Savannah Swingsaw (4 page)

"No harm, no foul," Rodeo agreed.

"Search 'em," the first guard ordered, throwing all of them up against the wall. They patted each prisoner down, but there were no weapons. Rodeo's blade had been passed on to a friend who was already on the other side of the yard.

The guard pulled Rodeo's heavy henchman to his feet, wincing at the pulpy shredded face.

"Holy! Get this one down to the infirmary."

"What about me?" Rodeo's other man asked, his toothless mouth a bloody hole.

"Yeah, you too. Let's go." The first guard hauled them off. But Bolan saw a look pass between the second guard and Rodeo, something like a shrug.

Rodeo nodded and rubbed his hand over his lumpy bald head, fingering his braided tail. He stared down into Bolan's eyes, and growled, "Soon, Blue. Very soon."

Bolan leaned over his cell's tiny sink and dabbed some wet toilet paper to the cut on his shoulder. Behind him, Lyle Carrew put on reading glasses and jotted notes in his steno pad.

"Thanks," Bolan said.

Carrew didn't look up.

"You talking to me?"

"Yeah. I said thanks."

"For what?"

"For your help out there. Flooring Rodeo's henchman."

Carrew looked up and laughed.

"Hell, I wasn't helping you, fish, I was hurting him. Big difference. Bastard touched my chair. I taught him not to."

"Yeah, well, thanks anyway." Carrew frowned at Bolan. "I don't want you getting the wrong idea, fish. That could be fatal. Nobody around here helps anybody else unless they want something. I don't know what you want from that Reed kid, that's your business. You don't look like you want him the way Rodeo wants him, but either way I don't care. Understand me now."

"Sure. All for none and none for all. That about sums it up?"

"You got a look, man, that says you don't believe me. Just so we're clear, you and me, and you don't go expecting any help later when Rodeo comes after you, and he will, for sure. Let me show you something."

Carrew's hands reached back into the mechanism of his chair, fiddled with something and suddenly there was a flat blade in his hand, eight inches long, sharpened on both sides.

"See? Now if I really wanted to help you out there, I'd have tossed you this. Am I right?"

Bolan nodded. "Thanks for straightening me out. I'd hate to go another minute thinking maybe you were doing something nice."

Lyle Carrew replaced his shank in its hiding place and wheeled toward Bolan. "You're a weird guy, Blue. I know your rap sheet, and I've seen you handle yourself damn well out there. You been inside before, you know how things work."

"I'm sentimental," Bolan sneered.

"You're something. I haven't figured out what. Yet."

Bolan glanced at his wound. The bleeding had stopped. He shrugged back into his shirt and thought of how he could get to Dodge Reed. Now with Rodeo and his gang after both of them, he'd have to make his break soon. Real soon.

To make matters worse, Carrew's curiosity was aroused. The man in the wheelchair was sharp, perceptive. The slightest hint that a prisoner might not be what he appeared could send a shiver of paranoia through the prison population that would result in a shank buried in his back within the hour. Cops had gone undercover in prisons before. When discovered, they didn't livelong. Carrew was peering over the rims of his glasses at Bolan. The glasses made him look oddly bookish. "You aren't talking now, Blue. You got something to hide?"

Bolan acted angry. "What's your problem, man? Shit, you go around here acting you've done twenty years of a life term. Telling me how it is. Who not to trust. Hell, all you did was punch out a doctor and scare some nurses. Big goddamn deal."

Carrew chuckled. "Seemed like one to them."

"Yeah, well that kind of prankish crap don't cut it in here. Most of the guys are in here because they've wanted something and they were willing to rob or hurt or kill to get it. What you did didn't get you nothing."

"That's a fact," Carrew said, folding his glasses and tossing them on his bunk. "You probably think I'm just some crazy black with a chip on his shoulder about his color or being crippled or both."

"Are you?"

Carrew shrugged. "Maybe. Yeah, maybe I'm just a bitter vet. Or bitter about being black. You want a fact, Blue? Something that'll knock your socks off? Here's a statistic for you. In the U.S. an inmate has a one in 3,300 chance of being killed during one year in prison. But the average black man outside prison stands a one in 1,700 chance. That means he's at twice the risk of being killed outside jail. Yeah, that might make me bitter, make me toss a few TV's Out of a window."

Those were damn good reasons to be bitter, Bolan thought, but that didn't seem to be Carrew's problem.

He was smart enough to go beyond what couldn't be changed, work on what could. The books and weightlifting showed that. "Everybody's got problems, Carrew," Bolan said.

Carrew looked Bolan in the eyes. A slow grin spread across his face. "You're not buying that as my motive, are you?"

