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Cade’s a repeat offender for contraband, or clavo if you’re Leroy. So far I’ve seen his ass get dragged to the SHU for weed, a knuckle-duster and a cell phone (fuck knows how he got that in here). He scowls, smacking Leroy’s hand away.
“Fuck you, man.”
I pass him a pack of smokes, raising an eyebrow. “What was it this time?”
Cade opens the pack and takes three, tucking them into the top pocket of his jumpsuit for later. “Lewd images of a graphic sexual nature,” he recites, spooning food into his mouth.
Marco erupts into hails of laughter. “Porn? You got busted for a week for lookin’ at pussy?”
Cade just shrugs it off, swallowing down his meal. “They’ll screw me for anything. You know that.”
“Yeah, man, we do. They still riding you hard?” Marco asks.
Cade casts a suspicious glance around the tables, eyes narrow. He blows out a deep breath. Ever since he’s been in here, he’s been the target of attacks from both the Arians, the Mexicans, and the prison guards, although no one is saying why. Least of all Cade. The prison admin want him to spill his guts over something, and the gangs are afraid he will. Thus far he’s been on lock down, refusing to even tell the three of us whatever this dark shit is that’s threatening his life on a daily basis. “Offered me WITSEC this time,” he admits.
Leroy thumps his arm. “Damn, dude. You know they give you a salary for life when you join WITSEC? Free money. You don’t gotta do nothing for the rest of your days!”
“Apart from look over your shoulder,” I say. Cade gives me a nod—I understand. The others are petty criminals. Leroy broke into a hardware store and stole a power drill. That crime would have landed him in Lompoc instead of a supermax if the stupid fucker hadn’t bludgeoned the security guard who caught him half to death. Same story with Marco. He was a small time dealer on the outside, probably would have scored twelve months in minimum security if he hadn’t assaulted a cop trying to escape. These guys have no idea what it’s like working in organized crime. I do, and Cade does, too. He hasn’t told me, but I fucking know he’s in some deep shit. WITSEC is nowhere near as safe as the cops and politicians make it out to be. There’s always a way. A person to be threatened. A computer to be hacked. And then you’re dead. We eat our food, and we don’t talk about it anymore.
In the end, worrying about a flawed witness protection system doesn’t really matter. Cade doesn’t get to join WITSEC; he doesn’t even make it out of Chino. Three weeks later, during one of the rare moments the UN aren’t in session, an Arian named Spider stabs my friend three times in the back. Kidneys. Liver. Lungs. A professional hit. The guards carry his limp body down the gangway, past the open door of my cell where I’m doing chin ups, leaving a river of blood behind them. He doesn’t come back.
The official line is that Cade Preston is died of his injuries.
This guy, this stranger…he looks dangerous. Zeth freezes in the hallway, staring straight at him, jaw clenched. And he just accused him of being dead? I have this awful sinking sensation in the pit of my gut. Zeth looks like he put a bullet in this guy, buried him, only to find out that he dug himself out of his shallow grave and has come back to life. The frightening thing is that that’s entirely possible. Was Zeth supposed to put this guy down? Is out and out warfare about to be unleashed? Zeth just picks up his clothes and gets dressed, frowning slightly.
“Hey, Mal, why don’t you go see if the boys need anything, huh?” The stranger asks the guy who was mortifyingly watching Zeth and I have sex only five minutes ago. Mal looks mildly put out but, at a stern look from the dark-haired guy down the hall, does what he’s asked and leaves.
Now that he’s fully dressed, Zeth seems to have gathered himself together a little. “So you’re a Widower, Cade? I guess that makes sense,” he rumbles. He sounds…I have no idea how he sounds. I can’t figure out what’s going on with the stormy expression he’s wearing. Cade scuffs the toe of one boot against the heel of the other, nodding.
“I guess it does, huh? You’re probably very confused right now.”
“Could say that.”
The tension between these two is stifling. Cade seems faintly apologetic, while Zeth is definitely wired to blow a fuse.
“They moved me after the stabbing. I got put in solitary for the remainder of my sentence.”
“They put you in solitary for five months?”
“Yeah, man. They pushed pretty hard. And then they pushed harder. I wouldn’t give them what they wanted, so they left me in there to rot. Said I knew where to find ’em if I changed my mind.”
So prison. Zeth knows this guy from prison, and by the sounds of things Zeth thought he had died inside. I clear my throat—a timely reminder of my existence. Cade glances up at me, shocked to see me still standing there. Apparently Zeth feels the same way. “Uh, Naomi, why don’t you go get ready for later? I need to have a conversation with this guy.”
A conversation. And not a conversation conducted with his fists? I’m so curious about who the hell this guy is, but I can tell there’s no point objecting. I suddenly feel very, very dirty. I need a shower, and I’m kind of steaming mad at Zeth. He fucks me in a hallway in front of a complete stranger, doesn’t have the decency to notice the complete stranger, and then ditches me to go hang out with an old prison buddy? This sounds way too much like something out of White Trash Days of Our Lives. I give him a pointed look and turn my back, not even bothering to answer him. Our room is only twenty feet away—twenty freaking feet and he couldn’t make it that far—and I’m sure he hears the loud reverberation when I slam the door.
