Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
The rain had finally eased off, and the flowerbeds were bright with colorful blooms. As Sawyer walked beside his new shrink outside the admin building, he savored the feeling of sunlight on his skin.
Under a CO’s watchful eye, an inmate crew was raking the grass of the debris that had blown in.
Pit with his colorless eyes, tall and skinny Crack, short and wide Stub, Lick—into perversions, and Bomb, ex-military.
The leader, Slash, was a power-lifter and the biggest at six-two, about two-thirty pounds. A swastika tat decorated his scalp.
They were all nasty, fanatical bastards. How the hell had they received work assignments outside the building walls, let alone together?
Closer to the chain link fence, Ms. Virginia and another counselor sat at a picnic table. Most prison staff on break avoided areas with inmate workers, but Ms. Karen was surreptitiously smoking a cigarette—not something she’d get away with in normal staff areas.
Ms. Virginia had smiled at Sawyer but left him and his counselor to their privacy. He had to say, despite her loose fitting, unfeminine clothing and pulled-back hair, she was a pretty woman—and he’d recovered enough to notice.
It was interesting how different counselors could be.
Where Ms. Virginia tried to look unattractive, the therapist named Penelope acted more like a mare in heat.
The woman had an obsession with inmates, the more violent the better, and from rumors floating through the cells, she liked to fuck to stories of murder.
But Ms. Virginia was a good woman—and she belonged to Atticus. Competition for her attention wasn’t on the books, even if he’d been interested…which he wasn’t. He didn’t want a woman who’d examined his soul the way a pathologist might examine a man’s guts.
“Time we were heading in,” Wheeler said. So far, Jacob Wheeler seemed like a damn good counselor, even being the one to suggest an outside session.
Felt damn good to be outside a building and the enclosed yard spaces, even if still inside the perimeter fence.
Sawyer was getting better. No nightmares for a week, aside from the normal ones experienced by most prisoners. His depression—fucking pansy word—had lifted. Frustration still remained. The way each day disappeared with nothing to show for it could make a man crazy.
And he still felt as if he didn’t deserve any better.
“By the way, I have some exercises I want you to do this week,” Wheeler said. “I’ll print them off for you.”
“What kind of ex—”
A high-pitched sound interrupted him. Screams? He tilted his head. Although the minimum-security “park” was at the back corner of the prison grounds, noise always made its way through the heavy walls. This didn’t sound like the normal mass movement rumble of prisoners during mess times.
“Is there a fight?” Virginia called, rising from the table where she’d been sitting.
Sawyer exchanged glances with Wheeler.
“Sounds more like a riot in Yard A,” Wheeler said.
Sawyer frowned at the women. “Ms. Virginia, you should—
“Karen, stay put,” Wheeler said at the same time. Even as the lockdown alarm clanged, a dull noise came from outside the fence.
What the fuck?
A H1 Hummer topped a small hill and roared down the grassy slope, full-tilt toward the fence. Jesus. No one was in the driver’s seat.
A grunt, then ugly hoots made Sawyer turn. The yard workers were cheering. The CO lay on the ground, neck obviously broken. A moment’s inattention had turned deadly. One inmate brought his rake handle down on the CO again—although the guy was already dead.
A montage of gory images swam through Sawyer’s mind, blood everywhere, turned over vehicles, body parts of his teammates. He shook his head hard, forcing himself to stay in the present. Bitterness coated his tongue.
The heavy all-terrain vehicle hit the fence with a ground-shaking crash, uprooting a cemented-in post. Links snapped, another post tilted and toppled. Wrapped in chain link and razor wire, motor roaring, the vehicle fought the fence.
A gap appeared. More cheers came from the inmates. They tossed down their rakes.
Shit. The women were between the inmates and the fence. Sawyer backed toward them, Wheeler at his shoulder.
The inmates trotted closer.
Bomb spotted the women. “We got pussy here!” The inmate veered toward the women.
Rage seared Sawyer’s veins. He stepped into the bastard’s path. No way would Sawyer let Att’s woman be hurt. No fucking way. “Bomb, you got no time for women—or fighting. Just move on.”
Bomb lunged.
Sawyer threw a punch to his jaw and then blocked Stub’s incoming fist from the side. With the adrenaline rush, time slowed—but not enough. Six to one. Sucked.
Wheeler put a hard kick into Pit’s breadbasket. Good man—but it was still six to two.
The leader was hanging back, letting his boys do the fighting.
Oh, no. Punching her body alarm button over and over, Gin backed away, even as the inmates surrounded the table where she and Karen were.
