Black And Blue (Quentin Black Mystery #5) (20 page)

Moreover, if Black died in here, Lucky was risking the life of his only niece.

So yeah, Charles didn’t fit. For a lot of reasons.

The problem was, Black couldn’t come up with a different explanation that made any kind of sense. Even the military had no clue that seer sight could be restrained mechanically like this. There were a lot of things Black didn’t tell the Colonel about seers. Sight restraint collars sat pretty much at the top of that fucking list.

“You got work detail?” Dog asked, breaking into his thoughts. “Where they got you?”

Black didn’t know how to answer that, either.

Eventually, he shook his head. “No.”

“You got morning shift? Or a later shift?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Black shrugged, pushing his body up into another flat plank, ignoring the protests of his lower arms and shoulder.

“Not assigned yet, I guess,” he said finally. “Or someone forgot to tell me.”

Dog frowned, but only nodded.

Finishing a last push-up, he rose back to his feet. Looking over the chiefs sitting there, he swung his arms, nodding towards Frank and Easton.

“Want to go for a run?”

Easton let out a disbelieving snort. “You’re going to run now? You training for an ass-kicking, an escape, or what?”

“You know the three rules of the zombie apocalypse, right?”

Easton and Frank gave him blank looks, but Dog burst out laughing.

“Cardio, cardio... and cardio,” he said, jabbing Black in the arm with each word.

Black smiled faintly, in spite of himself. “Right,” he said.

“I like this guy,” Dog said, smacking him on the arm again and laughing. “Zombie apocalypse. That’s fucking awesome, man. Have you heard the ‘parkour,’ ‘parkour,’ ‘parkour’ one?”

Black smiled wider. “Parkour works, too. Still need cardio though.”

“I’ll go with you,” Devin said unexpectedly.

Black looked down in surprise. He was pretty sure that was the first time he’d heard Devin speak. He only nodded though, watching the other man rise to his feet, then yank the blue prison jersey over his head, leaving a white tank top and the baggy prison pants. He looked even younger than Dog, all wiry muscle and whippet thin.

“Okay,” Black said. “Drop off whenever.”

Devin smiled, but it was a small smile.

Black definitely got the glimpse of a challenge there, which was more or less what he’d been going for. Looking the other man up and down, Black nodded with more satisfaction that time. Devin was on the small side compared to Frank and Easton and Joseph, all of whom looked more like weight-lifting types. He was even smaller than Dog, who definitely
wasn’t
a weight-lifting type. But Devin was tall, and that height was all in his legs. The muscles of his calves and thighs looked rock hard.

“Good,” he said, almost to himself.

The two of them took off down the track a few seconds later.

Devin didn’t talk, which wasn’t surprising.

He was strangely companionable, however, which did surprise Black a little, but also allowed him to relax. He hadn’t minded Dog’s chatter, but something about Devin gave him the mental space to breathe a little.

He found himself letting the other man choose the pace, and fell into a comfortable rhythm alongside him that didn’t strain him overly, but definitely let him stretch his legs. Pretty soon, right around when Black would have wanted to push a little harder, Devin sped up.

By the time they’d done their first complete circuit around the track, Black was around his top speed for a long-distance run, meaning a pace he could sustain for a few miles without feeling too much pain. Devin’s legs flashed like an antelope’s to his right and Black found himself relaxing for real, enough that he was the one to push them faster next.

He practically felt Devin’s smile as he easily matched him.

As he ran, he noted security features, almost in rote.

Layers and layers of razor-wire fence, guard towers, trenches past the first row of fences, then more fences in the distance. The complex itself wrapped around the yard in a jagged, geometrical horseshoe, leaving the razor wire and a glimpse of forest beyond the periphery. He saw bullet-proof doors in the walls at regular intervals, indicating the few ways in and out of the yard if an incident occurred. He also saw hoses up top, and guessed those along with flash bombs and gas probably diffused most fights before they got too far along.

Turning at the end of the loop and once more letting Devin set the pace, he felt sweat starting to soak through the lower shirt he wore, even though it was early yet, from the position of the sun. He still couldn’t get a grip on where they were, geography-wise.

Wherever it was, it was hot. Humid.

Definitely lent credence to his “somewhere in the South” theory.

He tried again to think of a way of raising the topic without being too obvious.

The back of the prison jerseys just said “DOC,” presumably for “Department of Corrections,” which wasn’t particularly helpful.

They made their way around the next curve, now going at a full run, not quite racing, or not acknowledging it at least, but close. Black started to pull slightly ahead with his longer legs, but he had to work for it, and Devin was soon alongside him again. Both of them were breathing harder now, pumping their arms as they tore up the dirt track.

He could feel people watching them now. Not with his sight, but with some other ingrained instinct from all the wars he’d fought, and possibly from further back, from that time he really didn’t like to think about, even when Miri asked.

