Hank

 

After a night in the infirmary's secure room, Hank was sent back to his cell. Bluebonnet's resources were limited, and usually, anyone who was injured seriously enough to stay for more than a day was shipped off to a secure wing in a regular hospital until they healed.

 

Hank winced with each step forward, his ribs aching furiously. His nose and arm were still bandaged, and since prisoners weren't given painkillers once they left the infirmary—out of fear that they'd use them as currency—they still stung and throbbed. But he'd fought his way through plenty of pain before, and he was sure he'd be able to this time, too.

 

If one of his fellow inmates didn't kill him first, of course.

 

As he stepped out into the prison yard during rec time, Ram approached him with a big smile. “Hank, you're alive! Thank God, man. When we heard what happened to you in the showers, we feared the worst. If only you'd done the little thing Bull asked of you instead of acting like some kind of hardass, we could've been there to protect you.”

 

Hank rolled his eyes. Christ, even that made his face hurt. “What the fuck do you want, Ram?”

 

Ram pulled his shirt up for a second, flashing a shiv tucked into his waistband. “To give you a chance to square things with Bull, dude. You've gotta know that none of this shit was personal. Hell, Bull wasn't even gonna let those Sinners snuff you—he told Butler to come back after they'd cut you a little, just to teach you a lesson.”

 

“Four of them, one of me, and one of them had a blade. I'm curious, how many minutes did Bull tell Butler to wait? What's the equation on that one? Sounds like a real exact science.”

 

“Hey, believe what you want, but Bull still says you're too valuable an asset to waste if we can help it. We just need you to get with the program, that's all. We can't have you jumping bad in here, thinking you're too good for the likes of us. It makes us look like we can't handle our shit. But if you whack a couple of the Sinners—and I mean really fuck them up, like a total bloodbath—you'll be on Bull's good side again, and you'll have our full protection.”

 

“Bull still thinks he can send a message to the Sinners that way?” Hank asked. “He really thinks that'll scare them off? It was a dumb plan when he first came up with it, and it's a dumb plan now. Not interested.”

 

Ram sighed. “Fucking incorrigible, ain't you? Everything's got to be the hard way with you. Okay. But you should know that your girlfriend D'Amato won't always be there to watch your ass. We've got plenty of ways to take her out of the picture, if it comes to that. And the next time you get taken to the shower, it'll just be you and a bunch of Sinners pummeling you. Think it over. You've got until after lunch to change your mind.”

 

Hank did think it over as he ate his lunch alone in the cafeteria, but no bright ideas came to him. He knew Ram wasn't wrong—he'd gotten lucky yesterday when Beth intervened, but Bull could work lots of different angles to make sure he didn't get that lucky again.

 

Part of him wished he could just shrug, take the damn shiv, and end a couple of the Sinners to dig himself out of this hole, if only temporarily. He wouldn't exactly be taking an innocent life—there was a reason they were called the “Nation of Sinners,” after all. Most of them were in here for violent crimes of one kind or another.

 

But that was part of what bothered him. He was in Bluebonnet for a violent crime too. Did that make him a fair target if someone else needed to get in good with their gang? Sure, maybe the Sinner he picked would be doing time for cold-blooded murders. But what if it was just some jerk like him, who stomped someone who needed to be stomped and found himself in this place?

 

For that matter, what if the target he chose wasn't in here for anything violent? What if he was just some low-level drug dealer from the projects who was trying to feed his family and got put away for his trouble? The Warriors had sold plenty of drugs in their time. It wasn't a capital offense.

 

Or what if it was some unlucky loser like Raheem, who was only in here because he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

 

So if he made the decision to execute these guys, could he live with it? Probably not. And if he could, he'd probably still be caught, tried, convicted, and maybe even sentenced to lethal injection.

 

And if none of that happened, he'd still be Bull's errand boy. And he'd be goddamned if he'd take orders from Nazis, no matter what the consequences to him personally.

