Maybe he’d pissed someone off on the outside. But he’d never ratted anyone out. In fact, he’d been convicted because someone had ratted on him. He’d gone down for manufacturing and distributing off-label genetic enhancements without knowing who had given him to the authorities.
Everyone from competitive athletes to thuggish gang members had been customers of his black-market enhancements. The money was good. But, like any high-risk, high-reward endeavor, his business had come with a price—one that had nearly cost him his life.
Kurt fiddled with a silver coin. It spun between his fingers as it vanished and reappeared. He saw Chris watching him and grinned. “Just started sleight-of-hand tricks with coins. Inspired by Shadow.”
“Shadow?”
“You know. American Gods. Neil Gaiman.” Kurt turned back to the coin. He watched it flip in and out of his own hand.
Maybe Chris would’ve seen the man in the library after all. Too quick to judge. “Shadow say you gotta learn something in prison.”
Guided by Kurt’s gaze, Chris watched the coin flip between the inmate’s fingers until it vanished. Kurt turned and looked alarmed until he presented it in his left hand. “It’s all about misguiding your audience.” A smile spread across his tattooed face again. “You a God-fearing man?”
“Not really.”
The coin spun between Kurt’s fingers again, back and forth, until he palmed it. He opened his hand and rotated his empty palm. “You might wanna pick a religion. Just because you didn’t die this time don’t mean they gave up. Gotta make yourself right with your god, make peace with yourself if you gonna die for something.”
Chapter 2
As a couple of stern-faced corrections officers escorted Chris back to his cell, he peered into the other barred windows of his fellow inmates. He caught Lash’s eyes, red and intense, through one window. Lash met his gaze but made no gesture of recognition, no greeting or acknowledgment. Haunted by Kurt’s words, Chris wondered if Lash was a god. Or maybe an angel sent down by a protective god. He could not fathom any logical reason why the man would have protected him.
Before the attack, he had never looked at Lash with anything but fear and avoidance. He never spoke to the man, since he was too afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. Lash seemed like a vicious dragon, coiled in muscle, ready to strike out when threatened.
Rumors had spread that Lash had been sentenced to life for a series of murders in which he had rendered the victims limbless. And rumor also said that he had needed no other weapon than his own hands.
Still, despite the ease with which Lash could bench press a bar loaded with weight plates, he had rarely lived up to his reputation and impressive physique. Chris knew of no incident in which the man had attacked anyone that hadn’t first come after Lash.
He wondered what had caused the inmate to come to his rescue. As far as he knew, he had never done anything to earn Lash’s sympathy. He’d never lavished the man with flattery or bribes like other prisoners to warrant favor.
“During recreation, you stay in your cell.” The guard secured the electric and manual locks to the cell. His boyish face and smooth skin did not match his deep voice. Chris wondered if the mismatched attributes had resulted from biological enhancements. “Library visits will be restricted as well, unless you’re escorted.”
He recalled Kurt’s warning in the infirmary. The threat to Chris’s life still hung in the air like an infectious disease, and the guards knew it, too. Invisible but deadly. Symptoms could rear up at any time. Another bout and he might not make it. Lying in his bed, riddled with confusion, it took him far too long to realize that his cellmate Vincent was gone. It wasn’t lunchtime, recreation, or work shift. The small collection of paper books, a private journal, a rotating holo of his deceased wife, and a jar of pencils sat on Vincent’s small desk.
“Here it is.”
The door locks clinked open and a guard pushed another man into the cell. The prisoner held a box filled with belongings.
Chris sat on the edge of his bed. “What’s going on?”
“Vincent’s dead. Frank’s your new cellie.” The guard slid the cell door closed and locked it.
Frank, wrinkled and round, placed his box on the empty bed. “Hey, guy’s still got all his stuff here.”
The guard shrugged. “It’s yours now.” He walked away.
