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Without a single tree to filter it, the sun shone mercilessly down. Maverick stared up at a sky almost white with glare and looked straight into that punishing star, until a ghost of it had been burned into his eyes.

Summer heat baked up from the cracked asphalt and turned the yard into an oven. He could almost feel the rubber soles of his slip-on sneakers melting as he stood there. Less than a minute since the metal door had clanged heavily shut behind him, he felt rills of sweat creeping through his short-shorn hair and down his neck.

The routine noise of perfunctory recreation rumbled around him, occasionally punctuated by the clang of weights dropping onto their stack. As the sun faded from his eyes, Maverick scanned the yard.

If someone set up a camera on a tripod and took a photograph every single day, it would be nearly impossible to distinguish one image from the next. Every single day, the same people took the same positions and did the same things. At the picnic table near the wall: the Indians. Against the far fence: the Mexicans, which meant anybody with Latin blood. The Dyson crew controlled the Blacks, who’d claimed the single patch of hard-pack dirt and the three round picnic tables on it. At the weights was White Pride. Few men straggled apart from any group. It was mortally dangerous to be unaligned.

The asphalt might have been hot enough to cook an egg, but the recreation yard at the Oklahoma State Penitentiary was no melting pot.

Maverick hated every single one of these fuckers.

For four years, he’d been living behind these fences, walls, and bars. Four years since he’d been outside without a gun aimed on him from a watchtower. In all that time, he’d never made a friend. Enemies, yes. But no friends. At first, that hadn’t been an active choice. He hadn’t been a loner on the outside, and he hadn’t intended to be one inside. He’d wanted to keep his head down and get through his time—with any luck, get time off for good behavior. But the guards had had other ideas for him.

So he had lots of enemies. Few who’d do more than glare at him, however. And no friends.

But he wasn’t unaligned.

He walked toward the weights. White Pride was not his thing, and the skinheads were just as bad as all the other assholes out here, if not worse, but he’d made room for himself by being a bad motherfucker, so he spent his rec time on the weights and his cell time doing push-ups and sit-ups. The Whites had control of the gym equipment.

Besides, the color of his skin put him here. They tolerated him without forcing their shitty Nazi ink on him because he’d agreed to fight for them. He tolerated them because their chief enemy was the Dyson crew.

And he hated Dyson more than anybody else. For the past year, he’d hated those sons of bitches with a heat so hot his stomach boiled. He owed them a mountain of payback, and someday, he would get it.

As he came up on the weights, Groddo, the skinhead leader, sat up on the bench, where he’d been pressing 200. The rest of his baldheaded minions stood with their arms crossed.

“Helm.” He gave Maverick a steely nod.

Maverick didn’t go by his road name in this place. He hadn’t gotten rung up in the line of duty, and it wasn’t a name that belonged in here. Inmates and guards alike used his surname. Or, in the case of the guards, his inmate number. And no one alive called him Richard or any derivation thereof.

“Groddo. I work in?”

Groddo stood up and waved a be my guest hand at the vacated bench. Maverick shifted the weight peg to 280 and stretched out on the bench. That was almost a hundred pounds over his own weight. He could do more, quite a bit more for a single press, but it wouldn’t do to show up Groddo more than he already was.

Maverick did his reps under the ample shadow of Groddo’s bulk. As he set the stack down between sets, Groddo rested his hand on the grip Maverick had released.

“Evans’ll serve up Carver. For a price.”

The backlight of the sun made the Nazi leader little more than a shadowy hulk hovering above him. Maverick squinted and said nothing, but he thought hard. Evans was one of the head guards. He was also the organizer of the side business the guards had set up—a business that had held Maverick enslaved since the first week of his sentence. A fighting ring, pitting inmates against each other to fight until they couldn’t fight anymore. No rounds, no time, no limits. They were forced to fight until one of them was unconscious or worse.

It was supposedly allowable to tap out, but anyone who did was made to regret it later.

Maverick had come to McAlester as a former professional boxer. Evans had practically been drooling when he’d gotten his hooks into him.

