Cooley had arrived. At last.
John climbed out of his truck while waiting for the man in the old Corvette rolling down the narrow dirt road. He’d met the same guy here in the forest twice before, and he hoped this meeting would be as financially rewarding. He was overdrawn on his checking account, needed to cover the drafts he’d written before the bank manager called him.
The bass of Cooley’s stereo pounded against the windows as he slammed on his brakes and slid to a stop, nearly hitting John.
Scrambling to get out of the way, John cursed. Each time he dealt with this punk, John swore it would be the last, but with spousal support and child support and his new truck, which he’d bought when his marriage fell apart, he couldn’t get ahead.
Heavy metal blasted into the small clearing as Cooley, a kid of maybe eighteen, left the motor running and got out. The little prick knew better than to come charging in here with his stereo turned up so loud. John had asked him a number of times to be more discreet, but Cooley wanted to come off as too much of a badass to care whether or not he attracted attention. His cockiness was reflected even in the car he drove. That old Corvette wasn’t worth more than a few thousand dollars, not these days, but he raced around in it as proudly as though it were fresh off the lot.
“What’s up, man?” Tall and skinny, with long greasy hair, Cooley wore an MMA T-shirt with tight rocker jeans and Vans on his feet. He looked more like a skater dude than a gangbanger. He had the usual tats, of course, but tats were so common these days they no longer signified anything. Too many wannabes inked up. Cooley strove for a tough image, talked like he’d spent a few years in prison, but John knew the truth. He was just a foot soldier, recruited by Weston Jager, his older brother.
“What the hell took you so long?” John growled, relieved when the car door slammed, muting the discordant music.
Cooley shot him a dark look. “That’s the first thing you say to me? What’s your problem, dude?”
What did he think? John risked a lot coming out here. If he was caught doing business with the Hells Fury he’d go to prison himself. “Nothing. Just give me what you owe me so I can be on my way.”
Cooley dangled a thick envelope in front of him, but when John tried to take it, he yanked it out of reach. “My brother’s got another job for you. If you’re man enough to handle it.”
“I was man enough to handle the last one, wasn’t I?” They’d wanted Bentley Riggs and he’d delivered him. He’d even kicked the bastard when the presence of other C.O.s forced him to break off the attack before Weston was finished.
Cooley made a tsking sound. “I heard you got yourself in trouble with that one.”
“See the risks I take?”
“That shouldn’t have been a risk. You didn’t sell it right. Westy said you came in late.”
Because he’d almost chickened out. “All’s well that ends well,” he said to cover his embarrassment. “That’s a happy ending?” Cooley cracked a smile.
“He was sent to the infirmary with a broken skull, wasn’t he?”
“I’m talking about what’s happening to you, man.”
John didn’t want to go into it. It was too upsetting. But curiosity compelled him to find out what the Hells Fury had to say about him. They thought they were so tough, but he was the one who’d done the bulk of the damage that day. “How do you know what’s happening to me?”
“Word has it you’re gonna be suspended.”
News traveled fast in prison, especially bad news.
“And that’s just for jumping in at the end,” Cooley added. “If they knew it was because of you Westy got to that faggot in the first place, they’d fire your ass.”
“They’re not going to fire me. I’ll get through this.”
“Too bad you have to worry about it. That’s what’s wrong with the system. We’re only trying to take out the trash, you know? Cleanse the world. Creeps like Bentley Riggs don’t deserve to live.”
John heard that all day, every day. If the Hells Fury weren’t pressuring him to smuggle cell phones, cigarettes or crank into the prison, or to provide privileges they didn’t deserve, they were asking him to serve up chomos—or child molesters—so they could exact retribution on behalf of the innocent victims who’d been harmed. Which was pretty damn ironic considering all the innocent victims they’d harmed. But John didn’t mind the irony. He hated chomos as much as they did. “We can’t snuff them all out. And I’m done doing favors for your brother. At least for a while.”
Cooley pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. “What do you mean by that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve been written up. I need to lie low.”
With a wave of his hand he suggested John was too concerned. “Stop worrying. My brother’s got your back.”
John wasn’t sure whether to take him seriously. “There’s nothing Weston can do. ISU has already given me notice. My suspension got the rubber stamp from everyone, all the way up to the chief deputy warden.” Who should’ve shown more loyalty…
“That chief deputy…shee-it.” Drawing out the word, he punctuated it with a whistle. “She’s a mighty fine piece of ass, isn’t she?” Peyton was attractive. No denying that. In the beginning John had liked her. When he’d first started having problems in his marriage, he’d even harbored some hope that Peyton might like him in return. That if he lost Marguerite, he’d take a step up. But he didn’t care for her anymore. He preferred women who acted like women, not some ballbuster ice queen like Adams. She made him feel…inadequate. “She’s okay, I guess.”
“She’s more than okay, dude. She’s hot! What my brother wouldn’t pay for five minutes alone with her…” He made a thrusting motion with his hips. “I might even be willing to serve a nickel for some of that action, you hear what I’m sayin’?”
John backed away. “Listen, if that’s what Weston has in mind, tell him to forget it. I might need a few aces here and there to cover expenses, but I’m not crazy.”
“Chill out. You think we’re stupid? That would bring down the whole place, which would interfere with business. There’s no need for that.”
Detric Whitehead, the leader of the Hells Fury, would probably kill them both if they did.