"Nope."

"Good. You didn't strike me as the kind of guy who'd take much whining. All right, Blue, just for the sake of killing some time, I tell you the truth." He leaned back in his wheelchair and sighed. "Ever follow college football back in the sixties, Blue?"

"Some."

"Heisman Trophy winners?"

Bolan nodded.

"Who got it in 1966?

"I don't remember. What's the point?"

"Dick Kazmaier, Princeton."

"So?" Bolan asked.

Carrew chuckled. "Yeah. So what, huh? That was almost twenty years ago. That was then and this is now. Only there was another football player back then, a year earlier, who'd come so close that everyone agreed he would win that damn Heisman for sure the following year. It would be his year." Carrew grinned.

Now Bolan stared in sudden recognition.

"Lyle 'In Style' Carrew. Penn State."

Carrew grinned brightly. "That's me. Aren't you going to ask what happened?"

Bolan finished buttoning his shirt, not saying anything.

Carrew continued. "Anyway, our boy Lyle ended up in Nam in '66, making end runs with grenades, getting his legs shot to hell. Spends three months in a POW camp with no doctor, no medical treatment. Only reason they didn't kill him was they liked to watch him crawl across the room for his food. And I crawled, man, crawled for every bite. I learned something about prisons there, man. Anyway, so much for Lyle 'In Style' Carrew's career in the N. F. L."

He laughed that gruff, humorless scraping sound.

"So every once in a while during the N.F.L. draft season I'm a little cranky. I'm in that damn VA hospital, waiting for over an hour, listening to some doctor who was still shitting in diapers in '66, calling me "Lyle" like I was his son, but getting huffy when I call him "Dave," telling me he prefers to be called "Dr. Donnelly." So I tossed him into the X-ray machine. Things got a little carried away from there."

Bolan laughed. "Yeah. So what do you do when you're not busting up VA-hospitals?"

"Teach kids about the tribal rites of the Aruntas when they'd much rather be groping each other in their dorm rooms. I'm a professor of anthropology at the university."

"You're kidding?"

"Not at all."

"How come they don't fire you for this?"

Carrew laughed. "Tenure. Besides, they need me for other reasons. Aside from being a brilliant instructor and a minor authority in my field, I'm good advertising. They like showing me off as their equal-opportunity employee. Here's our crippled, black, war-veteran professor. Hell, I'm an institution."

Carrew fell silent for a moment. Suddenly he wheeled around, facing the bars, his back to Bolan.

"Rodeo's going to kill you, Blue. Going to do it soon, just as he promised. Probably won't come at you alone."

"For a college professor, you sure know a lot about prison survival."

"Three months as a POW, then eight months in a VA hospital, Blue. In some ways the hospital was worse. Not because of the staff, most of whom were terrific. But over there I saw guys struggle against impossible odds and survive, only to come home to a VA hospital and kill themselves within six weeks. Loss of hope is powerful stuff, man. Now I'm a black man in a wheelchair. That's two life sentences. I know how to play rough to survive."

Bolan believed him.

"I also know enough not to get involved in your beef. I gave the cops a hard time when they arrested me, which is why I'm in here. But when things cool down and I roll in front of the judge in my suit and tie and diplomas and medals, promising never to do such a thing again, I'll be back on campus watching the girls get younger every year. In other words, you're on your own."

Bolan grinned. "Always have been, Lyle."

"Yeah." Carrew nodded. "I had a feeling."

They heard the guards' boots clomping along the metal catwalks outside their cell. Bolan and Carrew were on the first tier, to accommodate Carrew's wheelchair. The guards on each tier were selecting the first shift for open visitation, visitors and prisoners mingling in the courtyard.

"This happens on Sundays only," Carrew explained, "and then only for the least threatening residents. Something new."

The guard strolled by their cell and pounded his hickory baton on the bars. "Let's go. You got visitors."

Carrew wheeled to the bars and waited. The doors on the whole row would be opened simultaneously.

"Enjoy," Bolan said, hopping up on his bunk.

"You bet," Carrew said.

"You, too, Blue. Got a visitor. Move it."

"Me?"

"That's what I said. And change that shirt. It's torn."

Bolan was surprised as he jumped down from the bunk, changed shirts and waited at the cell door next to Carrew. A visitor would mean Brognola. And he would only come if there was bad news. Bolan couldn't imagine things being much worse than they already were.

He was wrong.

"Trouble," Brognola said, frowning. "Big trouble."

Bolan laughed. "Is there any other kind?"

"Not for us, I guess. Sort of comes with the territory."

