One more look, then.
She exited the stairwell, and hurried over to the loosely forming line of inmates leaving block three.
As she passed through the door back into block two, Alex picked up her pace so that she was almost abreast of the woman in front of her, and could use the inmate to partially block her from view from El-Hashim’s cell.
Once she was parallel to the cell, she glanced over. The four women were still there, but none were looking out. She studied them as quickly as she could so that she’d be able to recognize them even with their faces covered.
Another three steps and the cell was behind her, El-Hashim and her friends out of sight. Alex was just starting to relax when a voice boomed, “Po-well!”
She craned her neck, looking ahead at the doorway between blocks two and one, and spotted one of the guards who had taken her to her cell last night, the one with the birthmark. He ran over and grabbed her by the forearm, yanking her out of line.
The words that spewed from his mouth were angry and loud. She didn’t understand them, but she knew they had ruined her smooth exit. Back at El-Hashim’s cell, the woman’s three protectors were stepping into the common area to see what was going on. They stared at her as if memorizing her face.
Way to go, Alex. Way to go.
Chapter Sixteen
Her assigned duty turned out to be cleanup crew for Building One’s kitchen—washing dishes, cleaning a bathroom she hadn’t even realized was down there, washing more dishes once lunch was served, and making sure everything was clean before dinner prep began. Thankfully, her job didn’t extend into the dinner shift, and she was able to partake in a portion of the afternoon yard time the rest of the prisoners were already enjoying.
When she’d been in the yard that morning, she’d mainly spent her time getting a sense of the place, so now, as much as she would have liked to just find a quiet spot and rest, she used this second venture outside to delve more into details—memorizing distances, sight lines, doorways, and the like.
She’d been at it for twenty minutes when she realized she hadn’t seen Frida. She was happy to not have the distraction, but was surprised the girl hadn’t tracked her down. As she strolled around behind the central buildings, she found out why.
There was a group of around thirty women gathered in a semicircle against the back of Building Two. Some of the women jeered while others were laughing, their attention focused on someone in the center.
As Alex got closer, she realized they weren’t gathered around just one person, but at least two. Through the crowd, she could see glimpses of two bodies, and could hear one of their voices, loud and menacing.
A slap, then another, followed by a cry. The loud voice railed again.
Alex kept walking by, not wanting to get pulled into something, even tangentially, that might interfere with her plans, but then a different voice called out, the voice that had cried moments before.
“Alex!”
Frida.
Alex tried not to look over, but she couldn’t help herself. A few of the women had parted and were looking back in her direction. Through the gap of the semicircle, Alex could see Frida twisting around, trying to get out of the grasp of another, much larger woman.
“Alex, please!”
The woman yanked Frida’s hair and slapped her in the face.
Dammit.
When she didn’t move right away, those who had twisted around to look at her closed the gap again, and refocused on the action in front of them.
She heard flesh hitting flesh, another cry of pain.
Dammit, dammit, dammit!
Lips pressed tightly together, Alex raced into the crowd. A murmur went through the onlookers as she pushed her way past them into the center.
“Let her go!” she shouted once she was clear.
The woman holding Frida snorted and pushed her to her knees, grabbing Frida by the hair. Alex sensed the woman was about to slam a fist into Frida’s face, so she took two quick steps forward and shoved the woman in the chest.
The attacker lost her grip on Frida’s hair and staggered back, almost all the way to the wall. The buzz of the other prisoners cranked up a notch as Alex took Frida’s hand and helped the girl back to her feet.
“Come on,” she said.
They’d barely turned to leave when Alex heard the other woman coming at her.
Shoving Frida toward a small break in the crowd, she said, “Run!” and ducked down just as the other woman reached her.
The nape of her neck tingled as the woman’s fist flew past her, less than an inch above her flesh. But momentum’s a bitch, and while the woman’s arm passed harmlessly through the air, the rest of her body kept coming. With a thud, her hip whacked into Alex’s shoulder, sending Alex toppling sideways toward the ground.
Cheers rang out as the woman stumbled over her but remained standing. She whirled around, undoubtedly expecting to take advantage of the fact that Alex was down, but Alex had rolled with the fall and was already on her feet again.
They circled each other, the woman big and strong and mean. There were probably few who had ever tried fighting back, and fewer still who had won.
But Alex was willing to bet the woman had never met a prisoner like her.
The woman’s face scrunched in fury; she yelled and charged. Her arms were stretched to either side, as if making herself look bigger might somehow intimidate Alex into immediate submission.
Alex waited until the last possible second before she moved to the side and grabbed the woman by the head. With a violent jerk, she yanked her forward, and the woman’s arm slapped into Alex’s side, fingers scrambling to grab a handful of dress. But the newly added momentum whisked her past before she could. She stumbled, fell in a heap, and tumbled into the wall behind them.
She lay there, stunned for a moment, then her eyes found Alex’s, hate oozing from every inch of her body. Slow and deliberate, she climbed back to her feet.
