Another figure catches my eye, and I scan the video and zero in on a man at the far end of the bar, surprised to see Hendrix Sokolov standing with a beer in front of him, watching the interplay. Even ten years ago he was handsome, with blonde hair swept back from his face and intense blue eyes. He’s not smiling and seems to be on alert. They didn’t get along to the point that the family failed to support Alexei during and after the trial.
So what was Hendrix doing at his half brother’s bar that night?
THREE
Alexei
Islip out of my hiding place in the vast laundry room and strike with the shank, instantly stabbing into Anton Lebetev’s neck from the side. I slide away and allow the blood to spurt on the overlarge washing machine—away from me. Kicking him in the back of his knees, I take him down flat. His hands claw the rough cement before his body convulses several times. Blood glides gracefully away from him to pool near the drain.
Death has its own whisper.
Two seconds ago, he was the most powerful member of the Russian Bratva in this prison, and he tried to kill me several times.
He failed.
I did not.
His second in command already has agreed to follow me, should I regain control of not only Hologrid Hub but the local Russian mafia. I plan to do both.
I toss the homemade shank into a bucket of bleach I have waiting and then turn, walking nonchalantly out of the laundry facility and down to the cafeteria, my way blissfully unguarded. Oddly enough, the cameras are experiencing a momentary glitch as well.
My allies in this place have a long reach.
Just in time to line up and return to my cell, I keep my gaze ahead of me, my arms loose, and my senses on full guard.
An alarm blares, and we’re ordered into our cells immediately, the doors clanging shut nearly in unison. Apparently, Lebetev’s body has been found. We remain in lockdown for nearly an hour, but no trace of the killer will be found.
I doubt very much that anybody cares enough about Lebetev to truly investigate his death.
Near lunchtime, I find myself leaning against the wall in my six by eight cell, with my roommate sitting on the top bunk. Urbano Reyes is one of the most dangerous men in north block, and we became uneasy allies my first day when a member of the local Russian Bratva, no longer following me, had made a move to slice my jugular. Reyes had jumped in to help me. I hold no illusions that he did it out of friendship or kindness, because the leader of the Twenty-One Purple gang wouldn’t know kindness if it bit him on his tatted ass.
“It sounds like you succeeded,” he notes.
I give a short nod. “Yes.” He made the kill possible, and for that, I owe him another favor.
“You really think you’re getting out?”
“That’s what the guards told me. Apparently, my lawyer got my conviction overturned,” I say, my body relaxed but my gaze missing nothing. We have a deal, but I still won’t be surprised if he tries to kill me before I get out. Many people want me dead, and money talks.
A smile widens his already round face. “I ain’t going to kill you.” Prison tats cover his head down his neck and along both arms, confirming a life of danger and crime.
“Don’t think you are,” I reply easily, still waiting for him to make a move. Ending my time in prison by murdering him will cause issues for me, but I’m ready, just in case.
“We have a deal,” he says quietly.
I nod. We do have a deal. When I arrived at the prison, he offered protection from my former followers in the form of his gang, and many of his members fill the desolate cages in every direction. Of course, nothing is free. He knows I’m wealthy. At least outside of these walls I am—once I unfreeze my funds. Inside, my financial resources are dry.
The only person who has deposited money into my account has been Garik, my ex-business partner. No family, no girlfriends, no friends at all, had tried to ease the life of prison. I never forget a debt, and I’ll make sure Garik is set for life. I have it on good authority that these last seven years, he’s been trying to prove me innocent and find who set me up, but he’s reached nothing but dead ends.
Our partnership was an uneasy one, but in the end, he’s proven to be a friend, unlike Urbano. His interest in me has been mercurial from the beginning. Once he told me that a rich guy like me wouldn’t stay in prison long—that somebody would get me out. He was wrong. Seven years is a long time, but he was correct that it looks like I’m going free.
For now anyway, until I’m convicted again since, apparently, I now get a new trial. I have no intention of letting that happen, no matter what I have to do.
“So you got yourself a new lawyer?” he asks.
I shrug, unwilling to discuss the beauty of the woman. “The old one died.”
“Huh? No shit.” His smile widens again.
