”

He gestured toward me now, his smile bright.

“Or can you? We’ve got a new contender tonight: Daniel Faust, former hit man for a Vegas crime syndicate. This one’s a wild card, ladies and gents, with long-shot odds to match! Thirty seconds to go, so get those bets in now.”

He looked on as the tickets flew and the waiters scrambled to collect the bids. “Warden,” I said.

Lancaster turned, eyebrows raised. Like he was surprised I had a voice.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “This is…this is sick. You have to know that. These are human beings.”

He cupped his palm over the microphone and shook his head.

“Son, you stopped being a human being the second you came into my prison. You’re a commodity. Think about it: you ain’t never gonna see the outside one way or another. Civilized society wants you gone. Locked up ’til you rot. So why shouldn’t I capitalize on that? You oughta thank me. I’m making your death mean something.”

He gestured to the guards by the weapon racks. As he walked off to the sidelines, he glanced back at me over his shoulder.