by Sophia Gray
And Manolo was still waiting with narrowed eyes, as though he were reading all of Hank's thoughts from a billboard on his forehead. Manolo's rep was already solid, while Hank had everything to lose.
Fuck it, Hank thought. May as well go for it.
He approached Manolo suddenly, hoping it would throw him off after waiting for so long. But Manolo's left connected with Hank's stomach before he could even see the punch, and a split-second later, Hank found himself looking up at the ceiling with a pain like a firecracker in his jaw. The awareness of the uppercut rumbled in slowly after the initial shock, like thunder casually announcing a lightning bolt that had struck seconds earlier.
Instinct kicked in, and Hank raised his arms to protect his face. But Manolo was way ahead of him, getting under Hank's arms to pummel his defenseless ribs and abdomen. The breath was pushed out of Hank's lungs, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't draw any more air back into them. Black roses started to bloom in the corners of his vision.
The bell dinged again, and Hank was alone in the center of the ring. Manolo was already sitting in his corner, his inscrutable brown eyes locked on Hank.
Hank shuffled back to his own corner. Bull was waiting for him, and Hank expected him to cuss him out when he got there. Instead, Bull handed him the water bottle, patting him on the shoulder as he drank from it.
“You're doing good in there, pal,” Bull said quietly. “He's tough and he's fast, and he took you by surprise, but you can bring him down. I've seen him fight lots of times before, and he comes on strong...but his nose is his off button. You mash that button two or three times, and all his Terminator bullshit's going to come to a screeching halt. Okay? Got it?”
“Yeah, aim for his nose,” Hank replied. “Got it.”
If I can even get a punch in, he thought.
The bell dinged again.
Manolo was all over Hank before he even realized he'd stood up. Three more body shots, breaking a couple of ribs that were already bruised. Hank dodged a brutal haymaker that came within an inch of shattering his eye socket, but the sudden jerk backward made him lose his balance for a moment, and he realized—too late—that it was what Manolo was counting on. A follow-up punch to the side of Hank's head brought him to one knee.
Hank bounced back to his feet, but his fists were lowered, and he made his movements seem woozy. This time, Manolo took the bait, moving in for the kill.
Take the first punch, Hank told himself. Where it lands doesn't matter. All that matters is that it'll take one of his hands away from his face, and then it's hello nose, goodbye Manolo.
Based on the confidence in Manolo's approach, Hank figured he was used to finishing fights quickly. Right now, he seemed caught up in the familiarity—terrorize them in the first round, polish them off in the second. No need to be as careful. He could indulge himself in a roundhouse punch that anyone could see coming, if they weren't already dazed and ready to fall.
Hank ducked the punch easily, ramming his fist directly into Manolo's nose with all the strength he could muster.
Manolo shrugged it off like it was a mosquito bite, delivering a savage blow to Hank's ear.
Hank saw stars and felt like he might fall, but his hands moved on sheer muscle memory, blocking Manolo's next two hits. He felt a battering ram crash into his ribs again and the bell dinged, ending the second round.
Manolo returned to his corner. His nose looked a bit swollen, and Roberto gave him some nasal spray. Other than that, Manolo looked as calm and confident as he had at the start of the fight.
For his part, Hank felt like he'd been beaten with an aluminum bat and stuffed into a trash compactor.
“I thought you said his nose was his off button,” Hank groaned, taking another gulp from the water bottle.
“It is, it is,” Bull assured him. “He's trying to hide it, but you'll see. The next couple rounds, he'll be like a whole different person, and you can bring The Hammer down on him. Trust me.”
Yeah, sure, Hank thought blearily. Trust the Nazi. Great. I'm a fucking dead man.
He glanced into the crowd and saw Beth standing next to one of the bleachers, looking at him. She was deathly pale, and her eyes looked like they were the size of dinner plates. Hank figured he must look like a real mess, based on her expression.
In that moment, Hank wished he'd stayed home on the anniversary of his family's death. He wished he hadn't followed Beth into that bathroom. He wished he'd ignored that stupid asshole in the bar instead of attacking him. If he could just take back one of those three bad decisions, he'd still be riding with the Warriors with the free wind in his hair, and Beth would still be drinking and telling bad jokes with her uncle.
Maybe he'd have hooked up with Beth eventually, and maybe he wouldn't have. But at least neither of them would be trapped in this insane nightmare today.
The bell dinged again. Round Three.
Hank heaved himself off the stool in the corner and propelled his body forward, expecting another flurry of devastating punches. But Manolo was moving more slowly than he had in the previous rounds. His gloves were hanging lower than they had been, and his steps were unsteady. Hank saw that the muscles in Manolo's face seemed slack, and his eyes were glazed and unfocused.
Well, I'll be a son of a bitch, Hank thought. The shot to the nose worked after all. I've never seen a single punch scramble someone's brain so much, but hey, gift horses and all that.
