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San Antonio, Texas
Bexar County Jail
Late Friday Morning
Corbett was impressedat the speed Gomez and the director had been able to arrange his and Freeman’s incarceration. Only a day-and-a-half from the time Corbett had pushed for it, the other inmates looked on as the guards led the two newbies down the long hall between the cells. They stopped in front of one of the larger pods and left the big guy there with his hands full of supplies. He looked bored with the whole process, and the other guys could tell this wasn’t his first rodeo.
Corbett was led to Christopher’s cell. Though here, Christopher went by Ayden. Corbett already knew that. He had stayed up most of the night researching the guy. Ayden was an Aryan name that meant “Little Fire.” As he looked the guy up and down, he could understand the little part. He was only five-foot-five according to his booking stats. It also listed him as 125 pounds. Corbett thought that was a generous estimate at best. He was shirtless, and Corbett could see that most, if not all, of the 125 pounds was muscle. It had surprised Corbett when he’d first gotten into this business how most of the shot-callers didn’t look all that imposing. But you never wanted to turn your back on one.
Ayden was checking him out too. Corbett had shaved his head and was sporting a pair of light blue contact lenses. He hadn’t shaved since early Wednesday morning, so he had a spattering of light blonde stubble across his face. Corbett made eye contact with him but didn’t otherwise nod or greet him. Ayden did the same. The officer had Corbett stick his bound hands through the food port of the cell door to remove the cuffs.
“You boys play nice,” the officer said before walking away. As Gomez had stipulated, for safety reasons the floor staff weren’t aware of Corbett and Freeman’s status, so for now, they were both on their own.
Corbett walked over to the bunk that wasn’t made and put his stuff down on it. Though he already knew who he was dealing with, the floor staff had alerted him about his new cellmate. They weren’t going to put a mongoose in with a cobra without a little warning. Ayden eyed him for a while longer as he made a show of combing out his long beard and mustache.
“What’s your name?”
“Caleb Corbett,” Corbett told him. “And you are?”
The man smirked, and Corbett knew why. Information in here traveled faster than wireless internet. Ayden was sure that “Caleb” already knew who he was. “Ayden Styles,” he said. “But you can call me General Styles.” Then he lay down on his bunk and turned to face the wall. He was dressed only in his boxer shorts, and his entire back, neck, and arms were covered with tattoos. One on his back was similar to the one Corbett had gotten, only above his swastika the word “General” was lettered.
“Forgive me, sir, it’s been a long ass night,” Corbett said.
“It’s gonna be a longer weekend, boy,” Ayden rumbled, not turning back around.
Freeman was cursing Corbett in his head as he lay on his bunk.Fucking Lindstrom, man. I got tickets to see Beyonce this weekend, and this mother son of a bitch has me locked up. He owes me.
There were six bunks in the cell he was in. Four of them were full, counting his. One cellmate was a huge man that Freeman thought looked familiar. For a field agent stuck inside a cell, that probably wasn’t a good thing. The other two were Mexicans. They looked like skinny little gang bangers.
Figures that the white guys get the double cells, he thought, disgruntled.
Freeman knew, though, that it really wasn’t about being white—it was about being Aryan. They had become one of the biggest and most vicious groups in the Texas prison system. Their reach outside the prison walls was far, and inside they ruled. The only reason they would put a known Aryan in the same cell, or on the same yard, as a black gang member, which Freeman now was on paper, was if you wanted to watch a bloody fight. Housing was one of the main concerns within the jails and prisons because of it.
He lay there, just about to drift off to sleep, when a shadow suddenly fell over him. He opened his eyes to the mountain that was one of his cellmates, and as he recalled where he knew the guy from, he said:
“Fuck!”
Corbett could hear the commotion coming from Freeman’s cell. He almost blew his cover and called out for help, but he knew then he would be as good as dead himself. He wasn’t a praying man, but as he heard the pounding of flesh and crunching of bone, he prayed for two things: first that Freeman was going to be okay, and second that once this was all over, he didn’t kick Corbett’s ass for suggesting this operation.
He wasn’t the only one pressed up against his cell watching as the guards ran up the hall. Most of the inmates were. The noise in the block had reached a deafening roar. The guards banged against Freeman’s cell, telling those inside to stop fighting or they would spray them. One of the guards had a can of pepper spray ready. If Freeman got sprayed, Corbett’s ass was as good as kicked.
Corbett heard the officer with the canister holler out one more warning before whatever was happening in the cell stopped. Hands extended through the food port, two at a time, and the officers cuffed them. When they finished the process of restraining the men, they went in. One of the officers radioed for the medical staff.
Two Mexican guys were escorted out and told to stand along the wall in their cuffs. They both looked uninjured and were smiling. Corbett couldn’t see what was happening inside the cell. The medical staff got there quickly, and after a few minutes inside, he heard them radio for an ambulance. It was a long ten or fifteen minutes before the paramedics got there. Corbett watched, waiting anxiously for them to bring out the other two men.
They moved the Mexican men… somewhere. Then the paramedics came out with a gurney that was literally full of man. He hung over each end and both sides, out cold as they wheeled him by Corbett’s cell. It wasn’t Freeman. He still hadn’t seen any sign of his friend, and after another ten minutes, he was close to blowing his cover again by yelling out for him.
But luckily, the paramedics came back, and in a few minutes, they rolled Freeman out. He had one eye open; the other was swollen shut. His nose looked like it was broken, and he was bleeding around his mouth. As they rolled past Corbett, Freeman slowly raised the middle finger on his left hand. Corbett breathed a sigh of relief. Freeman was alive, and for now so was he. But if he did get out of here alive, Freeman might just kill him.
When Corbett turned back around, his cellmate was sitting up on his bunk watching him. “What’s so interesting out there?”
“Nothing. I was hoping they killed each other, but it doesn’t look like we got that lucky,” Corbett said as he lay back down on his bunk.
Stockdale, Texas
Friday Evening
Vincent tappedthe vial on the mirror in front of him, dumping out a small pile of the coke. Then he used the razor blade in his right hand to chop it into fine powder. Just as he aligned a hundred-dollar bill up with the line of powder, his phone rang.