Over his four years locked away, Maverick had lost most of his hearing in one ear and most of his vision in one eye. He had a cheap bridge filling in the teeth that had been knocked out of his bottom jaw, and his hands looked like they’d been made out of random spare parts. He woke up every morning well before first count, so he could loosen himself up enough to walk.

But he’d won the lion’s share of his fights. He was big but not huge—a middleweight: six-three, one-eighty-five. The guards had put him in with bigger and bigger opponents, meaner and meaner bastards, not understanding that size and strength didn’t necessarily mean skill or stamina, and bile didn’t always mean power, and he’d taken most of them down. Since he’d stopped giving a shit whether he lived or died, the guards had stopped betting on the winner and started calling the damage Maverick would do.

His success in the ring was how he’d found a home with the Nazis. They’d wanted his strong arm and his reputation. He’d needed someone at his back.

Still thinking about Groddo’s news, Maverick began his second set. Last summer, shortly before his initial sentence was up, his club, the Brazen Bulls MC, had assigned him a job: a hit on one of Dyson’s lieutenants, who’d started a sentence at the prison. The job came from their Russian partner, Irina Volkov. She’d wanted the guy dead.

Maverick had been inside too long to be in the loop for most club business; he’d given Dane, their VP, his proxy before he’d gone in, and it was rare for anyone to ride down to McAlester to ask his opinion. With the exception of Gunner, it was rare for the Bulls to visit, period.

They’d gotten deep with the Russians since he’d been inside, so he didn’t understand the whys and wherefores of the hit. But he was a Bull, and he’d been given a job. He’d done it, knowing full well what he’d risked. He hadn’t seen another choice. The club was all he had left, and loyal was the only way he knew to be.

Madame Volkov was a powerful old broad, though, with a lot of influence. She’d set the whole thing up, and it had, briefly, looked like he’d get away clear. Then the Dysons had flexed their own muscle, and he’d gone down for the hit. Volkov had intervened at the last minute to pull him back from a harsh new sentence. He’d ended up with another year added on, and four months in solitary while they’d hashed all that shit out.

And he’d been served up on a platter for some personal retaliation.

Evans had served him up, locking the Dyson crew’s inside leader, Clement Carver, and four associates, into his cell in the hole with him. The worst hour of his entire life. Whatever happened in the rest of his life, no matter how long he lived, that would always be the worst hour of his entire life.

He hadn’t yet retaliated for two reasons: First, he trusted no one, and he couldn’t do it on his own. Second, he’d come out of the hole utterly broken, body and spirit. He still fought for the guards, and for the skinheads, but he didn’t know if he had it in him to fight for himself.

And now, months later, Evans was offering him payback on Carver. For a price.

“What’s his angle?” he finally asked Groddo.

“Gotta be a show. In the yard.”

Maverick laughed. Here he was, close to the end of his sentence again, and, again, somebody wanted him to wad that up and toss it in the toilet. Going for Carver in the yard meant no escape from new charges unless the guards decided to let him slide. And why would they willingly give up their favorite gladiator—especially when another charge would get him doing hard time and dancing for them for the rest of his fucking life?

Violence in the yard also made the way for the guards to have themselves a party on the prisoners. He’d probably face retaliation for that as well.

Win-win for the guards, lose-lose for him.

Evans loved his social experiments. He was probably figuring that he’d create an existential dilemma for Maverick—get his revenge on for all that Carver had done to him in the hole and fuck up his release, or pussy out, let Carver slide, hope to be free soon, and spend the rest of his life knowing that he’d let Carver get away with it.

But Maverick didn’t give a fuck anymore if he was released, or if he lived or died. Hope was for pussies and fools. And he wanted Carver.

“Yeah, set it up.”

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~oOo~

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It went down two days later, with virtually no warning for anyone. The guards released the inmates into the yard so that Carver and his people were last out. That was unusual, and Maverick took note. Carver was the first man of his crew out, and that was unusual as well. His habit was to follow his personal bodyguard. The hairs on Maverick’s neck stood up, and he walked to the middle of the yard.

