Divine Justice (Camel Club 4)

They followed the trail across the road and up the slope. There were more bloodstains here. They moved across some more ground and then stopped. There were lots of footprints in the soft mud and more dark stains. Annabelle’s gloomy expression changed now and she became more alert. As they followed the marks they came to a spot where it appeared as though the people had marched in lockstep.

“Or carrying something. Or somebody,” Alex deduced.

They followed the trail back down to the road but at another spot. There were more dark stains here, and also what looked to be a slick of oil.

“It looks like someone was put in a car or truck,” said Harry.

“A truck,” noted Tyree. He flashed his light on the asphalt. “Tire ran over some of that oil and left a mark. That’s a tire tread from a truck. Maybe we can track it that way.”

As the edges of the night began to lift around them they hustled down the road, desperately looking for more clues.

Reuben was the first to see it. “The truck cut across here.” He pointed to the smear of oil on the road. “And went into that field.”

They rushed into the open space. It was quite easy to see the ruts the truck had made in the soft earth here. As they got to the middle of the field, Alex swept his light in a wide swath.

Harry said, “Stop. Hold it right there.” Alex did so and Harry knelt down and grazed his hand along the top of a long depression in the dirt.

He looked up. “That’s a mark from a chopper’s skids.” He eyed Tyree. “Who has a chopper around here?”

Tyree’s light was square on this mark, his features were very grim.

“Tyree, does anybody you know up here have a chopper?” Alex said, tugging at the lawman’s arm.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “My damn brother.”

There was a buzzing sound. Tyree reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone.

“Tyree?”

The tall lawman’s legs buckled. “What? When?”

Annabelle said, “What is it?”

“I’ll be right there.”

He clicked off and looked at the others.

“What is it?” Annabelle demanded again.

“That was a fellow I deputized to look after Abby Riker. He just came to.”

“Just came to?” Alex said uneasily.

Tyree was already rushing back to the road. “They’ve got Abby,” he yelled.

CHAPTER 72

KNOX AND STONE ate their breakfast in silence, doing their best to act as lethargic as the rest of the prison population actually was from their drug dose the day before. Both men’s gazes were in fact sweeping the cafeteria.

Near the end of the meal, Knox, who was sitting across from Stone so they could watch both sides of the room and not be surprised from the rear, gave a little rehearsed cough and his gaze darted to nine o’clock. An instant before the blow struck, Stone lifted his tray up and used it as a shield. The shiv glanced off the hard plastic. In the next motion, Stone had hooked Manson’s leg with his own, and the big guard’s momentum caused him to slide across the table. He crashed through plates and plastic cups until he toppled to the floor on the other side, taking two prisoners next to Knox down with him. In the commotion that followed, Knox edged his plate off the table with his elbow and his uneaten grits plopped directly on Manson’s head.

When the other guards came running they found Stone and Knox sitting there calmly, but with bewildered expressions, and staring at the pile of bodies on the floor.

When the guards pulled Manson to his feet, he was still holding the shiv.

“Frank, what the hell are you—” began one of the guards before Manson roughly pushed him away. With an enraged scream he tried to jump over the table at Stone. Only Knox had stood on his foot at that precise moment and his leap turned into an abrupt fall. His chin slammed down on the table in front of where Stone was sitting. As if on cue, Knox stood, blocking the view of the other guards.

“Let me get out of your way so you can deal with the psycho guard,” he said politely.

In that instant, Oliver Stone delivered a crushing blow to the back of Manson’s neck with his elbow. When the guards finally got around Knox, Stone had slipped to the other end of the table and seemed to be innocently watching the events.

Manson was carried off on a gurney unconscious and barely breathing. Even the most comatose con in the room had a smile on his face at the sight.

Later that morning Stone and Knox were standing in the rec yard. No one had come after them about what had happened to Manson, though Stone had been popped once in the head for apparently chewing too loudly.

“How hard did you hit him?” Knox asked.

“Hard enough.”

“I like your style.”

Donny boy smiled at them as he passed by. He gave a stupid thumbs-up to Stone. The guards on the pod towers were making their rounds, eyeballing the gaggle of cons with binoculars and scopes on stationary tripods. And the guns. The guns were always front and center. The power. The deterrent. Stone thought this as he leaned against the cement block wall and wondered how the older guard was going to accomplish it, whatever it was.

Knox kept checking the periphery without seeming to do so as he stood next to Stone.

One inmate was bouncing the ball. He made a layup, caught the rebound and went back for a jumper. Like most of the inmates Stone and Knox had seen, he was black, young, tall and muscular. He seemed to have all his wits about him, so maybe Donny had let out his secret to others about the carrots. He missed the jumper and Stone stiffened as the black guy jogged to get the ball that had rolled past the blue line.

Before he could get there though, another inmate crashed into him, knocking the man across the line where he landed on the ball. The two men got up and faced off. A horn sounded. And the riflemen on the towers took aim. A shot was fired, but it didn’t come from the tower. The guards looked everywhere for the source of the round.

As if on cue one inmate hit another inmate, sending him down with a bloodied nose. Another shot was fired. Whistles erupted, horns blared and a cluster of cons in the middle of the concrete playground bolted, screaming. Two guards who ran up to stop this human stampede were run over, their caps and billy clubs disappearing beneath the tidal wave of fleeing prisoners.

Hands closed around Stone’s and Knox’s wrists and they were pulled forward.

“Back to your cells, now!” barked a voice.

Stone’s gaze fell on the older guard, the one who’d nodded at him. He was pushing Knox and Stone toward one of the entrances into the prison.

As they passed a throng of prisoners standing there watching the melee, Knox spotted Donny, who was smiling and cheering on the fighters.

Knox sucker-punched him and old Donny boy, the killer of three kids, slid unconscious to the cold concrete lawn of Dead Rock.

“Now, that’s what I call accountability,” Knox muttered as he followed behind Stone.

Inside the building the guard herded them up a set of stairs and into a small room, where he closed the door.

“Turn around.”

They did so, a little hesitantly.

He quickly cuffed and shackled them, then spun them back around to face him.

“We don’t have much time. I was Josh Coombs’ best friend. I heard you helped Willie.”

“I did. He’s dead now, I guess you heard. Bob too. Blown up.”