The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(66)

“Yeah.” Jablonski sagged. “Just haven’t gotten around to fixing it yet, that’s all. But that doesn’t mean—”

Lancaster waved his hand, shooing him back. Slowly, reluctantly, the gun barrel fell away from my temple. I straightened up in my chair.

“It was sealed in a plastic bag,” I told Lancaster, “and taped under the water-tank lid on one of the broken toilets. See, the first time I tried to break out of here, I didn’t have time to retrieve it. I told O’Neill about the cash. He talked a good game, then he screwed me.”

“Meaning?”

“He took me to Hive C, on a route that avoided most of the cameras. The working ones, anyway. I gave him the money, and he told me to wait there, hiding in plain sight with all the other cons. Said he’d come right back with a spare guard uniform and smuggle me out of the prison. Next thing I know, the alarm’s going off and he’s long gone.”

Jablonski paced, frustrated, trying to break my story.

“But O’Neill didn’t clock out!”

I squinted at him. “Why would he?”

Lancaster looked to Jablonski. “Did you check the employee lot? Is his car still here?”

“I think he carpools with somebody.”

The warden slouched in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.

“Find out who, maybe? And pull security footage, see if we can spot a glimpse of him sneaking out.”

“Boss, he’s lying.” The pistol swung in Jablonski’s frustrated grip. “You know he’s—”

Lancaster slammed his fist down on the desk.

“Goddamnit, Jablonski, stop waving that gun around! And use your head. Buddy of yours or not, twenty thousand dollars can induce a man to some ill-advised life choices. Believe you me, I’ve seen that before.” He looked my way. “Now what are we gonna do with you?”

I shrugged.

“Well,” I said, “the way I see it, you’ve got two options. You can let Jablonski here put a bullet in my head, or you can…I don’t know, force me to compete in some kind of illegal prison gladiator fight? One way, you get money. The other, you get jack. I know what I’d pick if I was in your shoes.”

Lancaster steepled his fingers, thinking it over. Then he chuckled and wagged his finger at me.

“Y’know, son, you gave us a pretty good show last night. Real David-and-Goliath action. The audience eats that stuff up. Too bad you pussied out at the end.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret. Killing somebody yourself, with your own two hands, is a little harder than standing back and making somebody else do it at gunpoint. But you wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

The warden’s eyes narrowed.

“You might be surprised what I know and what I’ve done,” he said.

I spread my open hands as far as the cuffs would let me and smiled.

“Well, hell, sounds like a challenge in the making! What do you say, Warden? You and me, on the killing floor. Toe to toe. I’ll even let you pick the weapons.”

He snorted. “I don’t think so, son. See, I’ve got this…beast of a man, two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle, and he’s been cooling his heels in solitary for four months now. He was crazy when he went in, and he doesn’t have a whole lot going on in his noggin anymore, but put a butcher knife in his hands and he turns into a world-class hibachi chef. Your ass is the steak, in case my metaphor ain’t entirely clear.”

“Sounds a little one-sided.”

“Well, that depends on you,” Lancaster said. “Do your time like a good boy and don’t give my men any more trouble, and I’ll send you onto the floor with an oiled-up chainsaw. Piss me off one more time? You get a butter knife.”

“I think we understand each other,” I said.

“Good.” He turned to Jablonski. “Take him back to his cell. In one piece, too, no ‘accidents’ along the way. Mr. Faust here is gonna make us some money.”

*

Back in solitary, I sat on the edge of my bunk. Waiting, hoping Brisco had held up his end of the deal. If he hadn’t, I was good as dead.

I jumped up as my cell door rattled and the bottom slot opened. A plastic tray slid halfway in. I stopped it with the side of my foot.

“Supposed to be a special meal for me,” I called out. “I have allergies.”

Another slot slid open at chest height. Hard eyes, so dark brown they were nearly black, stared in at me.

“Nobody gets special meals in here,” he grunted.

I clenched my hands at my sides. If Brisco couldn’t follow through—

“Check,” I said. “Dr. Valentino’s orders. If I eat the wrong food, I’ll be dead of anaphylactic shock by morning. Which means I can’t fight. Which means Warden Lancaster’s gonna lose a bundle of cash, and that’ll be on your head.”

The slot slammed shut. I waited, holding my breath.

The first tray pulled back under the door, replaced by a new one—dull orange plastic instead of brown.

I pulled the tray in, hustling to my bunk and resting it on my lap. My meal was a plastic single-serving cup of vanilla yogurt, a hunk of bread a little smaller than a billiard ball, and a carton of milk. I pinched the top of the bread and gave it a gentle pull.