Blood Country: The Second Byron Tibor Novel Page 12

  ‘How’d you figure that?’ Byron asked.

  ‘I should have refused to work like this. It wasn’t safe. An accident was certain to happen.’

  ‘It wasn’t like Mills gave you much of a choice in the matter.’

  ‘I had a choice,’ Romero said flatly.

  Byron looked up. Mills wasn’t paying much attention to their conversation. Neither were the other guards. ‘What about now? You have a plan here or not?’

  ‘Get Arturo to hospital,’ said Romero.

  ‘I got that part,’ Byron said. ‘I meant after he’s gone to hospital.’

  The twinkle came back into Romero’s eyes. ‘If Mills keeps his word, so will I. He can have his guns back and it’ll be over.’

  There was a fine line between idealism and reality. For a man who must have endured his fair share of defeats, Romero acted like doing the right thing trumped everything else. The level of his naivety took Byron by surprise. He couldn’t tell if it was an act. He hoped it was. ‘As soon as you hand those guns back, they’ll kill you,’ he said. ‘Maybe not right away, not in front of witnesses, but it’ll happen. Mills might have been bluffing before, but now … You humiliated him in front of everyone. That pretty much guarantees payback.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ said Romero.

  ‘The border’s . . . what? Fifty miles? Sixty?’

  ‘About that. But I can’t leave the others behind. If they don’t have me to punish for this, they’ll punish them. What kind of man would that make me, Mr Davis?’

  One who’s still breathing, thought Byron.

  39

  The ambulance driver slammed the rear doors. He walked round, got into the cab, started the engine and took a wide turn. The inmates and guards watched him go.

  Byron’s eyes were on Romero. The old man gave a signal and the two inmates who’d had their guns trained on the two guards pointed them at the floor. Ten yards away Mills stood with the other guards. Their guns remained trained on the inmates.

  The inmates laid the shotgun and the handgun on the floor. The two captive guards walked sheepishly back to join their fellow officers. Romero had surrendered his advantage. Whatever chance he’d had of escape was gone. So, for that matter, was Byron’s.

  Not that Byron could complain. He’d made his choice. Flee or stay and help Arturo. No one had twisted his arm. He had stayed of his own free will.

  The thought stopped him in his tracks. He had stayed as a matter of conscience. He had placed the wellbeing of a man he barely knew above his own need to escape.

  But was it that straightforward? That noble? Or was he simply ascribing to himself a motive that made him feel good?

  Perhaps he’d stayed because he was scared of being on his own again. Of being back out there and hunted, if not by the state, by the sheriff and prison guards.

  There was something about incarceration, being told what to do and when, that he’d found comforting. The last few months of his existence had been feral. He’d lived on the road. He had been in perpetual motion. Never stopping more than two nights in any one place. Distrustful of everyone he encountered. Constantly questioning people’s motives, even ‒ no, particularly ‒ when they’d shown him kindness.

  The idea that on some subconscious level he had chosen to stay was more frightening than having lost the best chance he’d had to make his escape.

  The inmates, and the guards, were waiting to see what Mills’s next move would be. The Mexican inmates clustered around Romero. Byron was hoping for everyone’s sake, the guards included, that Mills wouldn’t dish out immediate retribution. Romero getting a beating would spark a fresh confrontation, and this time Byron doubted that every single shotgun shell would stay chambered. The guards might have the firepower but the prisoners had the numbers.

  Mills could take his revenge behind closed doors. With no one there to stop him, and plausible deniability as a cover, an ‘accident’ with no witnesses was a hard thing to disprove. With a compliant police force and judiciary, it would be a slam dunk.

  Sadly, Mills wasn’t that bright. Anger had clouded whatever judgement he had.

  ‘Romero! Get over here,’ he shouted.

  The group of Mexican prisoners moved closer to the old man. If Mills wanted Romero he would have to go through them first.

  Mills had obviously anticipated such an eventuality. He raised his shotgun to his shoulder and pointed it at one of the younger Mexicans, who was standing on the fringe of the crowd. ‘Either you get your ass over here, or I’m gonna shoot this wetback. I’m going to count to three.’