Wrinkles creased Chris’s forehead. A mixture of apprehension and dread replaced the confusion as the words coalesced more clearly. He repeated them in his head. “Vincent’s dead. Vincent’s dead.”
Though his cellmate had claimed to have murdered a man in a crime of passion, Vincent had never intimidated or alarmed him. Chris had never worried about his belongings with Vincent in the cell, nor had he been afraid to close his eyes at night. He might have even called the fellow inmate a friend.
Frank shoveled through the small collection of Vincent’s old books and shook them out over the floor. Finding nothing of interest, he picked up a journal.
A sudden protective instinct flared in Chris. “Wait. That’s mine.” He stood up and tugged on the journal latched in Frank’s hands.
“Guard said all your dead cellie’s stuff is mine.”
Chris yanked it away. “This wasn’t Vincent’s.”
“Let me see.”
Chris shook his head and stashed it away next to a couple other journals he had filled with pencil and charcoal sketches. “It’s private.”
Frank shrugged. Though he stood a full head shorter than Chris, he narrowed his eyes and stepped forward. “If you’re hiding anything in there that you should be sharing, I’ll get mine one way or another.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” Chris said. He took a step toward Frank. The man’s breath washed over his face. He fought to prevent himself from cringing at the smell of rotten eggs and burnt coffee.
The aggression in Frank’s face subsided. He laughed.
Chris stepped back, surprised, but still defensive.
“Glad you’re not one of them pansy boys.” He held out his hand.
Chris took it, returned the handshake hesitantly, and introduced himself. “You a newbie, too?”
Frank chortled. “Nah. New to B-block. Not to Fulton. After that riot, guards say the warden wants to mix everybody up, break up the gangs and whatnot. Plus, I heard there’s a bounty on someone’s head here in B-block, but everyone’s been tight lipped about the whole thing.” He leaned in. Rotten eggs stung Chris’s nostrils again. “You wouldn’t happen to know who that’d be, would you?”
Chris forced a laugh and shook his head. A sly smile spread across Frank’s cracked lips as the round old man rubbed his hands together. Maybe Frank didn’t know as much as Kurt.
He wondered if this bounty interested the old man. Maybe he should heed Kurt’s advice and pick a god or religion to save him. In any case, he doubted he would be able to sleep with both eyes closed. Might as well take Kurt’s advice and pray.
Chapter 3
Snores like saw blades chewing fresh pine bellowed from Frank’s cot. The groans of the building and the howls of wind rushing through the ventilation ducts resonated in Chris’s cell. Each time another convict’s voice was raised in the darkness, his heart fluttered. His eyelids, though heavy, remained wide and open.
Despite the fear that gripped him and the itchiness of his healing wounds, exhaustion enveloped him until he could no longer resist. His fitful sleep conjured up dreams of Veronica. Her pale blue eyes shone against the dark silhouette of her lithe body. Hardly more than a shadow, she danced in silent, graceful arcs across a stage bathed in blue light.
Her body lit up as the moon broke overhead. Silver flashes of long hair fluttered around her face. Then she stopped. Her mouth opened, screaming silently. Chris could see the words form before he heard them.
“Get up. Get up.” Her words became masculine and harsh. The stench of halitosis washed over Chris and jarred him awake. Frank’s yellow eyes bored into his own as Chris reco
iled from his cellmate’s breath. “Wake up! Surprise inspection time, buddy.”
The clatter of voices filled the block.
“If you was hiding anything in that book of yours, better get rid of it real quick,” Frank said.
“Wasn’t hiding anything.” Then again, he didn’t know what might be in it. He jumped to the desk and grabbed Vincent’s journal.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
Ignoring Frank, he flipped through the journal. No hidden packets, no small compartment carved into the journal’s cover. Just writing. Pages of cursive text filled Vincent’s journal. A couple of scribbled drawings, not too dissimilar from the contents of Chris’s own journals. Nothing stood out to him as suspicious and, at least, no hidden razors or other contraband fell out from the flipping pages. He hoped the contents of the journal appeared innocuous enough not to evoke suspicion if the guards scrutinized it.
