ONE MORE RIDE Page 6

  Still, the harsh things he'd said to her had made him feel oddly queasy. He'd killed men for the Warriors, he'd beaten a man almost to death for almost no reason at all, and he'd broken plenty of hearts in the days before he'd been married. Why was he squeamish about telling off some girl he barely knew?

  And why did he find himself spending so much time thinking about how it would feel to be with her again—to taste her hot breath on his tongue as their sweaty bodies slid against each other and their hips moved together?

  These thoughts tied his brain in knots, and no matter how many times he smacked the heavy bag to erase them, they seemed to twist and snarl even more tightly until his temples throbbed.

  A new group of Sinners drifted into the gym, and Hank glanced over at them between punches. Foley was with them, but he was barely recognizable. He'd already lost weight, and his eyes were hollow from lack of sleep. He stared at the floor as he walked, not making eye contact with anyone.

  Also, he was wearing makeup and a blonde wig, and he had an NOS symbol carved into the back of his neck.

  Bluebonnet was overcrowded, and on Foley's first night, he'd been tossed into a cell with three Sinners. After the lights went out, Hank and the entire block had listened to the sounds coming from the cell—Foley squealing, weeping, begging, and finally screaming as the Sinners beat him savagely. He shrieked for the guards, and they were outside the cell within moments.

  But not to help.

  Instead, they stood and watched and laughed.

  From that point forward, the Sinners had fun parading Foley around in drag, just to humiliate him in front of the other prisoners and demonstrate their ownership of him. The message was clear: We can make him do anything we want, we can punch him and kick him until we've broken every bone in his body, and there isn't a goddamn thing he can do to stop us.

  “So much for owning the fucking place, huh, pal?” Hank grunted quietly.

  This sent his brain spinning back to unwelcome thoughts of Beth, like a roulette wheel that kept landing on the same unlucky number over and over. She thought Bull was joking about pimping her out to other inmates, and maybe he was. But she had no idea what horrors these people were capable of, and she was powerless to stand against them. Putting people in hopeless situations and making them do terrible things was what they were good at.

  Hank wanted to believe he could figure out a way to get her out of here. But as it was, he had enough trouble looking out for himself, and not a lot of time to reflect or come up with a workable plan.

  Now the Sinners who surrounded Foley were tweaking his chubby cheeks and slapping his ass playfully, while others whistled and catcalled him as he passed them. He looked like he was wishing for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

  Hank noticed that this time, Roberto and Manolo were with the Sinners. Roberto was a short, skinny man with a shaved head and vivid tattoos that seemed to cover every inch of his body, including dozens of skulls and an NOS symbol on his forehead. His eyes blazed with the promise of mayhem like a pair of fiery coals, and he always seemed to be moving his shoulders and hips restlessly, as though keeping rhythm with music only he could hear. By contrast, Manolo was well over six feet tall, with neatly-trimmed hair and a large black mustache. His shoulders were so broad that he looked like he had a wooden plank hidden under his prison uniform.

  “Well, well, if it ain't the Great White Hope,” Roberto sneered.

  Before Hank could respond, Bull was standing at his side with Ram, War Skins, and 88. They seemed to appear out of nowhere, like a magic trick.

  “What's the story, Ro-ber-to?” Bull chortled, drawing out the pronunciation of the name and rolling his Rs with an exaggerated Mexican accent. “You guys come to see what a real champion looks like?”

  “I don't see no champion,” Roberto spat. “All I see is a dumb-looking gringo who's gonna spend so much time kissing canvas tomorrow, he may as well start selling ad space on the soles of his shoes.” He turned to Manolo. “How about it, hermano? What do you think?”

  Hank didn't enjoy being used as a prop in the confrontation between Bull and Roberto, especially while he was trying to work out. And from Manolo's flat, steely gaze, stiff posture, and faint grimace of disapproval, he figured Manolo wasn't too keen on it either.

  Still, Manolo played his part. He cracked his knuckles slowly and deliberately and said, “I'm gonna pound you like a tent stake in that ring, pendejo. Believe.”

  Bull laughed, turning to Hank. “Well, Hank? What do you say to that?”

  Hank wiped sweat from his brow. He hated being treated like a performing animal, but he knew what Bull wanted from him and figured he'd better get it.

  “I think every man's got a plan until he gets hit,” Hank said. It was a quote from George Foreman, but he decided to keep that to himself, given Bull's strong feelings about black people.

  “There, you see?” Bull smirked. “Tomorrow, you and the rest of the mongrel trash you run with are finally going to see incontrovertible proof of the white race's superiority.”

  Roberto waved him away. “Are you stupid or something, homes? Ain't you never watched no fights on Pay-Per-View? When's the last time you saw a white boy win anything in the ring except a falling down contest?”

  “This ain't Pay-Per-View, beaner,” Bull shot back. “This is Bluebonnet.” He jerked a thumb at Hank. “Come on, let's get out of here. This gym is starting to smell like taco meat and failure.”