Now this is for my ribs, you cocksucker.
Hank danced up to Manolo, firing a trio of punches into his sides. He felt one of Manolo's ribs give way under his fist, and expected him to retaliate.
Manolo's eyes rolled over to him blankly, like the eyes of a cow about to be slaughtered. It almost seemed like he didn't recognize Hank, or where they were.
Hank's left hand connected with Manolo's jaw. The huge man grunted loudly, took a step backward, and fell down on his ass in the middle of the ring.
The Warriors and Aryans shrieked like banshees, and DiNovi started to count to ten.
Hank frowned. Something about this felt wrong. There was no way in hell that a fighter like Manolo would suddenly turn into a worthless palooka after just one punch, no matter how sensitive his nose was. He was acting like he was brain damaged.
When DiNovi reached six, Manolo hauled himself off the canvas and staggered to his feet. He tried to lift his gloves to protect his face, but his arms were trembling, as though his fists were lead weights. He shuffled forward like a ninety-year-old.
Hank moved in, tapping him with a few light punches to test him. Manolo reared back and swung, his fist missing Hank's face by at least a foot and a half. He made an anguished sound like a wounded elephant, stumbling forward and almost falling again.
The bell dinged, and the fighters returned to their corners.
“See? What did I tell you?” Bull cawed triumphantly. “You've got him! Just a few more taps in the next round, and he's going down!”
Hank shook his head. “Something's wrong with him.” At the other end of the ring, he saw Roberto chewing out Manolo, who didn't seem to hear a word.
“Damn right there's something wrong with him,” Bull agreed. “He's a wetback who thought he could step into the ring with a white man and win.”
Bull's words turned Hank's stomach, and so did the thought of beating up a man who could barely stand. “No. Something's really wrong. We should stop the fight.”
“You're about to stop the fight. Hard. Now go out there and show him the face of the Master Race.”
Hank felt helpless. His gut was telling him that this would end badly, but he knew he wasn't in any position to go against Bull and throw in the towel. If he was going to survive in here, he had to see this through.
The bell dinged and Hank stood up dutifully, ready to end this.
This time, Manolo didn't even bother to lift his arms. They hung at his sides, swinging like pendulums. His knees were shaking, and his head was moving from side to side, as though he was
trying to clear the cobwebs.
Hank stepped up to him and threw a punch at his stomach.
Manolo's entire body began to convulse. The veins in his face and neck stood out, and he was wheezing and choking. He lurched forward and his mouth guard fell out, followed by a torrent of thick, ropy vomit and saliva.
Hank jumped back just as Manolo fell forward onto his face and stopped moving.
There was an uneasy murmur from the crowd as DiNovi crouched next to Manolo, flipping him over onto his back and examining him. After a few moments, DiNovi looked up, his eyes wide.
“He's dead.”
The Aryans erupted into cheers and applause while the Sinners took to their feet, shrieking and cursing and accusing. Hank felt a stab of fear, wondering whether the two factions would simply crash together like tidal waves, tearing each other apart. Could this be enough to start a riot? Jesus, what the hell happened here?
What had he done?
Chapter 14
Beth
Roberto's scream of anger and grief echoed off the walls of the gym. Seconds later, it was joined by a chorus of prisoners' voices yelling and swearing all at once—a sound like the ocean, like waves crashing against the shore.
Waves of panic rippled through Beth as the first few prisoners started attacking each other over the fight's outcome. She'd barely had time to process how suddenly Manolo had keeled over and died, and now she found herself in the middle of a hurricane of violence. No matter which way she turned, it seemed like she was inches away from a wall of enraged convicts ready to destroy anything in their path.
They're going to riot, her mind yammered as she pulled her baton from her belt. They're going to take over this gym and take the guards hostage, and there'll be nothing to stop all those inmates from raping me, oh God, oh please, not this, not this, get me out of here...
As if on cue, she felt a hand on her ass and whirled around, raising her baton. She was just in time to see the face of a Sinner named Hooper leering at her lasciviously before Hank grabbed him from behind, choking him out.
“Thank you,” Beth said breathlessly.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Hank urged her through gritted teeth. “Now.”
Beth turned to run, but her path was blocked by a pair of inmates grappling with each other. One was Hank's cellmate Ram, and the other was a gaunt Sinner whose name Beth didn't know. The Sinner slammed Ram's head against the floor with a sickening crunch, and Ram's body went limp.
An alarm started to honk loudly, and the doors of the gym opened. Armored members of the Emergency Response Team flooded in, using their plexiglass shields to push the prisoners apart into groups. Most of the inmates immediately put their hands on their heads when they saw the guards in riot gear coming toward them. A handful of them didn't, and seconds later, they were facedown on the floor with heavy boots pressed against their necks and backs as batons pummeled their kidneys.
