Goliath

Sleep tugs at his body, yet his mind refuses to let go, the hatred of the Vengeance’s crew still echoing in his thoughts. In the jungle, death is a numbers game, for both predator and prey. Zebra and wildebeests run in herds, as do prisoners. Gunnar might have been a lion in the outside world, but a single lion alone on the Serengeti still ends up food for the vultures. Survival in prison meant choosing sides, finding allies—families, who would watch your back, or so you hoped. Gunnar’s retaliation to Barnes’s attack had earned him the respect of a group of lifers, an older, more established prison gang, one that had the clout to keep Barnes and his Aryan Brotherhood away. Necessity forced him to join their group. On the inside, their company made him sick.

After three years, Gunnar had no idea who he was anymore.

The prison riot that took place during Gunnar’s fifty-seventh month at Leavenworth began at breakfast. Somehow a .22 caliber Beretta had been smuggled inside the compound, ending up in Anthony Barnes’s hands. The con knew the warden would be speaking to the inmates that day. The Aryan Brotherhood was ready.

In the melee that ensued, two guards were stabbed, another shot in the face. Cellblock C was sealed off, with Barnes threatening to kill the warden if he was not released.

The law of the jungle says you move on when your herd is not involved. The law of prison says an inmate does not intervene to save a boss.

The laws of Leavenworth state that a warden is no longer a warden if captured.

Barnes, left without his bargaining chip, decided to go out with a bang.

Whatever Gunnar was, whatever he had become in prison, the thought of the warden, a father of four, being tortured and killed by one of the cons struck at every fiber of his being. Without thinking, without any thought of repercussion, Gunnar allowed his commando instincts to take over as he made his way through the cellblock, stalking his enemy. After taking out half a dozen of the rioters, the former Army Ranger went after Barnes, snapping the man’s neck, never feeling the two bullets as they entered his abdomen.

Hooah.

Lying in his own blood, struggling to breathe, he smiled as the riot squad looked down at him and shook their heads in disbelief. The warden was whisked off to safety while the guards stood around, in no rush to save his life.

I am an island …

Two days following surgery, Gunnar opened his eyes, his head still in an anesthetic fog. The guard with the swastika tattoo—the one who had smuggled in the gun—winked at him, then left.

He was alone and vulnerable, his wrists strapped to the bed rails. Tense minutes passed. And then the outer doors of the infirmary opened and the two cons entered, each brandishing a razor. Gunnar’s cries for help were muffled by his pillow as the razor blades opened his veins. Desperate, he kicked his legs free of the sheets, then flipped backward, lashing out blindly until his heel connected with one man’s jaw. Rolling over, he caught his second assailant’s head in a leg lock, slamming the man’s skull repeatedly against the iron bed rail until he felt it crack open like a coconut.

His two would-be assassins dead, his body gushing blood, Gunnar once again used his Special Ops training, this time slowing his pulse in the hope that his nurse would arrive before he bled to death.

Gunnar sits up. He pulls the blanket tighter across his shoulders and leans back against the exterior of the cool steel cylinder, the memories of his years in prison causing his skin to tingle. He stares at his forearms and the scars left by the razor blades.

What am I doing here?

Breathing becomes rapid and shallow as he begins to hyperventilate.

Stay calm and breathe. Closing his eyes, he meditates, his pulse slowing as he imagines the serenity of the mountains surrounding Happy Valley. The setting sun turns the horizon lavender; his lungs inhale the brisk autumn breeze like a long-lost friend.

Saving the warden’s life had been a blessing. Fate, long his enemy, had finally lent a hand. Two weeks after the riot, he had limped out of the gates of hell, a free man, a survivor.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire …

“Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises.”

—Demosthenes

“My resolve is steady and strong about winning this war … the first war of the twenty-first century.”

—President George W. Bush

“I can only say that I had a brainstorm.”

—Miles Giffard, twenty-seven-year-old Briton, who murdered his parents and tossed their bodies into the ocean

CHAPTER 11