  Apart from the young man in Mills’s sights, who nervously shifted his weight from one leg to the other and back again, no one moved.

  ‘One,’ said Mills, his finger closing around the shotgun trigger.

  A couple of the men flanking Romero moved forward, placing their bodies more directly in front of their leader.

  ‘Two!’

  Romero said something in Spanish that Byron didn’t catch. The men standing next to Romero looked at him. Romero clapped his hand on their shoulders, a paternal gesture designed to reassure, then stepped to the front and began to walk slowly towards Mills. He kept his head high, and his shoulders back. Mills pivoted and swung round, shifting his aim. Romero’s gaze ran all the way down the barrel of the shotgun until he met Mills’s eyes.

  When Romero got within fifteen feet of him, Mills lowered the shotgun. He handed it to the guard standing next to him and pulled out his baton. He slapped the business end into the open palm of his left hand. The message was clear. Romero was about to get a beating in front of the inmates.

  Byron watched the faces of the other guards. They weren’t going to intervene on a prisoner’s behalf. Especially not a prisoner like Romero. But, from the tight yellow balls of fear that Byron could see pulsing in the middle of their heads, they were worried about what might happen next. A couple of them had drawn their weapons and leveled them at the inmates standing just outside the warehouse dock.

  The Mexican inmates looked equally set. Glancing around, Byron didn’t see any fear. He saw anger. In Byron’s mind’s eye the red was deep and rich, shading into scarlet. It wasn’t going to take much to tip them into a blind rage. Mills raising his baton to Romero would be plenty.

  If someone didn’t do something they were less than sixty seconds away from a major shit show. There would be blood in the Texas dirt. That much was certain.

  Byron stepped forward from the pack of inmates. A shotgun swiveled in his direction.

  ‘Stay where you are, Davis,’ Mills barked.

  Byron kept walking.

  40

  Byron had rediscovered his conscience, and his ability to switch off a fear response seemed to have remained intact. He kept walking towards Romero. Mills was shouting at him to back off. He had two more guns on him. That made three in total, all pointing at his chest.

  Romero half turned to him. ‘This isn’t your fight.’

  Byron had to hand it to the old man. He had some set of cojones.

  Two more strides and Byron had caught up with him. He placed a hand on Romero’s shoulder. ‘This isn’t a fight. A fight takes two people.’ As he said it, Byron was staring at Mills. Mills didn’t like the suggestion of cowardice, although it was plain to see in him, even by his fellow prison guards. An unarmed old man versus a guard with a baton. It wasn’t even close to a fair contest.

  ‘Why don’t we make this more of a contest, Mills?’ said Byron. ‘I’ll even let you keep that little stick you like waving around to compensate for your lack of balls.’

  Mills flushed. He was getting angrier. Fury was overwhelming whatever misgivings he had about going toe to toe with Byron. He was big, but he was out of shape from a job that mostly involved sitting on his ass and barking orders. From the thick spare tire of fat around his abdomen, Byron figured he was no stranger to a Big Mac either.

  ‘Okay,’ Mills said. ‘But once I’m done with you, Davis, Romero’s going to h
ave to take what’s coming to him.’

  Somehow Byron doubted that.

  41

  The end of Mills’s baton slashed across the sun in a high arc. Byron ducked, planting his feet and launching himself forward.

  As opening salvos went it was about predictable as they came. Why throw a punch when you had a baton? Especially when you were facing someone who was, at a minimum, your physical equal. The only surprising thing about Mills’s first move was that he hadn’t asked the other guards for his shotgun.

  The baton slammed into his lower back. Painful, but not as damaging as it would have been to the intended target: his skull. Wrapping his arms around Mills’s waist, he used his existing forward momentum to take Mills to the ground. Rather than letting gravity do the work and think about his position on the ground, Mills fought it. Byron slammed his shoulder into Mills’s chin. His jaw clicked. He fell back. Byron was on top of him.

