Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(31)

Best he could look forward to now was to become a “runner,” a prisoner who tends to the housekeeping for the cell block, in return for a slightly larger cell. Yeah, it was the goddamn glamorous life for him. Biggest thrill in the world was turning on the TV to stare at Britney Spears.

So much time. To sit. To brood. To plot what should happen next.

Prisons were about power. Power was about money. He was hated, he was feared, and now, he was patient. Hoarding cigarettes, building his stash. Waiting for new blood to enter the cement walls, someone who would care less about what he did and more about what could be done.

It took him eight years. The lucky candidate was a kid, not much older than the man had been in the beginning, except this kid was all skinny limbs and acne-spotted face. Turned out he'd been making indecent movies starring the little girls in his mother's daycare. The kid went straight to PC, where he sat bug-eyed each night, knowing he didn't stand a chance and waiting for the bogeyman to get him.

The man got to him first. Slipped some money to a guard who in turn slipped the kid the man's note, signed by “Mr. Bosu.” A bit more money, a few more notes, and the kid was greased and ready to go. Mr. Bosu had convinced him. If the kid was planning on surviving, he needed to strike first and strike hard. Build a rep, now, these first few weeks, and everyone would leave him alone.

The kid bought the preaching; Mr. Bosu graciously offered more mentoring. How to make a shank, how to conceal it. How to extract the sharpened piece of metal quickly and strike with surprise. Oh, and how to pick a target.

The man didn't care about the Hispanics. Fuck 'em, they'd kill any white guy just for sport. Mr. Bosu had bigger game in his sights.

It went down on a Thursday. In the cafeteria. Porno Kid was serving the meal to the other maximum security inmates. The right two white guys got in line. Kid said wait, he needed to get fresh food. He went around, no one really paying attention.

He dropped the first neo-Nazi before the guy ever made a sound. Second had just brought up his tray in bewilderment and the kid was at his throat.

The man heard stories later. How the kid, one hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet, was surprisingly strong. How he sprung on the two white supremacists like a spider monkey, teeth bared, eyes feral while he slashed away at their necks. The arterial spray shot eight feet. Guys already sitting down didn't know if the red on their shirts was from the two flailing white guys or the marinara sauce on their overcooked spaghetti.

Pandemonium ensued. Fellow neo-Nazis springing from their tables and, like the thick-headed Neanderthals they were, going after the nearest Hispanic, versus doing anything about the long-armed kid still carving up their fellow gang members.

Guards burst into the cafeteria, wielding heavy mattresses and firing knee knockers at anyone stupid enough to stand. Place went to full lockdown, alarms screeching, sirens whirling while the kid stood up in the middle of the carnage, held up the metal shank in his bloody fist, and shrieked, “So don't you buttf*ckers ever think about touching me!”

It was a glorious moment, the man thought. He was shocked and pleasantly pleased with his prodigy. Two days later, the kid disappeared of course. Lot of blood in the laundry room, but no sign of a corpse. Word on the street—don't eat the meat loaf.

The state assembled a task force to look into “gang issues” at the prison after that. And the warden made them sit through a video on “racial sensitivity.” Afterwards, everyone made a real point of saying, “No, it's really about you, not your f*cking race,” right before they beat the shit out of someone.

The man got to feel good for a few days, before going back to his exciting life of watching paint dry.

Now, however, there were whispers and rumors about the mysterious Mr. Bosu. He had friends, he had connections. This Mr. Bosu, no one was quite sure who he was, but even behind bars, he could get things done.

The man was satisfied. From within the harsh recesses of solitary confinement, he had done something special—he'd become every prisoner's bogeyman.

The man knew now, as he ran each day around the exercise yard, as he passed his time doing push-ups and pull-ups and ab crunches and butt squats, that there would be life after this. He was going to get out. He would return to the world. Harder, smarter, tougher than ever before.

And it would be good.

Once, he'd been a boy. He'd obeyed his impulses, but he'd made mistakes. Now, he was a man. He was seasoned. He understood the value of patience. And he knew the legal system inside and out.

There would be no working at McDonald's for the glorious Mr. Bosu. There would be no life of drudgery, showing up every day for some menial job where he was supposed to be eternally grateful just to have his sorry, felonious ass employed.

He'd served his time. And he was not planning on ever going back to prison.

Oh no, he had quite a vision for himself. A whole career plan, in fact. He'd thought of it even before he'd been contacted by his mysterious Benefactor X, the one who'd arranged his timely parole, the one who'd passed along a certain list of chores.

Mr. Bosu was going to make himself a boatload of money. And Mr. Bosu was going to make it doing what he did best: randomly destroying lives.

The man smiled. He crunched up his disposable coffee cup in a single fist and rose from the table. Now people turned. Now people stared. Then, just as quickly, people turned away.

Mr. Bosu had made one mistake twenty-five years ago. He had let her live.