Page 1 of Pride

PROLOGUE

Fisher

For the last six years, seven months, thirty days, and twelve hours, I was confined to a six-foot by eight-foot cell. It wasn’t easy, pleasant, or humane, but it was my life.

I had no idea when I volunteered to go to war as a US Marine that I’d soon be serving an eighty-month sentence for manslaughter. The man who was killed was a noncombatant. Amidst a few dozen locals who were firing AK-47s at my fellow Marines, the men in my fire team mistook his walking stick for a weapon.

I was twelve hours away from the end of my prison sentence, and I had a decision to make. I lived in a world of black and white. Decisions – at least for me – came easy. They fell on one side of the line or the other. Everything life offered me was either right or it was wrong.

Nothing was gray.

Sitting alone at one of the many stainless-steel tables in the cellblock, I was preparing to enjoy the last snack of my prison sentence. Smuggled into the cellblock from the chow hall, the chocolate chip cookie was contraband, but it was a risk I was willing to take. Some idiot, however, decided he was going to steal it from me.

Correction.

Attempt to steal it from me.

The unmistakable sound of keys rattling in the distant corridor warned me of the approaching guards – undoubtedly coming to douse me with pepper spray, beat me senseless, and stuff me into a dingy cell in the prison’s Special Housing Unit.

It wouldn’t be the first time, that’s for fucking sure.

“Inmate Knox, stand down!” a guard shouted across the cellblock.

I wasn’t about to break the stare of the man in front of me. In prison, to look away was a sign of weakness. Although I had many faults, being weak wasn’t one of them. I’d never backed away from a good fight in my entire life. Twelve hours from my release or not, I had no intention of breaking a life-long tradition. My foolish pride wouldn’t let me.

I hadn’t cut my hair once since I was locked up, but I wasn’t about to allow him to use it to his advantage. With my eyes still locked on his, I tilted my head back and slid the rubber band from my wrist.

“Put it down,” I said through my teeth.

More than likely it was a dare from another inmate – some form of initiation into one of the many prison gangs. The problem, and it was a big one, was that he’d chosen the wrong inmate to take a cookie from.

His beady brown eyes narrowed.

Without breaking his gaze, I gathered my hair, cinched it with the rubber band, and spread my feet shoulder width apart. He was slightly taller than me, which was an accomplishment. At 6’-2”, I wasn’t short by any means.

I looked him up and down. He was muscular, his head was cleanly shaved, and he had a long goatee. He resembled every other white supremacist in the prison, but I didn’t recognize him. Convinced he was new to the system, unaware of the long unwritten list of prison rules, and a few seconds away from the ass kicking of a lifetime, I decided to give him one last chance.

“Put down the cookie, or I’m going to break your left arm. That’s a promise, by the way. You have no idea who you’re fucking with.”

Cookie in hand, he continued to glare. The corner of his mouth curled into a half-baked smile.

“Last chance,” I seethed.

“Inmate Knox! Stand down!” the approaching guard yelled.

I glanced to my right. Two prison’s guards outfitted in riot gear were circling the cellblock. Inmates stood in the doors of their cells waiting to see what was going to happen, undoubtedly placing bets on who they thought would win the brawl.

I shifted my eyes back to the thief.

He lifted the cookie to his mouth and took a bite.

I jumped into a spinning back kick and planted my left foot against his left cheek. The impact of the kick knocked him to the floor. The entire cellblock erupted into a sea of screams, cheers, and shouting. Men began to bang objects against their cell doors – their way of applauding my actions.

Before I could get in another punch or kick, I was tackled to the floor by the two guards. A handcuff was quickly secured to my left wrist. A fiery burning in my eyes reminded my how much I hated pepper spray, but did little to subdue me.

I fought to raise myself to my feet, eventually broke free of the guards, and stood before the cellblock of men with one hand cuffed and my vision blurred. The cookie thief struggled to stand, and grinned a shitty little grin of accomplishment.

The guards I had escaped from began striking my legs with batons. Hitting a guard would add six months to my sentence, but I made a promise that I was going to break the asshole’s left arm, and I had every intention of keeping it, no matter how many guards I had to fight to get to him.