As soon as Carver cleared the door, it slammed shut, and a guard moved before it. Carver spun around, and there was a short scuffle between him and the guard. He was stranded in the yard without backup, and there was no question at all that the curtain had gone up.

Clement Carver was in his mid-forties or so, a bit more than ten years older than Maverick. He was comparatively short and slight, but he was no joke. Maverick had learned that the hard way. Five on one had been hopeless odds in any case, but it had been Carver who’d laid the worst kinds of hurt on Maverick in that hour.

Not knowing how Evans had arranged this event, Maverick hadn’t put together much of a plan. But he’d been fantasizing about payback for months, so he didn’t need a plan. He charged at Carver as soon as the man turned around, and he tackled him to the ground.

He got in a flurry of blows before a white-hot pain sank into his arm, and Maverick wrenched himself back and away. Carver was holding a fucking shank—the guard must have slipped it to him.

Goddamn Evans, playing his games, must have set that up.

Carver jumped to his feet, brandishing the sharpened toothbrush. He grinned. “Oh, biker boy. I’m gonna make you pay for this. I’m gonna make you pay all night long. Longer than that. Not like last time. This time, I’m gonna put a collar on you and make you my bitch.”

A thick ring of silent inmates had formed, creating an arena of sorts in which he and Carver faced each other. Maverick grinned back and shook his head. “Not when I’m done, shithead. When I’m done, you won’t be making anybody do shit.”

Blood washed down his arm, but he didn’t give a fuck. He would be dead when this was over, or Carver would be. Didn’t matter which. He charged again, feinting at the last second and grabbing the hand that held the makeshift knife. He spun and twisted Carver’s arm behind his back, wrenching it until it broke. The ensuing crack filled the air like a firecracker. Maverick’s hands, holding Carver’s arm, felt the break happen. The shank fell to the asphalt, and Maverick let him go, twisting his arm again for good measure, feeling the bones shift loosely in their meat casing. Carver reeled back.

He hadn’t yelled, though, or even grunted, as his arm had snapped.

It was a common downfall with powerful men: They began to believe that the power which had accrued to them because of their associations and their attitude meant true, essential strength. Maverick could imagine the feeling that had likely suffused Carver as he’d realized that a fight was going down, and as the guard had slipped him the shank: a first surge of surprise and worry, and then a rush of adrenaline, fueling a giddy sense of power. And then he’d held a weapon and thought that piece of plastic was all the odds in his own hand.

Maverick kicked the shank away; that was not how he wanted to finish this fight. Carver jumped at him, swinging with his weaker but intact arm, and Maverick deflected it easily, returning a hard jab and connecting with Carver’s throat. He followed it with a high kick—he’d picked up a mix of fighting skills in prison, and in the underground fights before that—and connected with his chest. Carver went down, choking and gasping, and Maverick dropped on him, getting him almost at once into a chokehold. Out in the world, he’d have been looking for a submission. In an organized prison fight, he’d have been trying to put him out. Here on the yard, in full view of the guards, he meant to fucking kill the bastard.

But just as the body in his arms began to soften, Maverick was pulled off of him, and Groddo’s voice was in his ear. “Don’t kill him.”

Maverick fought off the hold. “What? Fuck off!” He didn’t care what the consequences would be; he was intent on killing Clement Carver.

“There’s a plan here, Helm. See the guards still standing down? We paid a fare for that. We got our beef with Black, too.”

“This is not a fucking race thing, asshole!”

Groddo’s eyes darkened under a dangerous brow. “It’s always a race thing, brother. You want payback. We want a message. We got you your fight. Now you work our plan.” He nodded, and the two skinheads who’d kept Carver down now grabbed him by the arms—this time, Carver did yell out hoarsely as his broken arm was manhandled—and dragged him toward the workout equipment.

Still holding him by the arm, Groddo pulled Maverick in the same direction.

Carver was maneuvered until he faced the back of the bench press machine—the yard had no free weights, which were too easily made into weapons, but instead a few weight machines and a pull-up bar.

