“I’m too old for you, Jackson, and if that’s the case, start acting like you’re not. Face what’s in front of you and deal with it. Don’t let things fester.”
He nodded. “I mean, I like you in a cool girl kinda way, not like I wanna jump in the sack or anything.”
“You’re digging a hole. You didn’t have to say anything.”
“Okay, not gonna call you girl anymore . . . swear.” He prodded his jaw again.
“That’s better. You need to respect your elders,” she smirked.
CHAPTER NINE
MASON STARED OUT THE window of the prison van as the vehicle passed through the intricate fencing system of the Louisiana State Penitentiary, affectionately named Angola by black inmates more than a century ago after the country the original plantation’s slaves came from in Africa.
Mason had risen quickly within the prisoner hierarchy. The Satanists were left alone on the inside, free from the sexual bondage the prison was well known for. One stare from the evil little man would freeze the meanest inmate, his mythical reputation preceding him. Angola boasted a population of over forty worshipers of the Dark Lord, ready and waiting to follow the satanic Magus’s every word.
It was only a matter of time before an efficient route of escape presented itself. He was one of Satan’s most devoted worshipers, and the Dark Lord would show him the way. He smiled, remembering his first day out of solitary confinement.
****
Mason stepped out of his new cell the moment the door locks were released. His roommate cowered in the corner, too terrified to move. Mason smirked, amazed at what the threat of eternal damnation could reduce a man to. Peering into the man’s mind and prodding his soul only added to the enjoyment. He’d soon be induced into taking his own life. It would take a few more cellmates meeting the same fate to make the establishment realize Mason had made a request, however subtle it might be, for a single room without cellmates.
He felt all eyes upon him as he walked to the cafeteria. His stride showed he owned the place, and he returned the glares with a sly, devilish grin, which to a man could not be matched. He’d been shoved in the food line, which was to be expected. As he brought his tray into the dining area, he spotted many knowing faces, who saluted him with subtle nods. He sat purposefully among members of the biggest and roughest group he could find, calmly put his tray on the table, and placed his cutlery on either side of his plate.
It didn’t take long before one of the prisoners, a large black man with long dreadlocks, stepped in front of him and flipped the tray onto Mason’s lap. “Who the fuck do you think you are, home boy? You have a death wish or something, or do you wanna be our bitch that bad?”
Mason raised his eyes and never stopped smiling.
Another prisoner rose from the next table over holding a jailhouse shiv—metal torn off a bed frame. It took fewer than five steps to get behind Dreadlocks and jab the razor-sharp weapon into his neck, severing his carotid artery.
Mason froze throughout the expected black backlash against the white killer. Everyone from the table stood to defend themselves from the onslaught and the guards breaking up the melee. When the guards finally gained control, the dead and injured were dragged off to solitary confinement or the morgue.
Mason stated calmly in his French accent, “Who’s going to get me my dinner?”
It didn’t take long for a fresh tray of food to appear in front of him.
****
The penitentiary owned a golf course located on the prison property and looked after by inmates—its name Angola, naturally. The layout, exceptionally manicured, brought in a good profit from outside golfers. A tee time required booking a month in advance.
Mason placed himself in the good books once the twinkle of an idea formed in his head. He was an expert manipulator of men, with a little help from down below, of course. He needed to be patient. It took him well over two years to solidify a position on the greens-keeping staff—a well-planned, manipulative undertaking. Given time, he could bend any person’s mind and free will to his desires.
The prison and its warden and deputy wardens randomized prisoner activities to discourage any sort of plotting; Mason’s time at the golf course stayed random. While Mason carefully plotted the timing of his escape during the first year, a rough pattern formed. He contacted his outside sources through coded letters until a plan began to percolate. Today would be his satanic compatriots’ third attempt to meet with him on the golf course.