“You don’t want to do this,” Alex said. “Trust me.”
But the woman’s gaze didn’t waver. Even if she understood Alex, it appeared she wasn’t going to listen. As she took a step forward, something glittered through the air and landed at her feet.
Son of a bitch.
It was a knife. And not a random piece of metal twisted into a homemade shank, but a real, honest-to-goodness knife—four inches of blade with a nice, comfortable hilt to grab on to.
Before the woman even started to lean down to pick it up, Alex raced forward. She knew it was too late to stop the woman from getting her hands on the weapon, but it wasn’t too late to jam a knee into her opponent’s face.
With a howl of pain, the woman grabbed her nose with her free hand as she staggered back a few feet. There was no trickle of blood. It was a downpour, rushing out of her nose and over her lips and chin.
Her eyes were truly on fire now as her gaze zeroed in once more on Alex.
Knife leading the way, she charged, swiping the blade through the air as she neared. Alex thought she’d given herself enough time to get out of the way, but as she dodged to the side, the tip of the knife sliced a shallow groove across her forearm.
She knew better than to allow the pain to influence her emotions, though. Fighting was about control, and the one who maintained control the best would win ninety-nine times out of a hundred.
The woman, bolstered by her success, came at Alex again, this time literally for the kill, Alex was sure.
The blade rose as the woman prepared to slash it at Alex’s neck. Not a bad target, but the execution was the problem.
As soon as the arm rose, Alex dived under it, getting behind her attacker. Before the woman could turn to try again, Alex grabbed the arm with the knife and yanked it backward as hard as she could.
Which was pretty damn hard.
The pop could be heard even over the cheers of the onlookers.
The woman sucked in a surprised, gut-wrenching breath, then dropped to the ground a q
uivering mess, her arm lying unnaturally at her side.
The crowd went silent.
A whistle blew, then another, the guards finally deciding it was time to come break things up. The knife had fallen onto the ground near Alex’s feet, and she quickly kicked it over so that it was lying next to the woman. The last thing she needed was another weapons beef.
The onlookers parted so the guards could get through, some wandering off, the show over. Two of the guards rushed over to Alex, while three others went to the woman on the ground.
Alex noticed that one of the guards had discovered the knife, but instead of showing it to his friends, he quietly slipped it into his pocket.
Another guard yelled at Alex, and she thought it was probably a question.
“She’s the one who attacked me,” she said, pointing at the woman on the ground. “I was only defending myself.”
The guard barked something at her, then grabbed Alex’s bicep on the arm that had been cut.
She winced and tried to pull away. “Careful, dammit.”
The guard seemed to notice the cut for the first time, which didn’t say much about his observational skills, considering she was bleeding all over the place. He quickly looked around, searching for the cause, then said something to the guards over by the woman. They looked around their area. The one who’d stowed the knife shook his head and shrugged.
Interesting, Alex thought.
Apparently this bitch had a friend.
The guard grabbed Alex again, this time by the other arm. But before he and his partner could walk her out of the circle, Frida stepped in their way. The guard shouted at her, then she spoke, just a few words that were obviously difficult for her to pronounce. One of the other guards grabbed Frida and the five of them cut through the crowd, headed toward the administration building.
Though everyone stared at them as they crossed the yard, there was one inmate in particular who caught Alex’s attention. Medium-sized and steely-eyed and wearing a hijab. Though the rest of her face was covered with a scarf, Alex was sure it was one of women who had been with El-Hashim in her cell.
And she seemed very interested in Alex.
*
FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS a day, Alex thought as the doctor sewed up her cut. Stonewell was getting one hell of a deal.
The infirmary examination room was broken up into several individual stations. Each of the women involved in the altercation had been taken into her own, curtains drawn for privacy.
Not complete privacy, of course. Alex was willing to bet that Frida and the other woman were enjoying the company of one of the guards, like she was. Hers had been kind enough to keep staring at her as she removed her torn and bloodied dress and given it to a nurse, who had whisked it away.
So far, a new garment had yet to materialize, and this asshole seemed to be having a helluva good time staring at Alex’s breasts. If he didn’t start showing her a little respect very soon, she might have to knock that grin off his face.
The doctor tugged on the needle and poked it into her skin again. He said something unintelligible and it took her a moment to realize he had spoken in thickly accented English, the word “pain” the only thing she understood.
He was asking if it hurt.
“Just a little,” she said, knowing that her “little” was probably a lot to some people.
He seemed to be trying to decipher her response, so she held her thumb and forefinger about a quarter inch apart.
“Little,” she said.
“Ahhh.”
He nodded, offering her a doctorly smile. After he finished closing off the wound, he examined the other scrapes and bruises she’d received, then ducked around the curtain and left without another word.
Sitting there on the cold, uncomfortable table in only a thin pair of panties, with a guard about two threads of spittle away from full-on drool, Alex felt the urge to fold her arms and cover herself, despite the wound that would make such a task difficult. But then she decided, Screw it. She wasn’t going to act like some shy schoolgirl because this asshole couldn’t take his eyes off her.
