Black And Blue (Quentin Black Mystery #5)

by JC Andrijeski

  Apart from the book, “Cowboy” looked more like some kind of buffed-out swamp rat than anyone who needed survivalist training.

  Guy looked like he’d been surviving all his life.

  Black noted the corded muscles of his arms, despite the other’s attempts to hide his body inside the too-large shirt. He studied the long jaw, those predatory eyes, which took in a lot more of the yard and his immediate surroundings than he pretended.

  It struck Black suddenly that the guy was watching him too, although he’d never once looked directly his way. He wondered if he’d picked up the nickname Cowboy in the service, then looked him over again and decided he hadn’t served.

  Interesting, though.

  He might need to have a little chat with Cowboy.

  Guy might actually be useful.

  “You keep staring at him like that, people are going to think you want to mount that horse,” Dog joked, smacking him on the back with a palm. “Watch yourself, brother. There are lots of guys who’ll want in on that action if you put it out there...”

  Hearing the real warning behind the humor, Black shook his head, focusing back on his arms and chest as he went back to doing pushups.

  He averted his gaze from the bleachers, though.

  He had to get the fuck out of here. Blending was fine in the short term. So was making alliances where he needed them... but he needed to find a way out, and soon.

  Someone went to a lot of trouble to stick him in here, with a sight-restraint collar no less, so he had to assume they would be making contact soon, and telling him what the fuck they wanted.

  They’d probably stuck him in here to scare the shit out of him first, maybe in the hopes it might make him more pliable. Nothing like a few days in prison, getting your ass kicked by psychopaths, to make a man reassess his ethical stance on a few things.

  Either way, he knew they’d come at him soon.

  His mind churned over the possible people or groups who might want him in here, but he kept circling back to the one, poignant detail: the collar. He knew of only one person on this version of Earth who had sight restraint collars: Miriam’s Uncle Charles.

  A.k.a., “Lucky Lucifer.”

  Lucky’s people had recreated sight restraint collars on this version of Earth. Black had seen one at least, in the courtyard of the Louvre, around the neck of Miri’s ex-fiancé, Ian Stone.

  But why the fuck would Charles lock him up in here?

  Charles already had him by the balls because of Miriam. Black had more or less agreed to defer to him due to the family connection, at least within reason.

  Charles didn’t need to do this to him.

  Anyway, Charles had done it to Black once already. He’d taken him captive, tried to scare him off of completing the bond with Miriam. But Miri and he were mates now, so the situation was different. Unless something happened, something Black didn’t know about, he couldn’t fathom why Charles would do something like this to him again. Miriam would never forgive him, for one thing, and Black was reasonably sure that mattered to Charles.

  Moreover, if Black died in here, Lucky was risking the life of his only niece.

  So yeah, Charles didn’t fit. For a lot of reasons.

  The problem was, Black couldn’t come up with a different explanation that made any kind of sense. Even the military had no clue that seer sight could be restrained mechanically like this. There were a lot of things Black didn’t tell the Colonel about seers. Sight restraint collars sat pretty much at the top of that fucking list.

  “You got work detail?” Dog asked, breaking into his thoughts. “Where they got you?”

  Black didn’t know how to answer that, either.

  Eventually, he shook his head. “No.”

  “You got morning shift? Or a later shift?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  Black shrugged, pushing his body up into another flat plank, ignoring the protests of his lower arms and shoulder.

  “Not assigned yet, I guess,” he said finally. “Or someone forgot to tell me.”

  Dog frowned, but only nodded.

  Finishing a last push-up, he rose back to his feet. Looking over the chiefs sitting there, he swung his arms, nodding towards Frank and Easton.

  “Want to go for a run?”

  Easton let out a disbelieving snort. “You’re going to run now? You training for an ass-kicking, an escape, or what?”

  “You know the three rules of the zombie apocalypse, right?”

  Easton and Frank gave him blank looks, but Dog burst out laughing.

  “Cardio, cardio... and cardio,” he said, jabbing Black in the arm with each word.

  Black smiled faintly, in spite of himself. “Right,” he said.

  “I like this guy,” Dog said, smacking him on the arm again and laughing. “Zombie apocalypse. That’s fucking awesome, man. Have you heard the ‘parkour,’ ‘parkour,’ ‘parkour’ one?”

  Black smiled wider. “Parkour works, too. Still need cardio though.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Devin said unexpectedly.

  Black looked down in surprise. He was pretty sure that was the first time he’d heard Devin speak. He only nodded though, watching the other man rise to his feet, then yank the blue prison jersey over his head, leaving a white tank top and the baggy prison pants. He looked even younger than Dog, all wiry muscle and whippet thin.

  “Okay,” Black said. “Drop off whenever.”

  Devin smiled, but it was a small smile.

  Black definitely got the glimpse of a challenge there, which was more or less what he’d been going for. Looking the other man up and down, Black nodded with more satisfaction that time. Devin was on the small side compared to Frank and Easton and Joseph, all of whom looked more like weight-lifting types. He was even smaller than Dog, who definitely wasn’t a weight-lifting type. But Devin was tall, and that height was all in his legs. The muscles of his calves and thighs looked rock hard.