The prison van stopped, letting off those inmates who would be working on the links. Mason walked to the course’s work shed in his orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed in front of him with a long silver chain to allow for raking, or driving a fairway mower. It took Mason months of searching to find the surveillance cameras’ blind spots throughout the course. He had found two, one at the bottom of a massive, deep bunker on the fifth hole. He took his time raking the various traps offering angst to golfers whose shots strayed from the straight and narrow along Angola’s third, fourth, and fifth holes.
He spied the foursome of Satanists wearing their bright red hats and making their way to the tee at the fifth hole. Mason moved toward the large pot bunker 240 yards out from that tee and stood ready to step into its depths once his counterpart guided his ball into the sand. It hadn’t been easy to find a doppelganger with some skill at golf. The follower would be subservient to his death and thoroughly brainwashed by the cult to follow his directive. He appeared to be a close double to Mason, his mustache and beard trimmed to match, and wearing black iris contact lenses—the final touch to be an exact duplicate.
Mason prayed to the Dark Lord that a marshal wouldn’t pass through anytime soon. The last escape attempt was foiled by one of the many prison officers who kept a close eye on the course and the inmates to provide a sense of safety for the golfers. As he carefully raked sand from the trap to the lip, Mason watched for a shot headed his way. All four would attempt to put a ball in the trap, which was well-positioned to catch the stray shots.
The first tee shot looked to be heading his way but drew back to the middle of the fairway. The second bounced over it, a towering power fade. The third, a low-running worm burner, rolled into the edge, dropping to the deep middle of the trap as planned. Perfect!
Mason raked toward the middle of the deep hole. Once at the bottom, he waited, precious seconds ticking away. His double appeared on cue with a lockpick in hand and deftly removed the cuffs and chains. They exchanged golf shoes for boots, golf shirt and shorts for orange prison jumpsuit. The coup-de-grace to top off the disguise, Mason took the sand wedge and put on the black Titleist golf cap and Ray Ban sunglasses. His double quickly put on the cuffs and chains to resume raking. Mason picked up the ball, tossing it toward the fairway, being a terrible golfer himself.
As he stepped out of the trap, he saw one of the marshals heading for the bunker with a stern look. He pulled up beside Mason, gesturing at his double, now obediently finishing his raking of the trap.
The man asked in a deep Louisianan drawl, “Is this boy bothering you?” He stared over his sunglasses at Mason’s double. “Twenty yards, that the rule. You won’t see the light of day for a week.” When the double nodded, the marshal turned back to Mason. “Sorry about that. We have strict rules. It won’t happen again.”
Mason did his best to emulate the man’s drawl and mask his French accent. “No worries, man. He did stand back. I nearly hit him with my tee shot. I told him he didn’t have to move.”
The marshal nodded. “Enjoy your round, sir.”
Mason nodded and slipped into the empty seat of a golf cart.
He had to dig the homing device out of his back before moving too far from the fairway trap. The man next to him in the cart nodded as soon as the marshal passed far enough ahead of them. “As you requested, Master.” He produced a wrapped surgical scalpel from his pocket.
Mason pulled up his shirt and pointed to his left side, prodding the spot where he wanted the o
ther man to feel for the capsule-shaped device and cut it out of Mason’s skin. When the small incision was made and the tiny mechanism removed, the follower placed a large, square bandage over the incision to stanch the flow of blood.
“Toss it into the green side bunker up ahead as you’ve been instructed.” Mason reverted to his icy tone as he watched the double making his way to the green.
The foursome speedily finished the rest of the front nine and headed for the exit gate. This would be the tricky part, as they had to pass in front of several cameras while offloading their golf gear. He made it through without difficulty. Within minutes, he was in his own car, heading south toward New Orleans.
****
The duplicate found his way back to Mason’s cell following his well-studied mental map of the prison block. Entering the cell, he took off his clothes and lay back naked under the cot’s thin blanket. Trying not to think ahead, he stared at the ceiling, remembering how his bottom teeth had all been pulled out a few months back.