  Hank wasn't finished exercising, and the last thing he felt like doing was spending more time around Bull and listening to his racist tirades. But he knew his role in this scene—he was supposed to be the menacing attack dog who bared his teeth, barked when he was told, and followed his master's commands.

  It was shitty, but it was a better deal than Foley'd gotten.

  So Hank nodded, tossed his boxing gloves aside, and followed Bull out of the gym without looking back.

  Chapter 12

  Beth

  When Beth showed up for work on the day of the big fight, the entire prison was buzzing about it.

  She had to break up at least half a dozen fights between inmates about who would win, and she spent the first two hours of her shift busting convicts for betting on the outcome before she realized it was pointless and ignored it instead. There were just too many of them making wagers, and it seemed like at least half the guards were in on the action too.

  Lindhurst was sidelining as a bookie, running from block to block with fistfuls of cash so the prisoners could make bets with people in other parts of Bluebonnet—he even made a few trips to the Ad-Seg unit, so he could collect money from the guys in solitary and the hole. Meanwhile, Butler was openly boasting that he'd bet five hundred bucks on Hank knocking out Manolo by the fourth round.

  Scraps of paper with bets on them flowed through every room in Bluebonnet like whitewater rapids. They wagered anything they had—credits for the commissary, food, drugs, cigarettes, work shifts, phone cards, and even sexual favors.

  It was all anyone could talk about: Who would win? Which round? By decision or knockout?

  Beth tried to attend to her duties without letting any of the chatter affect her, but she felt nervous. What if Hank got injured badly? Bib had always praised Hank's skills as a fighter, but what if Manolo cheated somehow? She hadn't interacted with Manolo much since she'd started working at Bluebonnet—he largely kept to himself and stayed out of trouble—but she'd heard a lot from the other guards about how ruthless and unpredictable his brother Roberto was.

  Worst of all, she had to keep taking orders from Bull and enduring his lewd comments. At one point, he told her to go buy him a bottle of champagne.

  “We can crack it open to celebrate after Hank takes down Manolo,” he said, winking. “Maybe you can even use the bottle to put on a little show for us, how about that?”

  She'd taken his money and left to buy the champagne without answering him. Still, on the way back to the prison, she kept eyeing the bot
tle as nausea squirmed in her stomach. He'd probably just said that to rattle her, but what if he was serious? If he demanded it from her, what could she do? Being subjected to the whims of someone so twisted and evil made her sick, and when her panicked mind dragged her to thoughts about how the bottle would feel inside her, dread crawled up her throat and she pulled over to open the door and retch.

  She desperately wanted to tell Bib what was going on. There were even a few nights when she'd come close, after he'd pulled her aside and asked her how the job was going and how Hank was holding up. She opened her mouth, wanting to let it all come blurting out—but then she thought about Butler threatening her with perjury.

  Being a guard in a prison was hellish enough. She wasn't eager to find out how it would feel to be an inmate, especially since she doubted ex-guards were treated well inside. There were two ex-cops serving time in Bluebonnet on corruption charges, and both of them were kept in solitary, along with the child molesters and others who'd be special targets for the rest of the prison population. The isolation had already driven one of them to attempt suicide.

  So instead, Beth forced a smile, took a sip from her beer, and said that the job was fine and Hank was fine and everything was fine. She saw the traces of suspicion in Bib's eyes and hated herself for lying to him. She wanted to believe he'd think of something, find some way to protect her and Hank.

  But she couldn't.

  Now she was back in Bluebonnet, feeling the gray concrete walls and iron bars press in on her from all sides. The air was always sour with the odors of sweat and raw testosterone, and she felt the eyes of the convicts on her tits and ass every minute of the day, like grubby hands pawing at her from every direction.

  The fight was scheduled to take place during the hour when about a third of the guards—Beth included—were on their lunch breaks. Even though she'd always hated boxing, Beth filed into the gym with the other COs and inmates who were attending as spectators. She knew she'd be even more worried about Hank if she weren't watching.

  But it was more than that, too. She wanted him to see that she was there. The things he'd said to her in the stairwell had hurt. But she understood that he was feeling as angry, trapped, and helpless as she was, and she was sure that was why he'd lashed out. She still cared about him, and she wanted him to see that, even if there was no safe way for her to express it overtly. She wanted him to know that she was in his corner—figuratively, and also literally, if that was what he needed from her.

  A boxing ring had been set up in the center of the gym, with bleachers on all four sides. The spectators were clearly divided into sections based on who they were rooting for. The on-duty guards positioned around them were tense and watchful, looking to stop fights in the crowd before they started. With all these inmates sitting side by side, it would be far too easy for someone to get a shiv between the ribs in the name of settling old scores.

  For the most part, though, the convicts just seemed happy and excited to watch the fight. It seemed like they were far more interested in the temporary relief from their boredom than they were in harming each other. In several areas of the bleachers, Beth even saw known enemies sitting next to each other. There was some trash-talking, but overall, it looked like a temporary truce was in effect.

