Manipulate (Deliver 6)

She’d put herself through college, graduated with honors, and immigrated to the U.S. all on her own.

She could do this.

What were the first steps? She needed to approach the Americans, let them know they could interact with her. Then she would need to talk to them, without coming across as obvious or desperate.

Where should this happen? She glanced around at the dozen or so inmates in the yard. Not here. Too many ears.

“Garra.” She met his eyes over her shoulder. “Why don’t they have their own cell?”

“They haven’t earned it.”

No one paid rent the way she had when she first arrived. She’d realized later that Garra had arranged that special moment in hell just for her.

She turned to face him and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I can’t do this with everyone watching and listening. Give them a cell.”

“No.”

“Then move two beds into mine.”

It was a hollow demand. She would never willingly share her cell with a stranger, let alone two strangers. She also knew Garra would never agree to it.

“I’ll find them some space,” he growled.

“A private cell. With a lock.” If this turned into a sexual thing, she didn’t want anyone walking in.

“Fine.” His nostrils flared.

“Today. Right now.”

He drew in a sharp inhale and scanned the yard, likely searching for inmates who might threaten her. A moment later, he stormed off.

She treaded in the other direction. As she neared her bench, a pack of five men came into view around the corner.

All muscle, tattoos, and menace, they walked with cocky swaggers and eyes locked on wherever they were headed.

She followed their gazes to a table, where the two Americans sat alone.

Shit.

Ricardo and Martin were about to meet the welcoming committee, and it wouldn’t be gentle.

Her muscles tensed, and she glanced in the direction Garra had headed. No luck.

Even if he were here, he would never interfere in a yard fight. And she had no power or authority over anyone, which was why Garra didn’t like to leave her side.

She had no choice but to let this play out.

Her bench sat within hearing range of the confrontation. No one looked in her direction as she lowered onto the sun-soaked seat.

“Hey, gabachos.” A huge bald man known as Papá approached the black-haired guy, who she assumed was Ricardo. “I have a list for you. Make sure we get everything on it by tomorrow.”

The wrinkled paper in Papá’s fist probably demanded things like cigarettes, soap, underwear, and other goods that could be purchased or traded at the canteen.

“Sure, can I see it?” Ricardo asked in fluent Spanish and slowly stood.

As Papá handed over the list, Ricardo slammed a fist into the huge man’s nose.

“Oh, fuck.” Her hand flew to the grip of her gun, knowing full well they would kill her if she interfered.

In a blur of bodies, five men with sledgehammer arms slammed into the Americans.

She expected them to fall beneath the beating. Or run for their lives. Either option would’ve labeled them as cowards and turned them into permanent punching bags. Or worse.

But they didn’t cower.

They hit back, furiously, expertly, and without fear. Even more incredible was the awareness they had of each other. They worked in tandem, one of them punching high while the other kicked low. Their strikes were synchronized, their arms and legs moving as if controlled by one mind.

The way they predicted each other’s movements was mind-boggling. They must’ve trained together. A lot.

Their bodies carried the muscled strength and coordination of men who had dedicated some serious time to the heavy bag. Biceps flexed with every punch. Pectorals contracted and heaved against the stretch of their shirts. Powerful legs delivered blows that sent a massive man like Papá into a stunned lurch of discombobulated limbs.

Make no mistake, the new guys were getting their asses kicked. But through it all, they shared secret smiles as if they weren’t engaged in a fight they couldn’t win.

She held her breath as the sounds of meaty knuckles pounded flesh, cartilage, and sinew. Grunts rent the air, and Papá’s team started to stagger. A couple of the men stumbled out of the throe, bleeding from cuts on their faces.

The instant Ricardo and Martin dropped to the ground, the battle was over.

They lay on their backs, sweating into the dirt and gasping for breaths. Their attackers wiped away blood, straightened their clothes, and limped out of the yard.

There was no heckling, trash talk, or cheap shots as they departed. The silent exit was a form of praise to the new guys for having enough heart to fight a battle they knew they would lose.

She released a sigh of relief then silently scolded herself for caring.

Ricardo and Martin had just earned respect, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be more tests and harder fights.

Martin pushed into a sitting position, his expression strained, scowling beneath a sheen of blood.