Chapter 2 - The Shift in the Shadows
The scream echoing through the concrete halls of Lockrich didn’t belong to a weak man. It belonged to a predator who had just realized he was prey.
In cell 32B, the Russian accountant pressed his hands against his ears, trembling violently. Elias W. simply picked up his coarse towel, folded it into a neat square, and set it at the foot of his bunk. He didn’t smile. There was no joy in what was happening out there. Only the cold, mechanical turning of a wheel he had set in motion decades ago.
Down in the D-Block showers, Damon Hartstone Cole lay on the wet tiles, gasping for air. His jaw felt unhinged. Blood pooled around the drain. He looked up, expecting to see a rival gang, a group of new inmates trying to make a name.
Instead, he saw his own men.
Marcus, his right-hand man for five years, stood over him holding a heavy iron padlock wrapped in a laundry bag. Marcus wouldn't meet Damon’s eyes. He looked sick, terrified, but resolute.
"Why?" Damon choked out, spitting a tooth onto the tiles.
"I have a family on the outside, Damon," Marcus whispered, his voice cracking. "The Warden came to my cell ten minutes ago. He said if I didn't put you down, my daughter’s address gets leaked to the Reyes cartel tonight. I’m sorry."
Damon’s mind raced. The Warden? Warden Hayes had been on Damon’s payroll since day one. Why would Hayes suddenly order a hit on his best earner? Then, the memory of the cafeteria hit him like a physical blow. The old man.
Before Marcus could swing the lock again, the heavy steel door to the showers groaned open.
Warden Hayes walked in. His uniform was immaculate, but his face was slick with a terrified sweat. He didn't look at Damon. He looked at Marcus, nodding once. "That’s enough. Get out."
Marcus dropped the makeshift weapon and fled.
Hayes stepped over the puddle of Damon’s blood, his dress shoes clicking against the tile. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, tarnished silver pocket watch. He knelt beside Damon, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it.
"Do you know what this is?" Hayes asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Damon strained to focus. The watch cover had a deep scratch across the seal, and the initials E.W. were engraved on the back.
"He sent it to my office," Hayes stammered, wiping his brow. "Just the watch. Placed right on my desk. Nobody saw who did it. Nobody broke in. It was just... there. Do you know what it means when Elias W. sends you his watch, Cole?"
Damon gritted his teeth, holding his bleeding side. "It means he’s out of time."
"No," Hayes breathed, his eyes wide with a manic fear. "It means I am. He’s giving me exactly one hour to correct the disrespect you showed him. Or my entire life, my pension, my family, my breathing—it all stops."
Hayes pulled his sidearm, the heavy Glock trembling as he aimed it at Damon’s head.
"I can't let him take everything from me," the Warden said, tears welling in his eyes. "You signed your own death warrant, Damon. I'm just executing it."
Damon closed his eyes, bracing for the gunshot.
The heavy shower door clicked. A voice, low and ancestral, echoed through the steam.
"Put the gun away, Arthur."
Warden Hayes froze. The gun wavered. Damon opened his eyes to see Elias standing in the doorway, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his gray prison uniform.
"He offended me, Mr. W.," Hayes pleaded, desperate to prove his loyalty. "I'm fixing it. Just like the old days."
"The old days are dead," Elias said softly, stepping fully into the room. He didn't look at the gun. He looked at Damon. "And if you pull that trigger, Arthur, you’ll join them. Leave us."
Hayes lowered the weapon instantly. He nodded, backing away like a scolded child, and vanished into the corridor.
Elias walked over and crouched beside the towering, battered giant. Damon glared at him, pride still fighting through the pain.
"So what?" Damon spat blood. "You saved me to kill me yourself?"
Elias reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, faded photograph. He tossed it onto Damon’s chest.
Damon frowned, picking it up with a trembling, bloodied hand. It was a picture from twenty-five years ago. A young boy, maybe seven years old, standing on a porch holding a hand-carved wooden bear.
Damon’s heart stopped. All the air left his lungs.
It was him.
"Where did you get this?" Damon whispered, his voice suddenly small, stripped of all its prison-yard armor. "My house burned down when I was eight. Everything was lost."
Elias looked at him with that same sorrowful, heavy gaze from the cafeteria.
"Not everything," Elias said. "And not by accident."
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Elias stood up, turning his back to the broken man on the floor.
"Clean yourself up, son," Elias commanded softly. "We have a lot to talk about. And the people who actually burned your house down are coming for us both at midnight."