“Lockdown!” Butler hollered. “Go back to your cells at once. This is your one and only warning. Anyone not in their cells in five minutes will be spending the next month in the infirmary or the hole.”
The ERT guards hustled the groups of prisoners to their respective cell blocks. Beth saw that Hank was holding his sides in pain, and his face was starting to bruise and swell. After the punishment he'd taken during the fight, subduing Hooper had probably taken the last of his strength.
Beth walked over to Butler. “Hall is in bad shape. I'll take him to the infirmary.”
Butler's lip curled into a snarl of contempt. “I'll take him to the infirmary, along with Ram. You take these prisoners back to block G and lock them in good and tight.”
The convicts started to file out of the gym. Just like that, the maelstrom had blown over as quickly as it had started. As Beth led her prisoners out, she glanced over her shoulder and saw ERT members hovering over Manolo's body.
What had happened? Beth hadn't watched a lot of boxing matches, and she was extremely relieved that Hank hadn't been crippled or killed—but even she could see that something strange had taken place, based on how rapidly Manolo had crashed and burned after the first two rounds.
She led the prisoners to their cells, locking them in. When she got to Foley's cell, she realized he was still wearing a dress, and she felt a pang of concern for him as she locked him in with the three Sinners. Given the gang members' pent-up aggression after the aborted riot, she could only imagine how they'd take it out on Foley once they were alone. Still, there was nothing she could do about it.
When she got to Bull's cell, he said, “Leave mine unlocked. And when Hank comes back from the infirmary, make sure his is unlocked, too.”
“Butler said to make sure everyone was locked in,” Beth replied uncertainly. “He didn't say anything about making exceptions.”
Bull rolled his eyes. “Butler takes orders from me, and you take orders from Butler. Ergo, you take orders from me, and I say leave the cells unlocked. Now are you going to do what you're fucking told, or do I have to remind you that I've got people on the outside who know where you live?”
Beth sighed and left the cell unlocked. Bull pulled his white curtain over the door.
After that, there wasn't much for Beth to do except pace around the cell block, worrying about Hank. He could have internal injuries, or one of his broken ribs could have punctured an organ. And still, he hadn't hesitated to come to her aid when she was in danger.
She desperately wanted to go to the infirmary and check on him, but she knew she couldn't risk it. Even though there were other guards to watch over G block, she'd seen the look of suspicion on Butler's face when she offered to take Hank to the prison doctor. He already knew she was affiliated with the Warriors. But if he suspected that she was particularly involved with Hank, that could make for bigger problems for both of them.
Her footsteps echoed against the concrete walls and floors. Every minute seemed to last an hour. She could still taste the adrenaline at the back of her throat from the panic in the gym.
Finally, a short, squat female guard named Welker led Hank back to his own cell. She had thinning brown hair, bad teeth, and a nose that resembled a pig's snout. She was one of the COs who worked for the White Knights, and in the locker room, Beth had noticed several neo-Nazi tattoos on Welker's arms and body.
Hank was still shirtless, with medical tape around his ribs. Most of his face was purple from the punches he'd taken. Welker pulled his cell door shut, but left it unlocked before walking away.
Beth looked around to make sure no one was watching. Then she crept over to Hank's cell, sliding the door open and leaning in.
“How are you holding up?”
Hank was lying on his cot with his arms at his sides. One of his eyes was swollen shut. The other was simply closed.
“I've had worse,” he said. It sounded like he was trying to move his face as little as possible when he talked. “You shouldn't be in here. Someone's going to wonder why you are.”
“I couldn't help it. I had to make sure you were okay.”
Hank's eye opened, and he glared at her. “You need to stop trying to look out for me and start looking out for yourself instead.”
Beth knew Hank was trying to protect her, but his words still stung. She hated how he kept pushing her away and saying it was for her own good, as though she was still some kid who needed to be told what was best for her.
“Thank you for saving me,” she said quietly.
“You already thanked me,” he answered flatly. “But I won't always be there to save you, especially if Butler and the other guards decide you're a problem. Now get the fuck out of my cell before you get us both in trouble.” He closed his eye again.
Beth opened her mouth to say more, but she didn't want to upset him. There was plenty to say, but for now, it was enough to know that he hadn't been injured too badly.
She left the cell, closed the door behind her, and resumed her pacing through the cell block.
Chapter 15
Hank heard the cell door slide open again, and at first, he assumed Beth had returned. He wasn't sure how that would make him feel.
Angry that she'd disregarded his warnings?
Or relieved?
He hated having to talk to her that way, but if he really cared about her safety, he knew he didn't have a choice. He liked that she cared about him and he wished he could reciprocate, but the closer she tried to get to him in here, the more dangerous things would be for her.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Bull standing at the foot of his cot, smiling down at him.