He put his fingers inside his mouth and took out the row of false teeth given to him early that morning to wear but not to chew with. He stared at the waxed copies for a long minute, hesitating at the duty before him. The promise of salvation by the Dark Lord for his grand sacrifice was worth giving up his life, but he did not want to suffer. He’d been prepped concerning what the waxen teeth contained and how each one would affect him. If he cracked them open in the order relayed to him, he would avoid the worst of it. Make one mistake and he would stay awake to endure the fires of Hell.
Pulling open the first tooth, he was careful to let the few drops slide across his middle finger. He twisted that finger as far up his rectum as possible to begin the internal combustion. The acid burn crawled up his lower bowel as he swiftly cracked into the second tooth for more of the same. He used his forefinger to twist the next few drops into his ears until the one hundred proof acid burned his ear drums, making him deaf. Two down and eleven capsules to go until he reached ecstasy.
The secretions from the next four had to be spread between his toes and fingers. The thick vapors traveled up his nostrils as he popped the four wax teeth, making him lightheaded. Blinking to stay awake, he cracked open the next four to rub the burn along his legs and arms, front and back. His skin broke apart and the chemical burned and started to eat his flesh.
He had to hurry. Three more to ecstasy. His orders were to drizzle them in his hair and any spot not already sizzling. He could hardly wait to empty the capsules and get to the last one for relief. Smelling his burning flesh caused him to gag, but he did not stop. Opening his mouth wide, he waited for the promised narcotic. Watching the drops hitting his outstretched tongue, he cried. They lied to him. It was not the ecstasy he was promised. He swallowed more of the same chemical, and now it burned down his throat to set his stomach gases on fire. He wanted to pass out but instead gulped the vapors coming off his body. Short chemical flames wound up his spine.
Flaming pieces of hair drifted from his head to his face, but he could no longer move. The excruciating pain and loss of mobility stopped him. The dying man felt betrayed. Where was his ecstasy? Now, he could only pray for his death.
Within the next few minutes, inmates and guards stood outside the cell, not daring to get closer due to the fumes. A few had already taken off for clean air and a place to vomit. Sirens rang, and finally guards dressed in hazmat attire took over. They made all who were not suited up line up to leave the building. This was not a drill!
Unsure what chemicals were at play, the crew watched and waited, unable to spray water or pressurized chemicals at the last of the flames. Sliding open the cell door, the three men who came ready to fight off a major fire arrived to see the indent of a man’s body but nothing more.
One of them asked, “Christ, where’d the guy go?”
All three shook their helmeted heads. Another wondered aloud, “Could this be one of those spontaneous human combustions?”
The third guy answered, “I don’t know.”
For all intents and purposes, Mason Matye ceased to exist in the real world.
CHAPTER TEN
THE AFTERNOON THUNDERSTORM DIDN’T do much to stave off the humidity. In fact, it made it worse. Such was life in South Florida; the moisture would evaporate quickly, adding to the stickiness in the air as the sun heated up the moisture. All things would become sticky as hell.
Solomon made his daily walk, pushing a rusty buggy to the mall at the corner of US 41 and Bonita Beach Road. He’d visit the liquor store, then Publix. He couldn’t run out of Budweiser, with Jack Daniels for a chaser—his vices since he’d left the Big House.
He had no friends. People like him didn’t want friendship. When first released, he’d moved to Lafayette, a smaller town just outside of New Orleans. People there didn’t like his sort. His need to commit crime hung over him like the stench of week-old fish. He swung south along the Panhandle, stopping for a year in Tampa until finally settling in the Ft. Myers area.
When he felt lucky, he’d make the long walk to the dog track. If he won, he’d pop for a taxi ride home. It was cheaper now with Uber, and sometimes he’d spring for both ends of the journey. . . that is, if he picked the correct dogs that day.