The big Fed popped an antacid tablet into his mouth and chewed. He had a pained expression at first, but after a few minutes, he began to look better. Bolan led him silently to a far corner of the compound courtyard, on a patch of brown grass desperate for water. Bolan gestured at the pack of tablets.

"When did you start with those?"

"These?" Brognola shrugged, looked a little embarrassed and slipped them into his jacket pocket. "Something I ate."

Bolan gave him a patient look.

"Okay, okay. I've been having a little stomach problem for a couple months now."

"About the same time Stony Man Farm was destroyed. And April killed." Bolan looked sympathetically at his friend. Yeah, things had been tough on the Executioner, but he could see where they might even be tougher on Hal, who was left to deal with the stress of working within the system, yet still helping Bolan underground.

At least when Bolan got mad, he could get even directly. Grab the AutoMag and blast the bad guys to hell. But Brognola couldn't. He had to keep it all bottled up.

"I didn't come here to talk about my stomach," Brognola said gruffly. "We have a small matter of assassination to discuss."

"Go ahead."

"He's here. Zavlin."

Bolan's jaw clenched. "Here where? In the prison?"

"Maybe. He was spotted in Atlanta five hours ago."

Bolan looked around the courtyard at the other prisoners, scrutinizing each face.

"That won't help," Brognola said. "He could be any of them, male or female."

"Yeah, you're right. I know about all that master-of-disguise crap. Expert with makeup and forged documents." Bolan kept scanning the compound. "There are a few things that usually aren't disguised because most people don't pay close enough attention, but...." Bolan saw Lyle Carrew over by a wooden picnic table, talking to a woman.

They were both staring at Bolan.

The Executioner felt a strange chill at the nape of his neck. The woman was looking at him with a hard intensity, studying him, not flinching from his gaze. At the same time there was something familiar about her. He didn't recognize her exactly; she had the kind of looks you didn't easily forget.

Her hair was long and raven black, dipping to a sharp widow's peak on her forehead. She was wearing oversize sunglasses despite a cloudy sky.

Her mouth was straight, the lips full. The combination produced a pouty smirk that was exceptionally attractive.

Her body was even more exceptional, not just slim and shapely. What was revealed by her short sleeves and shorts proved to be tanned and toned, with sinewy muscles outlined like a relief map of rough terrain. They looked like long smooth sand dunes along a wet beach. She was perhaps the most striking woman Bolan had ever seen. And she was still staring at him, saying something to Carrew, who was digging into her picnic basket, biting into some corn bread, shrugging or replying to her.

"You know her?" Brognola said, a hint of admiration creeping into his voice.

"I know the guy with her. My cellmate."

"Looks like he knows how to handle himself."

Bolan nodded. "In more ways than one."

"Where's Reed?"

"Behind us about fifty yards. Talking with his girlfriend."

"How's he holding up?"

Bolan told him about Rodeo. The fight. The threats.

"Hell!" Brognola popped another antacid tablet. "...in here one day and you've already got the meanest mother in the place after you. I know you work fast, but..."

"Couldn't be helped. Put a fresh-faced kid like Dodge Reed in here and something was bound to happen. Besides, it was a good way to get him to trust me."

"Fine. Only how are you going to bust out of here? I could still pull a few strings, get some official cooperation..."

Bolan held up his hand. "Won't work, guy. Zavlin could sniff that out in a second. It's got to be real. Don't worry about me. I've got a couple ideas. We should be out by tomorrow."

"What about Rodeo and his bunch?"

"I'll try to keep away from them."

Brognola looked skeptical. "Try hard. As much as I'd like to see that scum scraped away, that kid is our first priority." They both looked over at Dodge Reed, whose hands waved animatedly, his face aged with fear, as he obviously was describing his harrowing adventures. He even pointed at Bolan, and the pretty petite girl turned and looked at him, meeting his eyes and smiling a shy thanks.

Bolan smiled back.

Brognola and Bolan discussed a few more details until the buzzer blared the end of visitation. Prisoners and visitors alike were herded through metal detectors, then prisoners were led aside to be bodysearched for drugs or weapons.

Some couples clung to each other, wringing the most from their last kiss for another week. Reed and his girlfriend were one of those couples. Bolan could see the tears tracking along her cheeks and felt sorry for both of them. To his credit, Reed gave her an encouraging smile and assured her he'd be fine. Lyle Carrew and his female companion had already gone through the doors, but Bolan could still see her lingering with the crowd, watching him, making up her mind about something. By the time he and Brognola went through the door she was gone.

"Take care," the Fed said sincerely. "And remember. He could be inside already."

"Yeah," Bolan said. "I'll be looking for him."

"You ask too many questions, man."

Bolan shrugged. "I've got a curious nature."