When the guards came to their cell, the small hatch below the barred window in the door slid open. Chris and Frank stuck their wrists through, one at a time, offering them up for temporary binding. The corrections officers ordered them to the back of the cell. Two guards entered as another stood watch on the catwalk outside. They turned over both inmates’ mattresses. With wide swipes, one of the guards spilled Chris’s journals on the floor. They shone flashlights into the sink and stuck a thin scanning probe into the toilet to spy on the pipes.
“Man, that riot got you guys riled up,” Frank said.
One of the officers scowled. “Quiet.” He kicked one of the books across the floor. “Looks like we’re all clear.”
Another guard held up a comm card and tapped on the small screen. “Christopher Morgan, you will need to gather your belongings and come with us.” The other corrections officer released the plastic ties around Chris’s wrists and handed him a plastic bag.
He gathered up the journals. Among the hardback books and loose-leaf pages, a paper photograph of Veronica curled out from under a notebook. It had been creased in the search. He refolded it and tucked it into one of the sketchbooks in his bag.
The man at the door frowned. “That it?”
Chris nodded.
“Follow me.”
“Nice knowing you,” Frank said.
***
The warden drummed his fingers on the desk as he scanned projections of text. He squinted at the words. Rosacea colored the man’s sunken cheeks. A plastic fan rotated back and forth over the desk. Chris waited, his hands in his lap, as the warden hummed. After finishing his tune in a crescendo, the warden’s eyes shot up. “You’re set for release.”
“Sir?”
The warden looked Chris up and down. His nose bobbed like a rabbit sniffing the air. “You want to leave this place or not?”
“I do.”
“You do what, kid? Leave or not?”
“I do want to leave, sir.”
“You aren’t the only one.” The warden raised a single white eyebrow that lifted like a floating cloud. Each little hair fluttered in the wind of the fan. He leaned across the desk. “There are others who’d pay good money to take your place. I hope you don’t take it for granted.”
Opening his mouth to speak, Chris thought better of it and stifled the questions seeded in his mind. Instead, he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Getting out a year early.” The warden’s eyes narrowed. “But you’re still on parole. You do understand that, right? Need to get yourself a job—a real job—or you’ll be one of my boys again. Capisce?”
“Yes, I understand, sir. I’ve got to get myself a job.” Repeating the warden’s words, Chris felt like a dejected parrot. The thought of regular checkups and random visits by a parole officer, along with the pressure of finding a job, squashed the budding optimism brought on by his release. If he made one bad decision—hell, if they suspected he’d made one bad decision—he could end up right back in the same block with the same unknown men that wanted to stick another knife in his side.
“Apparently, you’ve already got one job offer on the plate. Must be one of those bleeding-heart liberals looking to reform a dumbass ex-con. Whatever the case, if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be signing off on your release. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Chris was dubious but didn’t question the warden. He wanted out. He’d be delivered from the dangers of prison. But then again, whoever wanted him dead might not be contained by these concrete walls. Maybe the list that Kurt had spoken of came from the outside. Maybe he was being tossed from the ten-gallon aquarium into the shark tank.
What could he do? Tell the warden he felt safer here? That he’d like to be Lash’s cellmate?
The warden stood up, indicating for Chris to do the same. “Ride’s waiting outside. Better hurry before they change their mind.”
As he scrounged for ideas of who had come for him, Veronica’s dreamy, pale blue eyes flashed in his mind. Hope welled up like an unleashed geyser. Maybe she had come for him. Changed her mind. Forgiven him.
Rationality prevailed, and he dashed his own hopes against the unyielding stones of reality.
Veronica would never come, not after what he had said to her. Shame and regret turned his thoughts toward his parting words with her. She had tried to kiss him one last time, but he had turned away and pushed her aside.