Today, he didn’t feel like walking to the track. He returned home after completing his shopping to pour a two-finger Jack with ice before he sat at his computer. Being alone and addicted to gambling, the computer was his life breath. He preferred online poker for the most part, and sometimes euchre. He never played for money online; it just didn’t seem right.
When he checked his email, Solomon smiled. The file had arrived and he’d paid good money for the material. He couldn’t wait to see what his suppliers sent him. Some little nugget of gold? His tastes were a little on the dark side. He didn’t like anything mundane, or in his face. He liked something with a little thought put into it. Solomon enjoyed a bit of a story, no matter how short it might be. He needed a backstory or it wasn’t worth watching. Yeah, I like watching . . . nothing more. That was all he allowed himself—all he dared.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ELI LOOKED ACROSS HIS desk at Boris. His lifelong friend and right-hand man watched him in silence. When they spoke at last, they spoke in Russian. “What you think, Boris? I can tell by the look on your face you’re not happy.”
Boris chose his words carefully. Even though Eli was his friend, the man had a bad temper and Boris could tell that it currently simmered just below a boil. “Lopez sold us out. The asshole needs to disappear. He crossed the line. If that jerk is not punished, others will see it as a weakness. They will follow his example.”
“It’s not that easy, Boris. The lawyer football player, Walker, and the blond woman, they know just as much. We must be careful. I don’t think the police know yet, or they would have been here before Walker.”
“True. Do we take them out as well, I wonder? Now that we’ve been burned? The country could use one less lawyer.”
“I don’t know if we have much choice, but it can’t be a whack job. We must plan this carefully. I’d like to delay Walker’s death, but if he comes back . . . we will have no choice but to kill him.” Eli frowned. “And Lopez. You must be careful, Boris. We are close to the edge, here; take your time with it. One wrong step and we could find ourselves in a real mess, but kill him before he causes us anymore trouble. He’s a bit of a loner from what we’ve been told. He won’t be missed by many people.”
Eli poured two vodka shots, handing one to Boris. “Vashe zdorovye!” The two men fired back the smooth Russian liquor. “Boris, take some men down to Ft. Myers and have Walker and Lopez watched. They’ll talk to each other again. If we could only be so lucky as to catch the two together, we could plan a convenient end for both of them. Keep me informed.”
Boris nodded, a smile creeping into the corner of his mouth. “We will watch them. Don’t worry. Am I to use my own discretion?” Coy excitement crossed his face as he waited for his boss’s ans
wer.
Eli pondered the assassin’s question, knowing that Boris loved nothing more than ending someone’s life. Eli could not afford the risks on this one. Boris loved Eli like a brother, and Boris was always willing to do the wet work—the wetter the better; yet Boris could not be left to his own devices. His skills needed to be used cautiously, with purpose.
“Nyet, let’s watch them first. Wait for my word. I always answer my phone when you call.”
Boris nodded. “Okay, Eli, I give you my word.” Boris’s word was gold when it came to anything relating to their business and personal relationship. The two men got to their feet, smiled and embraced, slapping each other on the back like comrades of old.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MASON RELEASED THE PRESSURE of his thumbs on the young woman’s windpipe. Lamenting the fact that he needed to kill her, he pulled the sheets up to her neck and slipped out of the bed. Oh, how I’ve craved the touch of female flesh. Five years locked up in prison did that to a man. It wasn’t the act of fornication he missed as much as the touch of a soft breast or inner thigh, looking into the eyes of a female and seeing her soul bared and naked in the heat of sex. Mason’s close association to the Dark Lord gave him the ability to see those things clearly. In the end, he reckoned the whore to be a wasted, useless soul who needed to be put out of her misery. She no longer retained the human ability to feel; she existed as a shell of a person, fucking for no reason other than money. She needed to die. That bitch had no right to fuck him like that and she knew it.
Slowly pulling on his clothes, he cursed himself for being so sloppy. His DNA would be detected. But, in the end, what does it matter anyway? He no longer existed. His death certainly offered a few fringe benefits.
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