"In here that could be a fatal condition," Carrew warned.

"I simply asked who the woman was you were talking to."

"Simple, hell. I'm trying to avoid any fallout that might come from being your cellmate. If you turn out to be a snitch, they might think I knew something about it."

Bolan didn't bother denying anything. Carrew was too sharp to bullshit. Let him think what he wanted. Within the next two hours, with a little luck, he and Reed would be out of here. He'd worked out most of the details in his mind. The one problem: getting Reed to go along. Bolan hadn't yet explained anything to the kid. What good would it do? Even if Reed believed him, would he risk busting out of jail? Probably not. So Bolan was going to have to take him along anyway. By force.

"Why all this interest in her, anyway?" Carrew asked.

"She looked vaguely familiar, that's all."

"Yeah? You think because we had a little fireside chat about my past we're buddies now? Forget it, man."

Bolan shook his head. "I just asked her name, Carrew."

"Funny thing," the black man said, frowning. "Because she asked yours, too."

Bolan waited for more, but Carrew didn't offer anything. "What'd she say when you told her?"

"Said she could be wrong, but you reminded her of someone else, someone she knew a long time ago."

Bolan tried to think, picturing her gorgeous face, the trim body. A name hovered in the distance, out of sight. He had to stop thinking about it, concentrate on the escape. There were too many things that might go wrong for him to allow any distractions. He retied his shoelaces in double knots. There would be some running tonight.

"Said she didn't recognize the name, though. Damon Blue."

"I've used lots of names," Bolan said. "She think what name she knew?"

Carrew returned his concentration on the book he was reading when Bolan interrupted him.

Outside the cell, men milled back and forth. The cell doors were open for all the minimum security prisoners, giving them a chance to mingle before lights-out for the night.

Bolan headed for the open cell door. "See you later, Lyle."

Carrew looked up. "I wouldn't go out there, man. You're marked."

"Rodeo's not minimum security. He's supposed to be locked up."

"Big difference between "supposed to be" and "is."

Bolan knew that, but he had to check on Dodge Reed, make sure the kid was okay for the next couple of hours. "Thanks for the warning."

Carrew shrugged. "Just looking out for myself."

"Yeah, right."

Bolan was about to leave when a shark-faced guard blocked the doorway, chewing gum noisily.

He slapped his baton into his palm and nodded at Bolan. "Come with me, Blue."

"Where?" Bolan said. He recognized the guard as the one who'd exchanged glances with Rodeo out in the courtyard, the one who'd ignored the fight.

"You don't ask no questions around here, Blue," the guard barked. "You do what you're told. Now haul ass, mister."

Bolan started for the door, tripped over Carrew's wheelchair and fell sprawling to the floor next to the chair.

"Shit, man," Carrew complained, almost getting knocked over.

"Sorry," Bolan said, climbing to his feet, his hand pressed against his chest as if he'd bruised something.

"Don't get nervous now, Blue," the guard taunted with a chuckle, chewing his gum rapidly. "We ain't going to no gas chamber."

"Aren't you?" Carrew said.

"Watch yourself, Carrew. You don't want none of his trouble, do ya?"

Carrew stared angrily at the guard, then looked up at Bolan. "Like I said before, man. You'll have to help yourself."

"I just did," Bolan said. His back was to the guard as he opened his fist clutched to his chest. In it was Carrew's shank, which Bolan had taken from the wheelchair when he'd fallen. He stuffed it down his shirt.

"You mother," Carrew said, groping under the seat of his chair, finding nothing. He looked angry enough to lunge at Bolan, but the Executioner was already failing in step next to the gum-chewing guard. The other prisoners looked away as the two men marched by, as if they didn't want to be able to testify later.

Once they were out of sight of the open cells, the guard threw Bolan up against the wall, pressing his baton into the base of Bolan's skull as he frisked him. He pulled Carrew's shank out of Bolan's shirt. "Beena bad boy, Blue."

"Just something to sew my torn shirt."

He shoved Bolan ahead of him as they continued down the hallway. Bolan watched the guard unlock the door to the corridor for solitary confinement cells. They were hardly ever used to lock up prisoners, though they were a popular spot for boozing, shooting up or just passing a joint around.

"What's this all about?" Bolan asked innocently.

"Whaddya think, fish?"

"Maybe my pardon came from the governor?"

"Yeah," the guard snorted, "I want ya to meet the governor and his staff." He prodded Bolan ahead of him down the dim hallway. The doors on either side began opening. Three rough-looking men with shanks stood sneering at Bolan. And finally at the end of the walkway, Rodeo stepped out, his fists fitted with heavy brass knuckles with sharp one-inch spikes protruding from each knuckle.