  Byron closed his right hand into a fist. He drew it back and threw a punch at about a quarter of his total power. He angled it so that it glanced off the side of Mills’s head. It was enough to get the man’s attention, plenty enough to hurt (what punch in the head didn’t hurt?), but not enough to do any serious damage.

  No matter how tempting it was to beat Mills to a pulp, it was not part of the plan. Quite the contrary.

  Despite Mike Tyson’s famous assertion that ‘Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face’, Byron knew that you’d better have some kind of a strategy in place before you threw down. Your strategy might not survive initial contact but having one was better than not.

  It couldn’t be a quick fight. That would only further enrage Mills ‒ if such a thing were possible: having been taken down easily at the start of the fight, he was pretty pissed.

  Anger wasn’t good in a fight. Anger led to bad decisions. Anger soaked up a lot of energy.

  Byron raised his fist high. It alleviated the pressure on Mills. Byron waited to take the shot. The delay gave Mills enough time to throw up an open palm into Byron’s face. Byron tilted his head down fractionally. It gave Mills the angle he needed to connect with the side of Byron’s head.

  Faking a grunt, Byron snapped his head back. He was starting to understand how professional wrestlers worked. It was a fine line between reality and fakery, with lots of room to get hurt if you got it wrong. Mills threw his other hand. It caught Byron in the side.

  It gave Mills the chance to roll out from under him. Both men got slowly to their feet. They squared up, circling each other slowly. Mills was already winded, but getting out from under Byron had given him fresh confidence and a fresh burst of energy.

  Byron threw a straight left that glanced past Mills’s head. Mills stepped in, laying a jab hard into Byron’s abdomen. He followed it up with an elbow that caught Byron’s right eye. Byron took a step back. The space gave Mills the time to throw another shot. This time Byron moved out of the way.

  The guards, who’d been cheering every time Mills landed a shot, lapsed back into silence. The prisoners urged Byron on, united by a common enemy.

  From the frequency and depth of his breathing, Byron sensed that Mills didn’t have much left in the tank. A few more exchanges and he’d be running on fumes.

  Now came the part that would require some skill.

  Byron stopped and put out his open palm. It was a plea for time. True to his nature, Mills took it as a signal to move in for the kill. He rushed hard at Byron, swinging a wild haymaker. Byron feinted left. He was fast enough to slip the worst of the punch, but slow enough for it still to connect. He went down onto his knees.

  Mills swarmed all over him. Throwing lefts and rights at his head. There was no power behind them but they would have looked good. Mills finished with a kick to Byron’s body that jarred him with pain. This time he didn’t have to overplay the air rushing from his lungs.

  If there was a dangerous point, this was it. A fitter man than Mills could have stomped him into unconsciousness or a coma.

  Mills aimed a few more kicks that didn’t carry any real power, but he was done too. He’d won. Proved his superiority. Byron lay face down in the dirt.

  Byron had lost a fight he could never have won, or not in any meaningful way. Mills finally backed off, doubling over, his hands resting on his thighs, panting and wheezing. A couple of the other inmates pulled Byron back to his feet.

  The shit show was over.

  42

  With their cuffs and leg shackles extra-tight, Romero and Byron sat next to each other in the back of the pickup truck as it jostled its way towards the prison. Byron was bruised and sore. He had a few small cuts. He’d put good money on Mills feeling worse.

  Before they had got in, Romero had thanked Byron for saving him from a beating. He hadn’t phrased it exactly like that, but that was what he’d meant. Byron had shrugged it off. What else could he have done? Stand by and watch a bully like Mills beat a man old enough to be his grandfather to a bloody pulp to prove that he was in control? In a way he had done it as much for himself as for Romero and the others. He had stepped in, not to prove to himself that he had courage, but to prove his humanity. Somewhere he had always held on to the idea that he was more than a killing machine. Mills had given him the opportunity to show that he was.

  Romero turned towards him. ‘You are a really terrible actor. You could have beaten Mills easily.’

  If anyone could have seen through Byron’s performance it would have been Romero. ‘I didn’t think I was that bad.’

