Convict’s Angel (Outlaw Order MC #9)

Chapter 1 - Convict

I know the signs before anyone else.

There's a rhythm to a prison, a pulse you feel in your bones after you've been locked up long enough. A year and a half in Pine Haven Correctional taught me to read the air like others read books. Today, the air tastes wrong.

The guard who normally patrols my cell block is missing. The replacement is green, jumpier than usual. In the yard earlier, men gathered in tight clusters, voices low, eyes darting. That never happens unless something big is coming.

I keep my head down, focusing on the small square of floor in my cell. Three more days. Seventy-two hours until I walk out those gates and breathe free air again. I've waited too long to fuck it up now.

"Thompson!" A guard I've never seen before appears at my cell. "Mail."

I don't move immediately. Mail comes in the morning, not late afternoon. But I approach slowly, taking the envelope he slides through the bars. It's from Dice—my little brother's messy scrawl unmistakable. The guard moves on quickly, not even waiting to see if I'll open it.

Another red flag.

I tear open the envelope and find a single piece of paper with two words: "Be careful. Someone is coming for you."

Shit. Dice must have heard something through the Outlaw Order. His MC has connections everywhere, even in here. I should have taken him up on his offer to join when I get out, but I've never been good at following orders.

I crumple the note and flush it down the toilet. Whatever's coming, I don't need evidence connecting me to anything.

The first scream comes at 3:42 PM. I know because I'm staring at the cheap plastic clock on the wall when it happens. Then another. Then the unmistakable sound of a guard's baton hitting the floor.

It's starting.

My cellmate, Miller, sits up from his bunk, eyes wide. "What the fuck was that?"

"Stay here," I tell him, moving to the cell door to look out. "Whatever happens, don't leave this cell."

Down the corridor, I see inmates pouring out of their cells. Someone got keys. Guards are being overwhelmed, some fighting back, others running. Blood already stains the concrete floor.

Prison uprising. And I'm caught in the middle of it, three days before my release.

"Fuck," I mutter, stepping back from the door. I've managed to stay out of serious trouble this entire bid, focusing on my release date, on seeing Dice again. I'm not getting involved in this shit. Not now.

The cell block door bursts open, and inmates from B block flood in. Among them, I spot a group of guys I don't recognize—big, pale-skinned men with distinctive Irish accents shouting over the chaos. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

Miller peers over my shoulder. "This is bad, man."

"Yeah." I scan the cell for anything I can use as a weapon. Nothing but a few books and our personal items. "Get back."

A face appears at our cell door—a redheaded guy with a neck tattoo of a shamrock. He grins when he sees me, all yellow teeth and malice.

"Thompson! Just the man we're looking for." Two more guys appear behind him. One has keys.

I step back, squaring my shoulders. "I'm not looking for trouble. I'm out in three days."

Shamrock laughs. "That's the thing. Some people would prefer you didn't make that date."

The cell door swings open. Miller backs himself into the corner, hands up, wanting no part of this. Smart man.

I don't have that luxury. Three guys enter, two with makeshift knives. I recognize the distinctive shape of melted plastic wrapped around razor blades.

"Nothing personal," Shamrock says, though his smile suggests otherwise. "Just business."

I've survived the whole year behind bars to die three days before freedom. As the first guy lunges, I sidestep, grabbing his wrist and using his momentum to slam him face-first into the wall. The crack of his nose breaking is satisfying, but I don't have time to enjoy it.

The second guy slashes at me. I feel the bite of the blade across my abdomen, hot and sharp. I drive my elbow into his throat, dropping him to his knees, gasping.

Shamrock is smarter, waiting for his opening.

When I turn to him, he feints left then slashes right.

Another cut, deeper this time, across my stomach.

The blade drags through skin, fat, and into muscle.

Blood soaks my prison-issued shirt immediately, spreading in a dark crimson stain from just below my ribs to my left hip.

"Fuck!" I kick him hard in the knee, feeling it give way beneath my foot. He goes down screaming.

But the damage is done. I press my hand to my stomach, feeling the warm wetness spreading. Too much blood. The cut is deep and long, at least eight inches. I can feel something inside trying to push out—intestines maybe. The thought makes me dizzy.

"You're dead, Thompson," Shamrock wheezes from the floor. "Boss sends his regards."

I have no idea who "boss" is or what I've done to deserve this. Last job I pulled before getting locked up was a solo gig, no Irish connections at all. But now isn't the time to ask questions.

I step over him, out into the chaotic corridor. Guards and inmates are fighting everywhere. Alarms blare. The sprinkler system activates, raining down water that mixes with blood on the floor.

I need medical help or I'm going to bleed out. The infirmary is on the other side of the building, past two security checkpoints that are probably overrun by now.

With one hand pressed to my wound, trying to hold everything in place, I make my way through the madness.

Each step sends waves of fire across my abdomen.

Inmates too busy fighting or escaping barely notice me.

A guard lies unconscious near the first checkpoint.

I grab his radio, hoping to call for help, but it's been smashed.

My vision starts to blur around the edges as I push through to the administrative wing. The blood loss is getting serious. Between my fingers, I can feel the slick, warm edges of the wound pulsing with each heartbeat. I stumble, catching myself against the wall, leaving a crimson handprint.

Three days. I was three fucking days from freedom.

The infirmary door is closed but unlocked. I shoulder it open, nearly falling as I step inside.

"Help," I manage to call out, but my voice sounds distant to my own ears.

The room appears empty at first. Then movement from behind a desk.

A woman rises slowly, fear etched on her face.

The nurse… I've seen her before during mandatory health checks.

Young. Curvy. Pretty in a soft way, with wild curly hair half-escaped from its ponytail.

Her eyes widen at the sight of me, bloodied and swaying.

"Please," I say, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "I'm not here to hurt you."

She hesitates, frozen in place. I can't blame her. I'm six-two, covered in tattoos and now blood, looking like every nightmare she's probably had about working in a prison.

"I need help," I add, and then my legs give out. I slide down the doorframe to the floor, leaving a trail of blood.

That seems to snap her into action. Professional instinct overrides fear, and she rushes forward.

"Lie back," she instructs, her voice steadier than I expected. Her hands, small but confident, move to my wound. "I need to see how bad it is."

I comply, gritting my teeth as she peels my soaked shirt away from the gash.

"This is deep," she says, already reaching for supplies. "The blade went through the external oblique muscle. You're lucky it didn't hit any organs." Her fingers probe gently at the edges where I can see fatty tissue poking through. "This needs multiple layers of stitches."

"Go for it. I can take it."

She works quickly, cleaning the wound. "This is going to hurt."

She's not wrong. The antiseptic burns like fire, especially when it hits the deeper part of the cut. I hiss but don't move.

"Hold still," she says, threading a needle. No time for an anesthetic in the middle of a riot. "Why aren't you out there with the others?"

I laugh, which sends fresh pain shooting through my abdomen. "I get out in three days. I'm not risking that for whatever this shit is."

Understanding crosses her face as she begins stitching. Her hands are remarkably steady.

"Then why are you bleeding?"

"Apparently, someone doesn't want me to make it to those three days." I grimace as the needle punctures my skin. "No idea who or why. Haven't made any Irish enemies that I know of."