The first one Sawyer had punched, Bomb, dodged past him. His jaw was bleeding profusely. “C’mon, cunt.” He seized her arm.
She slapped his hand away, kicked his shin, tried to kick higher to his privates. He blocked her with his thigh.
“Bitch.” He backhanded her so hard she fell to her knees. Pain shot through her cheek.
Grabbing her hair, Bomb yanked her to her feet, and she bit down on a scream. Tears blurred her vision.
“Prime pussy, eh, Slash,” he yelled.
Slash. Gin’s heart sank even as she continued to fight. That was the inmate who’d slammed her arm into the desk. She hadn’t noticed he was with the group. No. Please no.
His lips turned up, the effect ugly in a face scarred with tattoos and holes from piercings. His eyes were cruel as he stared at her. “The redheaded bitch is mine to rip up, Bomb. Bring her. For me.”
The words hit Gin like blows. No. Her heart felt as if it would explode inside her chest.
“Selfish bastard,” Gin’s captor muttered, then yelled, “Stub, grab the other one for us.”
The skinny, shortest inmate with broken-off teeth circled where Wheeler and Sawyer were fighting with the rest. He grabbed Karen as she tried to escape past him—and hit her over and over, battering her to the ground.
Gin tried to go help. Bomb kicked her legs out from under her. As she struggled to her hands and knees, grunts and shouts came from close. Farther away, the noise of the riot in Yard A was muffled but filled with fury, out of control. Alarms were going off…finally. So long. She got to her feet.
Holding his ribs, Wheeler was on one knee. A convict kicked him in the head, felling him. Sawyer was fighting with the inmate who had tats covering every inch of his skin.
“Move it, assholes,” Slash yelled and pointed to the fence. “Through the hole.”
Bomb grabbed Gin’s hair, dragging her after the group.
No. If the prisoners took her with them, she’d die. Die horribly. As they passed the still running Hummer, Gin grabbed the hand in her hair, spun, and kicked his testicles.
“Aaagh!” He fell to his knees, wheezing horribly.
She turned to run.
From the side, the tallest one shoved her straight into the Hummer. The impact stunned her, and she sagged, trying not to fall, blinking away blackness.
“Cunt.” Bomb was up. Enraged, he pinned her against the vehicle, hand around her throat, gripping, cutting off her air. She couldn’t breathe. Her fingernails scratched at his hand; her pulse roared in her ears.
Suddenly he was gone. She fell to her knees, gasping for oxygen, her hands to her throat.
She heard a sound like the snapping of sticks. Bomb’s body landed at her feet. Eyes open. Dead.
For a second, she couldn’t—couldn’t move.
“Run, girl!” Sawyer’s shout snapped through her, and she shoved off the Hummer. Another body—the heavily tattooed inmate—lay on the ground.
Sawyer was between two more, fighting for all he was worth. One staggered back. Then the leader lunged at Sawyer—and he had a long shank in his hand.
“No!” She ran at Slash, kicking at his legs, trying to scratch his eyes with her fingernails.
Someone ripped her off and landed on top of her so hard her breath exploded from her lungs.
Her ribcage bent painfully as he rested his weight on her.
He ground his groin into her. “Slash’s got plans for you. ”
He yanked her up, punched her in the gut, and dragged her to the fence.
Past Sawyer, who was on the ground, head turned toward her. Blood was pooling around him, red against the green grass. His eyes were open. Unblinking.
No. Grief hitched her breathing, despair filling her, as they dragged her through the gap in the fence.
“Who’s a pretty lady?” Atticus crooned to the mare, stroking her pregnant belly. “Won’t be long now, will it?”
In the next stall over, Wyatt Masterson was grooming a bay gelding. “I figure a couple of weeks. Appreciate you taking a look at her hoof.”
“No problem. Vets are always overloaded in the spring.” Once the snow melted, every domestic and farm animal was either in heat or dropping babies. Atticus had to wonder if the warmth affected human females the same way. He’d have to tell Gin, so he could enjoy her cute giggle again.
Wyatt bent to check the gelding’s hooves. “I’m glad we have you to call on now and then. Your folks must miss your know-how back in Idaho.”
Families were strange things, weren’t they?
Wyatt was an inch shorter and an inch narrower in the shoulders than his oversized brother Virgil was.
He, his brother Morgan, and Kallie had inherited and now ran the Masterson Wilderness Guides.
And they teased Virgil about abandoning the family business to be a cop.
Sounded familiar. “My parents are dead.” He nodded at Wyatt’s muttered “Sorry, man,” and added, “My youngest brother took over the ranch. He’s even better with animals than I am. Got a gift.”