  Beth was briefly reminded of a nature show she'd once seen, in which predators and prey on the plains of Africa sat beside each other peacefully when they got to the watering hole. Even for the most bloodthirsty creatures on the planet, there was still a time and a place for violence, and a time when certain social niceties needed to be observed.

  Once everyone had taken their seats, a potbellied CO named DiNovi stepped into the ring and stood in the center. He'd been chosen to act as referee, and Beth wondered whether he'd placed any bets on the outcome himself. If so, how could he be trusted to enforce the rules equally, or do a proper ten-count if someone got knocked down?

  Beth shook her head. As examples of corruption and injustice in Bluebonnet went, she reminded herself that this was pretty minor. Still, she didn't love the idea of how ugly this crowd would probably get if they thought it wasn't a fair fight.

  Hank sat in his corner of the ring, staring straight ahead as Bull massaged his shoulders and spoke to him. Beth saw how uncomfortable he was, and how much he was trying to focus on the fight itself instead of whatever racist nonsense Bull was probably spewing into his ear. For a moment, she regretted her impulse to come see the fight after all. What if he saw her and it broke his concentration?

  Well, too late now. She was here, and she couldn't bring herself to leave.

  Manolo was in the other corner of the ring, his expression blank as his brother Roberto jabbered at him. Manolo's face was inscrutable, and Beth wondered whether he'd had any more choice in participating in this than Hank had. More than anything, it seemed like he just wanted to get it over with.

  DiNovi took a deep breath and addressed the crowd in a booming bass voice, drawing out every syllable. “Ladies and gentlemen! In this corner, wearing the red trunks and weighing in at two hundred and ninety-two pounds...representing the Nation of Sinners, with a record of twelve victories, four knockouts, and no losses...MANOLO 'THE MEXICAN MAULER' TORRES!”

  The Sinners in the crowd took to their feet, howling and clapping. Roberto danced around in the corner, grinning and holding up Manolo's huge arm. If Manolo noticed the commotion, he gave no sign. His brown eyes were fixed on Hank, studying him carefully, as though looking for weaknesses.

  “And in this corner,” DiNovi intoned dramatically, “wearing the black trunks and weighing in at two hundred and eleven pounds...representing the White Knights in his very first Bluebonnet boxing match...HANK 'THE HAMMER OF HELL' HALL!”

  The Carnage Warriors whooped loudly, pumping their fists in the air. The Aryans stood and gave stiff-armed Nazi salutes, chanting, “Seig heil! Seig heil!”

  Beth saw Hank wince. She suspected he'd been prepared to be introduced as a representative of the Warriors, not the White Knights, and she could only imagine how much that had to piss him off.

  The crowd began to whistle and stomp their feet, and Beth saw that the prisoner named Foley Cartwright was circling the inside of the ring. He was wearing a slinky dress that looked ridiculous on his pudgy frame, and tottering in high heels as he held up a sign that said “ROUND 1.”

  Beth felt a wave of pity for him. Everyone knew he was being regularly beaten and humiliated by the Sinners, but no one would do anything about it. Most of the guards just laughed about it, especially Butler. She knew that the crime Foley committed to get sent here was horrible, but even so, the punishments he'd endured in prison seemed disproportionate. She wished there was something she could do to help him, but she knew there wasn't. This was just the way things were in Bluebonnet.

  Foley stepped out of the ring and a bell dinged sharply.

  Both fighters were on their feet immediately, dancing, circling, sizing each other up.

  Good luck, Hank, Beth thought fervently, her hands curled into tight fists.

  Chapter 13

  Hank

  Hank had been in so many fights that when the bell dinged, he was on his feet reflexively before he knew it, like a leg-jerk when a doctor taps a patient's knee.

  So was Manolo.

  Many of Hank's bouts had been fought against men much larger than he was. Most of the time, they used their massive frames to bully and intimidate their opponents—howling, swinging wildly, and rushing at them like enraged giants with the hope of throwing them off early and finishing the fight fast. These tactics never worked on Hank, who simply stood his ground and waited for the behemoths to run into his fists. Such fighters usually relied solely on their size and weight, to make up for a lack of prowess or discipline. They tired early, and they fell hard.

  But Manolo was hanging back with his gloves up, dancing lightly on the balls of his feet as he warily sized up his opponent. From the way he carried himself, Hank could see Manolo was a patient, ca
nny, well-trained boxer.

  For the first time since he'd agreed to this fight, Hank started to worry about its outcome. Luring Manolo into coming at him swinging wouldn't work. Outlasting him probably wouldn't, either. Hank would have to take the fight to him and pour on the damage, which would be risky.

  But the crowd was already roaring for blood. And no matter how much Hank tried to focus, he could hear the voices of Bull, Speed Bump, and the rest of the Warriors and Aryans, all jeering at him for hesitating.

  A grim realization dawned on Hank: It wasn't enough to accept this challenge, or even to win it. In order to earn the respect and protection of the White Knights, he'd have to look good doing it, to boost the gang's rep in Bluebonnet. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to do that.