He had been a fool.
***
When the gates closed behind him, Chris stood alone in the narrow walkway between chain-link fences with barbed-wire tops. He clutched the plastic bag of his belongings in his right hand. The sack held the journals from his cell—both his and Vincent’s––and the comm card that the guards had confiscated when he had been committed to the Fulton State Penitentiary. Sunlight fell across him in a warm blanket even as a brisk wind whistled and stung at his face. He absorbed the outdoor air, breathing it in deeper.
Once more, he looked at the prison. The structure itself appeared no more ominous than a misplaced office building, except for that tall fence tracing its perimeter. Past it, across the parking lot where he headed, trees grasped at the gray sky with barren limbs.
He trudged on. A bullet-shaped Lincoln idled between the lane and the parking lot. A deep black tint obscured the interior as the electric motor whirred.
As he approached, the front door opened. “Christopher Morgan, come in.”
The person that greeted him wore a slim suit and aviator-style sunglasses. With his slick black hair, he resembled a male model that might adorn any number of advertising images on the news streams and entertainment feeds, if it weren’t for the pallor of his skin.
Chris hesitated.
The man neither smiled nor scowled.
A cold wind tugged at the nape of Chris’s neck, and he shivered. He envisioned the man in front of him handing over a hit list to a lackey. That lackey would pass the names on to an inmate with all the right connections, and the next day, men would die, bleeding to death on the floor of the cell block where Chris had almost lost his own life. Fresh to the world outside concrete walls and constant surveillance, he might be about to surrender his new freedoms to a man he had never met. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to offer you a job that I’m certain you’ll accept.”
“How the hell do I know you aren’t trying to kill me or something?” He realized the absurdity of the question but stood with arms crossed. He didn’t expect this stranger to answer honestly if he intended to have Chris killed. But the man would at least know Chris suspected his motives. Still, he felt like a child about to get in a white panel van to help a sleazy man search for a lost puppy.
“I’ll be honest: you’re worth far more to me alive than dead. That’s why I appealed for your release.”
“You pay the warden off or something like that?”
“Something like that.” The man waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing for you to be concerned about.”
“I am concerned. Some guy pulls a couple strings to get me out of prison and now he tells me he wants t
o offer me a job. Damned right, there’s something odd about that.” He kicked at the loose gravel on the asphalt, ready to turn around. Swallowing, he looked back up at the man. “What the hell makes you think I’d be any good for this job, anyway?”
The man exhaled and readjusted his sunglasses. With his thumb and index finger, he played with a silver ring on his right hand. It swiveled around his bone-white finger. “The reason you went to prison is why I want you to take this job.”
Chris frowned.
“At least hear me out. I’ll give you a ride back to your condo. You don’t need to make a decision today, but I want you to consider my offer.”
If this guy wanted him dead, he could kill him now. No need to wait until the condo. “What the hell.” Taking one last glance at the twenty-five-foot-tall chain-link fences that had contained him for the longest eight months of his life, he ducked into the open door of the Lincoln.
Chapter 4
The car whirred onto Route 29, headed north toward Baltimore. The sound of the Lincoln’s rubber tires on the road, though muffled, whispered into the cabin. Black leather covered the enveloping seats and adorned the interior door panels. Blue numbers glowed from the speedometer, accompanied by the light of the projected road map from the control screen.
The man in the suit sat in the driver’s seat, but he didn’t operate the steering wheel. Instead, he faced Chris as the car drove itself on its preordained path to Chris’s Federal Hill condo in Baltimore.
His head resting in his palm and his elbow situated against the window, Chris gazed over the Patuxent River. A dense fog, rising in wisps, obscured the snaking body of water.
“It’s nothing that will be out of your range of research experience,” the man said.
“How can I possibly accept a job from you if you won’t even tell me who you are?”
“Simple. Tell me that you want the job.”
The Black Market DNA Series: Books 1-3 Page 2