Maverick watched as the two skinheads held Carver in a kneeling position, directly against the machine. Another skinhead pulled his pants and underwear down to the ground. Carver fought hard, and one of the skinheads slammed his head into the machine until he went limp.

It made no sense.

“You’re the strongman,” Groddo said to Maverick. “Why don’t you do a rep?”

Just like that, he understood. “Jesus.”

Groddo’s face twisted into a demonic grin. “You think he don’t deserve it?”

Oh, he absolutely deserved it. With a quick scan of the yard—everyone watched in inert silence, including the guards—Maverick went to the bench press.

Rather than lie on the bench—he’d never again be in a lower position than Clement Carver—he straddled it, facing the weight stack and, behind it, Carver, who was just conscious enough for fear to have widened his eyes into caricature.

He moved the pin to 220—the weight that was just about hip-level with Carver’s body. Then he bent his knees, gripped the handles, and curled the weight. His biceps bulged, and blood gushed down his arm.

Harry, one of Groddo’s minions holding Carver, grabbed the bastard’s flaccid dick and loose balls, and set the whole package on the stack of weights Maverick wasn’t lifting. Carver fought like a dazed madman, but two other skinheads came up and added their strength to hold the man in place.

His junk sat there, on top of the weight marked 230. Above it hovered two hundred and twenty pounds of iron.

Maverick kept his arms curled, ignoring the shaking of his injured one, until Carver’s eyes met his. Maverick sent him all the hatred he could, and he let go of the stack. The sudden release of tension nearly dislocated his elbows, but he barely noticed. The weights slammed down, a fat, wet noise mingled with the crash of iron, and Maverick took a burst of hot blood in the face and chest.

Carver screamed a scream so piercing and loud it was almost beyond human hearing.

And then the guards leapt to action.

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~oOo~

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Two nights later, Maverick lay again in his own bunk. They’d thrown him into the hole again immediately after the melee in the yard, and Maverick had spent those forty-some hours sitting on the metal bunk and waiting for trouble.

But no trouble had come. He’d gotten sewn up, and they’d left him alone until they’d brought him back here. Everybody was giving him space. Even the guards were keeping a respectful distance.

It hadn’t been his idea, what he’d done to Carver, but he was getting the credit. All he’d wanted was to kill the fucker.

He hadn’t done that. Carver still breathed, as far as he knew. But he was going to piss sitting down for the rest of his life. Never again would he use a dick like a weapon. Not his own, at any rate.

Maverick was afraid to consider the chance that he might get away with it. At a minimum, he expected Dyson to come for him again. But maybe the guards wouldn’t let it happen this time. Maybe something somewhere had turned. He was due for release in August. Seven weeks. Fifty-one days. Was it possible that he might actually get on the other side of the fence?

Jesus. Was it possible?

As the warning sounded to announce five minutes until last count, Maverick turned to the wall beside his bunk. Two small photos were taped there. Only two; he had no other photos and few mementos of any kind. The oldest, bent and fading, was a Polaroid, taken almost four years ago. Inside a clear plastic bassinet was a tiny baby, wrapped like a burrito in a striped blanket and with a pink knit cap on her head. Only a hint of fair skin and chubby cheeks was visible between the blanket and the hat. On the wall of the bassinet, a pink card named her as Kelsey Marie Wagner and her mother as Jennifer Wagner.

The line for father was blank.

In blue ink, across the white space of the Polaroid frame, was written, Kelsey, 8/21/93. That date was three weeks after he’d gone inside. Maverick drew his fingertip over the handwriting he’d once known so well.

Taped beside that photo was a newer one, from a year ago. Gunner had brought it to him: a wallet-size school photo of a pretty little girl with hair the color of butterscotch, twisted into two pigtails, and wide blue eyes, sparkling with clever mischief.

His eyes. His daughter. He belonged in the blank space on that pink card. And in her life.

He’d never met her. He hadn’t spoken to her mother since before he’d gone inside, and he hadn’t heard from her in any way except for that one Polaroid, sent without a letter, in December 1993, four months after Kelsey’s birth.

He was set for release nine days before her fourth birthday.

But hope was for pussies and fools.