Maybe especially when Miri asked.

They rounded the corner where most of the workout equipment lived, and as they were racing into that stretch...

A piercing alarm went off overhead, nearly making Black stumble.

He looked up in rote, only losing a step in his stride, even as Devin lost a beat in his gait next to him.

“What the fuck is that?” Black said, slowing his pace without falling out of the run.

“Fire alarm!” Devin shouted it, his hands over his ears.

Slowing to a jog, Black looked towards the main building, and had a sudden cold line prickle down his back. He couldn’t smell smoke. He couldn’t see any coming from the structure either, despite the guards moving fast in the direction of those bulletproof doors.

Then, as he focused back on the speakers emanating the deafening sound...

Someone stepped in front of him, entirely blocking his path.

Eleven

FIRE ALARM

BLACK FOUGHT TO slow down, but the guy didn’t give him any room. Two long strides and Black crashed right into him, his arms up to push him away and also to keep his upper body fully vertical. More than anything, he intended to stay on his feet.

When he’d forced enough space for himself to move, Black found himself staring up at Roscoe, the big blond with the flat top and the swastika tattoos covering his now-bare chest. He clenched his meaty hands into fists, stretching the black iron crosses there as he glared at Devin.

“Beat it, redskin. This isn’t chief business... this is for the mongrel white race traitor in him. Take your moccasins for a walk.”

Devin frowned, glancing at Black.

Black motioned with his chin for him to go.

After another bare hesitation, Devin seemed to make up his mind, after looking between Black and Roscoe. He took off at a run, and Black could tell he was going to get Joseph and the others, who had moved from the workout area to the bleachers since he and Devin started running, possibly because of the alarms.

Black scanned the yard, saw that a lot of inmates had already moved towards the bulletproof doors, likely to see what was going on.

He looked back at Roscoe, who was maybe an inch shorter than he was.

“You don’t want to do this,” he said. “I’ve got no issue with you. I appreciate you trying to educate me earlier––”

“You
appreciate
it, do you?”

Black held his gaze, his face and voice uncompromising.

“Yes. Accept my apology. Walk away. You don’t want this.”

Roscoe shook his head, letting out a disbelieving sound. He glanced back at a group of six more skinheads, who Black had already tracked as watching the interaction with a not-idle interest. Clearly, Roscoe intended this well before the fire alarm went off, although he might be using it as an opportunity, with the guards distracted.

Black glanced behind him.

No one yet, but he knew they’d try to get behind him soon.

“Fucking apology...” Roscoe said to his friends. “Who the fuck is this asshole?”

One of the tattooed guys laughed. Black tracked that one, too, saw a harder gleam in his eyes. That guy was definitely a fighter. He looked positively alert as he looked over Black, sizing him up without being too obvious about it. Black did the same to him briefly, noting the eagle tattoo that wrapped around his neck, the wings outstretched, along with the blond beard.

The fire alarm continued to go off.

Black remained where he was, watching the man in front of him, as well as his periphery.

“You really want to do this?” Black said, speaking above the alarm. “You don’t know anything about me, friend.”

Roscoe shook his head, giving his friends a half-smile. “This guy. Un-fucking-believable.” He stared at Black. “You’re fresh fish... you’ve got bitch squaw blood in your veins and you don’t talk like a goddamned American. That’s all I need to know.”

“You sure about that?” Black said.

His fighter friend with the dark eyes smiled wider. “Aww, leave him alone, Roz. We can dance with this motherfucker some other time. Lockdown’s coming.”

Black saw that gleam sharpen in the other’s eyes.

Roscoe glanced at his friend, then back at Black. “Fine,” he said, shaking his head again. “Whatever.”

He turned partway as he muttered it, like he was going to back off like he’d said. It wasn’t a very good feint. Even without the collar, Black saw the other’s muscles tense, right before he twisted around, trying to catch him in the temple with a swift hook.

The throw was fast enough and skilled enough that Black logged boxing experience somewhere in the back of his mind, even as he sidestepped the blow with a fluid turn. Keeping his body narrow, he moved himself to the side of the other man and into the angle he wanted, not just to diminish target area but for leverage. Without a pause, he swung an uppercut into the heavier man’s throat, putting most of his weight behind it.

The whole thing happened in fractions of a second.

Black stepped back before he’d taken a breath, still in fighting stance.

Roscoe’s blue eyes bulged. His body hitched as his back hunched involuntarily. His thick fingers scrabbled at his own throat, trying to open the passage for air. He couldn’t gasp, couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs to take a real breath.

Black placed himself face to face with him, staring into those bloodshot eyes.

“Walk away,” Black growled, staring at him. “I’ll put you the fuck down, if you don’t.”