 

But what about the consequences to Beth? his mind whispered urgently. You can stand tall and be brave all you want, but you know they'll take it out on her. They want her to fall in line as much as they want you to—having another guard on their payroll would be a huge asset to them—but eventually, you know they'll find ways to punish her.

 

Hank shook his head, trying to clear it. Every time his brain tried to find a way out of this predicament, the snare around it seemed to draw tighter and tighter. When they'd been together yesterday, Beth told him they'd find a way out of this together, and he trusted her. She was smarter and braver than he'd ever imagined she could be.

 

Meanwhile, he'd just have to try to get through this mess one step at a time. And the first step was not to act from fear by trying to kill a couple of Sinners. That wouldn't solve his problems, no matter how much Ram insisted that it would.

 

Hank glanced at the table where the Shepherds were eating together, and briefly considered trying to join them. They were the only other group in Bluebonnet who allowed people of his color to join, and there were so many of them, they might be able to protect him. Maybe they could even help him think of a way out of this shitstorm.

 

He chuckled to himself, returning to the food on his tray. It would never work. From the way Dutton had looked at him, Hank knew he'd sized him up as an unrepentant outlaw. Someone like Dutton wouldn't be fooled by a cock-and-bull story about how Hank had suddenly seen the light and become a do-gooder. He'd give another “stand up and be a man” sermon, no doubt, but he wouldn't stick his neck out for the likes of Hank.

 

A few tables away from the Shepherds, the Knights and Warriors were eating together. Most of the Aryans were leering at Hank, and several of them whispered and laughed among themselves. Ram drew his index finger across his throat in a “You're dead” gesture. The Warriors looked more subdued, and Speed Bump had a look of concern on his face.

 

Hank could almost hear Speed Bump's thoughts from across the room: Do it. Just do what they say. Go along to get along. I know it sucks, but it worked for me, and it can work for you too.

 

Hank hoped Bump could hear his thoughts in return: You're a coward. Fuck you.

 

He finished his bland meal, and the men were rounded up to head back to cell block G. As they got there, an alarm started blaring, and Butler rushed in with a dozen other COs.

 

“Lock down! Lock down! Get in your cells right now, and put your backs up against the walls.”

 

Hank hurried into his cell, with Ram right behind him. He waited for the barred doors to slide shut, but instead, he heard a cadre of guards going from cell to cell and searching them carefully. The rest stood in the center of the cell block, making sure the inmates stayed against the walls.

 

“What the fuck is this now?” Hank asked.

 

“Gee, roomie, I don't know,” Ram answered teasingly. “Maybe a couple of Sinners got sliced and diced real bad. Maybe the hacks just found the body, and now they're looking for the murder weapon.”

 

A horrible thought crept into Hank's head as he looked at his own mattress. He started toward it, but one of the guards smacked her baton against the bars. “Get the fuck back against the wall, before I put your head through it.”

 

Ram smirked. “Easy there, killer. You heard them. Unless you've got something to hide...?”

 

Butler swaggered into their cell a few minutes later. He gave Hank a toothy smile as he lifted the lower mattress, revealing a bloody shiv.

 

“Well, well, look what we have,” Butler sneered. The other guards moved to grab Hank, dragging him out.

 

“That isn't mine. Someone else put it there.”

 

Butler threw his head back and laughed. “Now that's one I've never heard before.”

 

“Look at me, asshole,” Hank said, gesturing to his injured arm and ribs. “Do I look like I'm in any shape to use that thing?”

 

“So I guess elves just flew into your cell and planted it, huh? Save it, pal. I’ve got two dead inmates and a bloody shiv. You're headed to the hole. What shape you're in when you get there is up to you.”

 

So Hank let himself get led to the lowest level of Bluebonnet, where thick iron doors lined a narrow concrete hallway. Butler threw him into the last cell on the left, and the door slammed hard behind him—a sound like fate itself.

 

“Now you just stay there and behave yourself,” Butler said through the grated slit on the door, “and if you're a real good boy, I'll send some guys down later to tuck you in.”

 

Then he was gone, and Hank was alone to wonder what disaster would strike next.