  “Good,” he said, almost to himself.

  The two of them took off down the track a few seconds later.

  Devin didn’t talk, which wasn’t surprising.

  He was strangely companionable, however, which did surprise Black a little, but also allowed him to relax. He hadn’t minded Dog’s chatter, but something about Devin gave him the mental space to breathe a little.

  He found himself letting the other man choose the pace, and fell into a comfortable rhythm alongside him that didn’t strain him overly, but definitely let him stretch his legs. Pretty soon, right around when Black would have wanted to push a little harder, Devin sped up.

  By the time they’d done their first complete circuit around the track, Black was around his top speed for a long-distance run, meaning a pace he could sustain for a few miles without feeling too much pain. Devin’s legs flashed like an antelope’s to his right and Black found himself relaxing for real, enough that he was the one to push them faster next.

  He practically felt Devin’s smile as he easily matched him.

  As he ran, he noted security features, almost in rote.

  Layers and layers of razor-wire fence, guard towers, trenches past the first row of fences, then more fences in the distance. The complex itself wrapped around the yard in a jagged, geometrical horseshoe, leaving the razor wire and a glimpse of forest beyond the periphery. He saw bullet-proof doors in the walls at regular intervals, indicating the few ways in and out of the yard if an incident occurred. He also saw hoses up top, and guessed those along with flash bombs and gas probably diffused most fights before they got too far along.

  Turning at the end of the loop and once more letting Devin set the pace, he felt sweat starting to soak through the lower shirt he wore, even though it was early yet, from the position of the sun. He still couldn’t get a grip on where they were, geography-wise.

  Wherever it was, it was hot. Humid.

  Definitely lent credence to his “somewhere in the South”
theory.

  He tried again to think of a way of raising the topic without being too obvious.

  The back of the prison jerseys just said “DOC,” presumably for “Department of Corrections,” which wasn’t particularly helpful.

  They made their way around the next curve, now going at a full run, not quite racing, or not acknowledging it at least, but close. Black started to pull slightly ahead with his longer legs, but he had to work for it, and Devin was soon alongside him again. Both of them were breathing harder now, pumping their arms as they tore up the dirt track.

  He could feel people watching them now. Not with his sight, but with some other ingrained instinct from all the wars he’d fought, and possibly from further back, from that time he really didn’t like to think about, even when Miri asked.

  Maybe especially when Miri asked.

  They rounded the corner where most of the workout equipment lived, and as they were racing into that stretch...

  A piercing alarm went off overhead, nearly making Black stumble.

  He looked up in rote, only losing a step in his stride, even as Devin lost a beat in his gait next to him.

  “What the fuck is that?” Black said, slowing his pace without falling out of the run.

  “Fire alarm!” Devin shouted it, his hands over his ears.

  Slowing to a jog, Black looked towards the main building, and had a sudden cold line prickle down his back. He couldn’t smell smoke. He couldn’t see any coming from the structure either, despite the guards moving fast in the direction of those bulletproof doors.

  Then, as he focused back on the speakers emanating the deafening sound...

  Someone stepped in front of him, entirely blocking his path.

  Eleven

  FIRE ALARM

  BLACK FOUGHT TO slow down, but the guy didn’t give him any room. Two long strides and Black crashed right into him, his arms up to push him away and also to keep his upper body fully vertical. More than anything, he intended to stay on his feet.

  When he’d forced enough space for himself to move, Black found himself staring up at Roscoe, the big blond with the flat top and the swastika tattoos covering his now-bare chest. He clenched his meaty hands into fists, stretching the black iron crosses there as he glared at Devin.

  “Beat it, redskin. This isn’t chief business... this is for the mongrel white race traitor in him. Take your moccasins for a walk.”

  Devin frowned, glancing at Black.

  Black motioned with his chin for him to go.

  After another bare hesitation, Devin seemed to make up his mind, after looking between Black and Roscoe. He took off at a run, and Black could tell he was going to get Joseph and the others, who had moved from the workout area to the bleachers since he and Devin started running, possibly because of the alarms.

  Black scanned the yard, saw that a lot of inmates had already moved towards the bulletproof doors, likely to see what was going on.

  He looked back at Roscoe, who was maybe an inch shorter than he was.

  “You don’t want to do this,” he said. “I’ve got no issue with you. I appreciate you trying to educate me earlier––”

  “You appreciate it, do you?”

  Black held his gaze, his face and voice uncompromising.

  “Yes. Accept my apology. Walk away. You don’t want this.”

  Roscoe shook his head, letting out a disbelieving sound. He glanced back at a group of six more skinheads, who Black had already tracked as watching the interaction with a not-idle interest. Clearly, Roscoe intended this well before the fire alarm went off, although he might be using it as an opportunity, with the guards distracted.

  Black glanced behind him.

  No one yet, but he knew they’d try to get behind him soon.

  “Fucking apology...” Roscoe said to his friends. “Who the fuck is this asshole?”

  One of the tattooed guys laughed. Black tracked that one, too, saw a harder gleam in his eyes. That guy was definitely a fighter. He looked positively alert as he looked over Black, sizing him up without being too obvious about it. Black did the same to him briefly, noting the eagle tattoo that wrapped around his neck, the wings outstretched, along with the blond beard.

