Page 5 of Final Approach

Trudging down the hallway with him at my back, we passed the few other cells of men who’d negotiated their rooms for their lifetime stay. I nodded to a few of my lieutenants, signaling to them with an upward thumb behind my back. Meet me at the corner of the yard. We had business to discuss.

It was far easier to lead men into battle when you spoke their language. We lived in the largest prison in Brasília, with criminals from all over South America. Our men spoke Spanish or Portuguese, and sometimes broken English layered with Guarani. I spoke them all.

We walked through the open quarters — the collapsing buildings housing eight men to a room the size of mine. Sweat, piss, and semen soaked the walls while addicts stuck themselves with needles they found in the garbage piles, and rapists found their next victim night after night. I’d spent ten years in this shithole and built enough power for the privilege of my own space.

I’d take a bullet in the brain from Silva before I’d ever go back. I’d fire the bullet myself. The boy I’d been when I’d entered the prison had been barely a criminal. Now, I could say I belonged here — I’d earned my place at the top of the pile.

The desperate inmates shouted at me, their loudness an outward show of solidarity and respect. “Mad Dog! Cachorro Louco!” The nickname I’d chosen so long ago was now the only name I knew.

Instead of leading me to the yard, Silva shoved me forward into the smaller corridor past its entrance, toward the small cell block of office buildings.

“What the fu—” I started to protest when another guard flanked my left, a machine gun aimed at my torso. He shoved me into the largest office with a single desk with piles of paper and a sole chair in front of it. The Director’s room.

“Take a seat, Torres,” Director Gabriel Santos commanded, waving his hand toward the single metal chair.

Of all the people I hated, Gabriel Santos wasn’t one of them. The Director didn’t lead with a tiny dick — he led with purpose and heart, even though most of us didn’t deserve it. The prison was crowded and the most dangerous place in Brasília, but he gave us medicine when we were sick and fed everyone the same ration amount. He’d given Luis Castro, the only friend I’d ever had in the prison, a small funeral for his family after they’d taken his beaten body out of his cell. He took pity on the younger inmates as they adjusted to their new way of life.

I had been one of them.

So, I sat. Not for the other tiny-dicked men breathing down my neck behind me, but for the man who’d protected me before I could be taken out in a bag like Luis.

The tall, silver-haired man, in a too-tight dress shirt covered in yellow sweat stains, steepled his fingers as he stared down at me.

“There’s been a new development in your case, Torres. To relieve the burden on the prison system, we’ve made an appeal to other governments to take their citizens back, to live out the rest of their sentences in their home countries.”

He scanned my face for a reaction. Giving him an impassive stare, I showed nothing. He frowned.

“The Mexican government has agreed to your transfer, and the paperwork has finally gone through. You’ll be transported to Mexico immediately to live out the rest of your life sentence at their selected penitentiary.”

Anticipating change was a survival skill. Sensing danger was the difference between alive and dead. Yet this caught me by surprise. His words were simple, but they didn’t register.

Uncertainty settled heavy on my stomach. I didn’t like its unfamiliar taste. All I knew about Mexican prisons was from rumors. Actual uniforms, laundry services, educational services. Books. Luxuries well beyond my imagination after so long in this hell. My time here was waning. It was unlikely I would live another decade as leader. Someone — likely a cocky junior on my own crew — would take his chance with my life.

And someday he would win. I was a monster, but still a man. Man could die.

Still, the crumbling walls of this hell were all I had known for twenty years. My brain was at war: did I kiss Santos for my change in fortune, or kill him for the destruction of everything I’d built through the sacrifice of my soul?

As if sensing my creeping darkness, the Director moved to stand in front of me. I fell into the whites of his eyes locked on mine. Behind my right shoulder, Silva stiffened in distaste, jostling my cuffs.

“This is good news, Maddox.” Santos sighed and wiped a layer of sweat from his upper lip as he assessed me. “You never deserved to be here.” He waved his hands around for emphasis. “Nothing is worse than this place. You could make an appeal once you are in Mexico — have access to more lawyers than we do. You could have hope for a real life.”

A guttural snort cut through my silence. Any survivor knew hope was the most dangerous word of all. I’d fallen for it once. I was not foolish enough to fall for it again. Life in a new prison wouldn’t be the same as I’d faced when I came here barely a man. I knew how to command prisoners and bend them to my will, and I could do so no matter which set of walls I was locked inside.

A throat cleared behind us, and the Director’s gaze flitted to the sound. I turned awkwardly in my seat, my hands still clasped at the base of my spine. A young man with light brown skin and dark hair to match stood confidently between the cracking concrete.

“Right on schedule, I see.” He spoke in stilted Portuguese with a thick Spanish accent. “Excellent. Prisoner Torres, you will be coming with me.”

His cocky smile, combined with hardened dark eyes he did not earn in a place like this, made me instantly hate him. Small men with big guns were the most dangerous men of all.

“Agent Diaz has been assigned to your case,” Santos confirmed, stepping away from me to resume his position behind his desk. “We’ve been instructed to send you as-is, with the clothes on your back. The Mexican government will provide you with everything else.”

Most prisoners here only got the clothes they came in with, unless they traded something of value for something new to wear. I’d taken the clothes off of dead inmates' backs during my first few years as I outgrew the jeans and shirt of a wiry teenager. Now, every time I needed a fresh shirt, one was freely offered by any of my gang, but it was always used, never clean.

Even having state-provided clothes would be an upgrade.

I could choose to fight this. One quick move and I could snap Silva’s neck in half and buy myself some leverage. But for what?

The only item I would miss was my faded photo of Ana Patricia Gámez, the celebrity whose beautiful face kept me company on my darkest nights, the perfect vision when I only had my hand to fuck.