It wasn’t as if he’d ever see or get any more than this.
Not from her. Not ever.
So enjoy the show, numbnuts.
Finally, a different nurse returned and handed her a dress identical to the one she’d been wearing, only clean. The guard’s disappointment was palpable as Alex eyed him defiantly and slipped it on.
From the infirmary, she was taken to see the warden. Frida was already there, sitting in one of the chairs outside his office, and Alex was pushed onto the seat next to her.
“You all right?” Alex asked.
Frida nodded. “Thank you.”
It was the first time they’d had a chance to talk since the fight.
“So how did it start?”
“You think this was first time?”
“Your black eye from before. The same woman?”
Another nod.
“What’s her problem?”
“I do not know. A month ago she just decide to beat me. I had never even talked to her before. It was like she chooses me…” Frida demonstrated pointing at several people before stopping on one.
“Randomly,” Alex suggested. “Without any reason.”
“Yes. No reason.”
“Well, she’s not going to pick on you for a while.”
“But when she gets better? Then what?”
Alex could say that she would help, but given she wasn’t planning on being around very long, it would be a hollow promise. Instead she asked, “Why didn’t you just walk away when the guards showed up? They didn’t know you were involved.”
A half smile. “If you come by yourself, they probably not believe you. But they know Kalyna has hurt me before, so better if I tell them what happened.”
“Kalyna? That’s her name?”
Frida nodded.
“You didn’t have to do that for me,” Alex said.
“You help me, I help you.”
It was an admirable philosophy, but one that might ultimately cause Frida more trouble.
A few minutes later, they were ushered into the warden’s office together. In her halting, slow Ukraine, Frida gave her version of the events, and did the best she could to act as an interpreter for Alex. At the end, the warden rattled on for over a minute, then brushed his hand in the air, dismissing them.
“What was that all about?” Alex whispered when they were out of the office.
“He is not punishing you since you are so new, and…” She paused. “And you might not understanding the…rules? Rules like ‘do this,’ ‘do this,’ ‘do this,’ yes?”
“Like laws. Guidelines.”
“Yes, same. You not understanding rules of fighting.”
“I think I understand the rules of fighting just fine. I believe I just beat the crap out of your friend Kalyna.”
Frida smiled. “I mean rules that there is no fighting here.”
“Uh-huh,” Alex said. “And, tell me, does anyone ever follow that rule?”
Frida’s smile faltered. “Not really.”
“Well, knock me over with a feather.”
*
ALEX AND FRIDA separated after they entered Building One, Frida staying on the ground floor while Alex took the stairs up to level three. Passing through the cellblocks, she couldn’t help but notice that the other prisoners grew quiet as she walked by.
So much for keeping a low profile.
Her cellmates were all there when she walked in. Like the others, they also stopped talking and simply stared at her as she stretched out on her mattress.
“What?” she said.
In a panic, they turned away as if she wasn’t even in the room.
All right. Be that way.
She tried to make herself comfortable, turning first one way then the other. As she started to flip onto her side, something scratched her calf. She winced, climbed out, and felt around the bunk, thinking somethin
g might have gotten between the blanket and mattress.
There was nothing there.
Frowning, she lay back down. And felt it again.
This time, it was clear the scratch had come not from the bed, but her new dress. Specifically, the hem. At one spot, it was stiff.
She twisted the dress around as best she could for a better look. Surprisingly, it appeared as if the hem had been cut and resewn—hastily, by the looks of it. But that wasn’t what was stiff. The hem was about an inch wide, and within it, right where it had been redone, was what felt like a piece of paper.
Alex ran a finger across the seam and found a loose thread. It put up little resistance as she gave it a gentle tug and worked it out.
After checking her roommates and confirming they were doing everything they could not to look in her direction, she fished out the piece of paper. It had been folded twice, which accounted for why it had felt so stiff.
She quietly unfolded it.
It was a note. In English.
Home concerned about timeline. Increase speed as much as possible. When ready to leave, request new dress. Until then, no more fights.
The only person it could be from was Traz, the inside contact, who apparently worked in the administration building. That made sense, given that Traz was supposed to help her get out.
But who was it?
Request new dress. Someone who worked in the storage room? The female guard? Or it could have been any of the medical staff—the nurse who’d taken her bloodied dress away, the one who’d brought her a new one, hell, even the doctor.
The only thing she knew for sure was that it had been someone who had gotten a few minutes alone with the garment before it was brought to her. Unfortunately, she wasn’t in the position to conduct a full-scale investigation.
She read the note again. She had a pretty good idea why McElroy would want her to speed up the schedule—that bastard judge back in Simferopol. He’d already fleeced them for more cash once, and chances were good he’d try again, threatening to expose her as a “foreign agent.” So McElroy would want her done and gone before anything else blew up.
Whether or not this was his reasoning, she was completely in agreement. Prison life was not suiting her at all, and the sooner she was out, the better.
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