  Romero smiled. ‘Are you referring to your acting or your fighting ability?’

  Byron didn’t respond.

  ‘I had the same plan in mind. Go easy on Mills and let him win,’ Romero said, with a grin. ‘Can you imagine if I’d beaten him? He’d never have lived it down.’

  When Byron didn’t say anything to that either, Romero added, ‘I’m joking. Maybe twenty years ago I could have given him a fight.’

  ‘I knew you were joking,’ said Byron.

  ‘It was hard to tell,’ said Romero.

  Byron stared straight ahead, his expression set. ‘Then perhaps I’m not as bad an actor as you think,’ he said to the old man.

  * * *

  The prisoners kept their heads down as they walked back into their respective housing units. There were more guards than usual. Where there would normally have been one in the watchtowers, there were now three, each armed. On the yard there was more of a presence too. Mills stood with a dozen other officers. For a man who’d established his position of authority, he didn’t look happy.

  In him now, Byron saw more red than yellow. More anger than fear. It burned at a low flame. He was still angry.

  It didn’t matter that the whole mess had been of Mills’s making. If he had the presence of mind to grasp that, it would only make him angrier. His anger now didn’t bode well. There would be payback. Byron didn’t know what form it would take. Or when, for that matter, it would arrive. Or who would be on the receiving end. But it was coming. The air crackled with the promise of violence.

  * * *

  Byron took a metal tray and got in line. Up ahead, Red was arguing with the server. Byron didn’t look down the line, but tuned in to what was being said.

  ‘Where’s the rest of it, motherfucker?’ Red shouted.

  ‘That’s all there is,’ said the server. ‘Everyone’s getting the same.’

  ‘Bread and water?’ spat Red. ‘Bullshit. Where’s the meat? Man’s working all day, he can’t do that on bread and water.’

  ‘Move along, Rice. You’re holding up the line.’ A guard had strode over, thumbs hooked into his belt, more than ready to put Red in his place.

  ‘This is a punishment, right?’ said Red. ‘Because of that Commie beaner and his beaner pals.’

  ‘I said move along.’

  Red moved. The next man shifted up to get his bread and water. The grumbling filtered down the line. Red walked over to eat at the whites’ table. A young Hispanic inm
ate whom Byron hadn’t seen before made the mistake of putting his tray down on the same table rather than picking another.

  It was a rookie mistake. One that someone who had been in any kind of jail or prison environment before likely wouldn’t have made. Red lifted his head and glowered at the Hispanic kid. ‘This table’s reserved.’

  Whether or not the kid understood the words didn’t matter. The meaning was hard to miss. He lifted his tray and moved to an empty table at the back of the mess hall.

  As he took a seat across from Red, Byron was thankful that, bar some grumbling, the other inmates took the bread-and-water punishment in their stride. The best way to defuse this particular situation, Byron figured, was to let time pass. Mills would revert to his normal low-level of general annoyance. Prison food would be restored. Life would go back to being generally miserable.

  Warden Castro had other ideas.

  43

  In the darkness, Byron watched Red pull on his pants. He was trying to be quiet about it, which made it all the more suspicious.

  Red wasn’t the only prisoner in the bunkhouse getting up. A second and then a third inmate got out of bed and began to drag on their clothes. Byron recognized the other two as buddies of Red, inmates he ate with in the mess hall and hung with on the yard. They referred to themselves as ‘peckers’ or ‘peckerwoods’, which, as far as Byron had been able to tell, was some kind of lightweight white supremacist. When Red had alluded to it, Byron had wondered just how screwed the white race was if this was the best it could offer. Pretty screwed, he figured.

  Byron waited until all three were dressed. They walked to the bunkhouse door and stopped. A second later, the door opened. A shaft of moonlight flashed across a guard’s uniform.

  Swinging his legs over the side, Byron got up. He padded across to the door on bare feet, clad only in shorts. The three were already outside. Byron stopped the door closing completely, counted to ten, pushed it slowly open, and squeezed through.