  The fire alarm continued to go off.

  Black remained where he was, watching the man in front of him, as well as his periphery.

  “You really want to do this?” Black said, speaking above the alarm. “You don’t know anything about me, friend.”

  Roscoe shook his head, giving his friends a half-smile. “This guy. Un-fucking-believable.” He stared at Black. “You’re fresh fish... you’ve got bitch squaw blood in your veins and you don’t talk like a goddamned American. That’s all I need to know.”

  “You sure about that?” Black said.

  His fighter friend with the dark eyes smiled wider. “Aww, leave him alone, Roz. We can dance with this motherfucker some other time. Lockdown’s coming.”

  Black saw that gleam sharpen in the other’s eyes.

  Roscoe glanced at his friend, then back at Black. “Fine,” he said, shaking his head again. “Whatever.”

  He turned partway as he muttered it, like he was going to back off like he’d said. It wasn’t a very good feint. Even without the collar, Black saw the other’s muscles tense, right before he twisted around, trying to catch him in the temple with a swift hook.

  The throw was fast enough and skilled enough that Black logged boxing experience somewhere in the back of his mind, even as he sidestepped the blow with a fluid turn. Keeping his body narrow, he moved himself to the side of the other man and into the angle he wanted, not just to diminish target area but for leverage. Without a pause, he swung an uppercut into the heavier man’s throat, putting most of his weight behind it.

  The whole thing happened in fractions of a second.

  Black stepped back before he’d taken a breath, still in fighting stance.

  Roscoe’s blue eyes bulged. His body hitched as his back hunched involuntarily. His thick fingers scrabbled at his own throat, trying to open the passage for air. He couldn’t gasp, couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs to take a real breath.

  Black placed himself face to face with him, staring into those bloodshot eyes.

  “Walk away,” Black growled, staring at him. “I’ll put you the fuck down, if you don’t.”

  He said it to the rest of them as much as he did Roscoe.

  Someone rushed him from behind the workout bars. Their hands grabbed at him from behind, gripping his neck.

  Black didn’t hesitate.

  Throwing his elbow back, he felt the nose break of the man behind him with a satisfying crunch. He turned into the hit to get him to release his neck, following the slam with a back-fist from the same arm.

  A third man came into the fray and Black threw his weight back into the guy he’d just hit, using him for leverage now that he had him pinned to the bars. He kicked the new assailant in the chest with both feet, throwing him to the cement. In the process, he slammed into broken nose a third time, knocking his skull hard into the metal bar they’d been using for chin-ups.

  When Black straightened, broken nose slid to the ground, knocked out. A fourth guy approached Black before he could catch his breath, a thick-necked bald man with a heavily tattooed face. Black turned, executing a low roundhouse kick with his full weight.

  He aimed that one into the side of new man’s knee joint.

  The big guy with the tattooed face went down with a scream.

  When he landed heavily on his knees, screaming again, Black swung around with another round-house, that one higher, and aimed at his throat.

  The big guy was down for real then, choking on the ground.

  That was four.

  Well, three and a half.

  If Roscoe recovered from that throat punch, he might still be in this.

  The dark-eyed guy who’d been watching him from behind Roscoe was smiling now.

  Black watched him, turning
in a circle, keeping his back to the prison compound. When he glanced to his right, he saw Dog, Easton, Frank and Devin pounding their way across the dirt path. Frank and Easton, at least, would even things up a lot. And they were only a fraction of the chiefs. He looked back at the remainder of the Aryans.

  “This is over,” he said. “You got your answer. Leave me the fuck alone.”

  The shorter man with the dark eyes and the eagle tattoo on his neck stepped forward.

  “Oh, it ain’t over, chief,” he said, smiling.

  Black looked at him, feeling a cold prickle at the back of his neck.

  He was about to answer when a sudden, blinding pain shot through him. It came out of nowhere, so intense it locked his jaw, clenching every muscle in his body, like he’d been hit with a cattle prod. It took him a few seconds to realize it came from the collar... then another few to realize he hadn’t done anything to trigger it.

  Someone was operating the thing remotely.

  The pain ratcheted higher. It got so bad he screamed.

  Every few seconds, it arced higher still.

  His whole body convulsed. It felt like the current vibrated his very bones, rattling them so hard they might splinter inside his flesh. He’d never experienced anything like it, not even while being tortured back on Old Earth.

  The pain was so bad, his entire nervous system went into shock. He couldn’t even scream now, couldn’t make a sound. He couldn’t think through it, couldn’t see. He had no control over his body. He didn’t know where he was, or even whether he was still standing.

  When it finally let up, he was on his hands and knees.

  He stared down at the concrete, fighting to breathe.

  He still couldn’t see. His vision blurred from the vibration of whatever the collar had done to him. His hands shook, his arms shook, his heart felt like it might explode in his chest. He managed to push himself up to kneeling and then his hands were on the collar, not pulling on it, just holding on. When he looked up, three of the Nazis stood over him. Past their bodies, he saw the chiefs being held back by guards with riot shields and batons.