The scream was heard again.
Closer.
More heartbreaking.
In the corridor, boots clattered against the concrete with an urgency that didn’t belong in a prison like Lockrich. There, violence was commonplace. Homemade knives, beatings, nightly revenge killings… it all had a familiar rhythm. But this didn’t sound like routine.
It sounded like disorder.
Breakdown.
Something I had entered without asking permission.
Elias’s cellmate stood up abruptly, his face contorted with rage.
—What the hell is going on?
Elias didn’t answer right away. He stood up with unbearable calm, straightened the wet collar of his uniform, and approached the barred door as if he were listening to an old melody.
Another scream.
Then a sharp blow.
Then silence.
On the other side, a guard ran past and didn’t even look inside the cell.
That was the first thing that really scared the Russian.
“The guards never run,” he whispered.
Elias narrowed his eyes.
—They only run when they no longer control something.
In C Block, Damon Hartstone Cole had just thrown the first prisoner who dared to cross his path against the wall. He was furious. His face was red, the veins in his neck were bulging, and his fists were still clenched from the humiliation in the mess hall.
“I want to know who that old man is!” he roared.
Two of his men, Reggie and Mako, followed him closely.
“They’re just stories, Damon,” Reggie said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Prisoners always make up legends when someone strange arrives.”
“Stories?” Damon spat. “The whole building went silent over a seventy-year-old man. That’s not stories.”
They turned the corner and found an inmate lying on the floor, trembling. He was one of the dealers from the north wing, a tough guy, used to collecting money at knifepoint. But at that moment he was pale.
“What happened to you?” Damon growled.
The man looked up as if he hadn’t recognized him.
“Questions started coming in,” he murmured.
-That?
—They arrived… questions about you.
Damon grabbed him by the shirt and lifted him up almost effortlessly.
—I’m speaking plainly. Who asked?
The prisoner swallowed hard.
—The kitchen staff. The workshop staff. The two brothers from the south courtyard. Even the old folks in isolation. They all wanted to know the same thing.
Damon let it go with contempt.
—And what did they want to know?
The man could barely hold her gaze.
—If you really threw water on Elias W.
The runner remained motionless.
For the first time, Damon felt no respect around him.
He felt distance.
As if, suddenly, everyone had taken a mental step away from him.
“That old man doesn’t scare anyone,” he said, though his voice no longer sounded so confident.
But no one answered.
It’s Reggie.
I am Mako.
Not even the man on the ground.
Damon kept walking, faster now. He needed to regain control. He needed to find the old man, smash his face in, and erase that sick feeling that had crept under his skin. He was about to reach the stairs when an officer came out of the guard post and blocked his path.
—Hartstone, return to your cell.
Damon let out a dry laugh.
—Since when do you give me orders man to man, Collins?
The guard didn’t move.
But his hands were tense.
And his radio kept spewing static.
“Go back to your cell,” he repeated. “That’s an order.”
Damon took another step closer, defiant.
—First tell me what’s going on.
Collins hesitated.
Just one second.
But Damon saw it.
And he also saw something much worse: fear.
Not afraid of him.
Fear of something else.
“They just closed the administration office,” the guard finally murmured. “An order came down from outside. No one goes in. No one goes out. And they want the old man under special surveillance.”
Damon smiled angrily.
—See? The truth has come out. He’s a federal informant.
Collins denied it, almost immediately.
—I wish that were the case.
Damon frowned.
-So?
The guard looked both ways before answering.
—Twenty minutes ago, the warden received three calls from blocked numbers. Then came a fourth, direct call from Washington. And then another… from an office that shouldn’t even know this place exists.
Damon let out an incredulous laugh.
—All that because of that old man?
Collins swallowed.
—They didn’t ask about Elias W.
—So by whom?
The guard lowered his voice.
—They asked if Ismael Varela was still alive.
The name meant nothing to Damon.
But it was for Reggie.
The big man took a step back and suddenly went pale.
Damon turned towards him.
-What about you?
Reggie took a while to respond.
—That name… I heard it once outside. In El Paso. My uncle moved drugs for big shots. One night he got drunk and said there were men who controlled neighborhoods, others who controlled states… and then there was one who controlled the silence.
Damon looked at him, uncomprehending.
—Speak clearly.
Reggie had a dry mouth.
—He said that Ismael Varela wasn’t a boss. He was the man they called when a boss became a problem. The one who didn’t appear in photos. The one who didn’t exist in the accounts. The one who decided who disappeared without a trace.
Mako muttered a curse under his breath.
—That’s impossible. That guy would have died years ago.
Collins denied it again.
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