23

Aaron heard the men stir on the far side of the cell and knew the time was coming close. When they’d arrived last night—after twelve hours of riding under the carpet in the back of the SUV—their captors had separated Alex from Aaron and tossed him into a room with little light, the only illumination coming from a cracked window high on the wall. He was surrounded by prisoners who flitted about like roaches, all seeking to escape attention from the guards. He was the only Caucasian in the place. He hoped the fact that they’d separated Alex meant they at least understood what would happen to her if she were to be incarcerated with him.

The prison was a decrepit cinder-block structure, without even bars or individual cells. All the men were thrown together, which made rest difficult. At least getting locked up alone would have meant enough security to sleep.

He’d learned early that these prisoners were different from what would be expected. They weren’t here for petty street crimes. They were imprisoned for something else. Some wore the tattered remnants of military and police uniforms. Others clung to the remains of business suits. And they were tribal. The uniform crowd kept to themselves, and they seemed to want to curry favor with the guards by abusing other inmates, as if their actions had an impact on how long they would remain.

The ones in civilian clothes were different. Special. As a class, they weren’t overtly abused, and the uniformed prisoners seemed to defer to them. From what Aaron could see, their punishment came at the hands of the guards, with restricted movement in the prison and less food.

Aaron belonged to a third class—the one of victim. A minority of the prisoners belonged to neither tribe, and they were the ones whom the uniformed prisoners preyed upon, to the delight of the actual guards. Tonight it was Aaron’s turn.

Aaron had taken the farthest pallet from the door, putting his back to the wall and stretching out his shackled legs, waiting for nightfall. Waiting on the darkness.

Now he listened to the rustling and feigned sleep. There was enough light in the gloom to make out shapes, and he could see the guard outside the cell room, faintly illuminated by a single bulb. That would be the trigger.

He mentally began rehearsing how many he could remove before he went down. Breathing long and slow, he prepared for the fight.

He saw the guard get off his stool and wander down the hall. He felt the adrenaline surge.

Showtime.

No sooner had the guard disappeared than seven men stood up, walking slowly toward him, attempting to maintain silence. The leader was in the front, and that’s whom Aaron would take first.

He waited until the first row of four was standing above him, then reached out and snatched the ankles of the leader. With a roar, he powered up, ripping the man off his feet and slamming his head into the concrete floor.

The other men actually leapt back at his yell and the violence, momentarily confused. Aaron used the stitch, the small bit of precious time. Keeping the corner to his back, he shuffled forward, his arms cracking out with the speed of a whip, his fists connecting with the first three men, a startlingly rapid attack.

They did whatever it took to get out of range, scrambling back and exposing the second row of three. The surprise gone, these were ready, circling to the left and right and bouncing on their feet, their shackle chains ringing on the concrete. They came in at the same time.

Aaron tucked, placing his elbows against his head to absorb the blows, knowing the prisoner chains on their ankles would prevent knees and kicks. He was hammered above his ears repeatedly, the punches doing little damage. He waited for an opening, then shot an uppercut almost from the ground, lifting one of the men off his feet, teeth twinkling in the twilight as they spewed out of his shattered face.

Aaron turned to the other two, only to find himself now facing all five. They closed in for the kill. Aaron raised his fists. The men circled, laughing at his predicament, sure in their numbers, not realizing what they faced.

Aaron was a grinder. A pounder. He’d spent close to twenty years learning how to destroy men with his hands alone, and after all that time, he’d learned to play to his strengths. He was no Jackie Chan, doing fancy kung fu maneuvers. His power lay in his fists, in a stand-up slugfest. While the shackles were stifling the men’s ability to use kicks, they did nothing to Aaron’s fighting effort. He could take a punch. Take a great many punches. And he could return them with a force few could withstand.

He kept the corner to his back and waded in, swinging his fists in jackhammer blows. His punches glanced off two of them, then connected solidly with one, dropping him like a puppet with the strings cut. He continued, tucked in and low, bobbing and weaving, blocking fists and snapping heads.

In frustration, one of the men did what Aaron feared most: He screamed and jumped inside Aaron’s range, wrapping his arms around Aaron’s waist.

Before Aaron could get free the remaining men jumped on him, causing them all to crash to the ground in a heap. Aaron brought his legs up and circled the chains from his shackles around a neck, launching his legs back out and jerking the man off him.

He tucked his head as the remaining three began to beat him, knowing his time was running out. He wrapped one arm around his skull and snapped out with the other one, popping a man hard enough to split his lips. He whipped his feet out, spreading his legs wide, hearing the man in chains gargle. He grabbed the throat of the man above him. Holding him in a death grip, he leaned back until the man’s head was against the wall, then punched him in the forehead, causing his skull to ricochet. He focused on the final man, grabbing a thatch of hair like he was pulling weeds and drawing his arm back like a piston.

Before he could swing, a dozen flashlights split the darkness, and shouted orders filled the air. The guards poured in, ostensibly to save him from getting beaten to death. They ran in with a choreographed charade, batons out, only to halt, the yelling fading away. He found himself facing Lurch, looking confused and astonished at the carnage.

Lurch began screaming in Sesotho, and Aaron tossed the remaining conscious prisoner away, then untangled himself from the man still in his chains.

One of the guards checked the prisoner Aaron had choked, then rattled off something, causing two guards to flee the room.

Lurch’s face split into a smile. He squatted down until he was level with Aaron.

“Bad, bad mistake, Jew. I don’t know why you were in here to begin with”—he turned and used his baton to poke the body of the man Aaron had choked with his chains—“but now it’s murder. And there is a specific punishment for that.”

He raised his baton, and a voice from the back of the room floated out. “Leave him be.”

A tall prisoner, gaunt, wearing the remnants of slacks and a suit jacket, came forward. His coffee-colored skin was stretched taut, with pronounced cheekbones and so little body fat one could trace the pulse in the veins of his neck, but he held himself as if he weren’t in prison.

Lurch said, “This doesn’t concern you.”

“I decide what concerns me. Leave him be.”

Lurch began rapidly shouting in the Sesotho language, but the man remained unmoved. Lurch pointed his baton at the man, glared at Aaron, then flicked his head at the guards. They left the room, with Lurch giving one last stare, a beam of pure hatred.

The man held out his hand, helping Aaron to his feet. He said, “My name is Thomas Naboni. You’re not the usual type we get in here.”

He laughed at his joke.

Unsure of what had just happened, Aaron said, “Thank you.”

Thomas smiled, his teeth gleaming white and in perfect condition, a stark contrast to the rest of his appearance. He said, “When a man helps another out of free will, it says something of his character.”

Still confused, Aaron thought he was referring to himself. “Yes, and I appreciate it.”

Thomas said, “I’m talking about you. As hungry as you must be, you gave your food to another.”

The guards had brought their meager rations earlier in the day, and one of the suit prisoners had been refused food. A stick of a man who was clearly starving. The others of that clan had shared their portions, and Aaron had kicked in, solely because the man looked on the verge of death.

A half cup of soiled rice saved my life?

Remembering the deference the guards had paid him, Aaron said, “I only did what I thought was right. Who are you?”

Thomas waved the question off and said, “Doing what is right is why you are alive now. The better question is why you are in here at all. What is your crime?”

Aaron said, “I’m a mistake. I’ve done nothing.”

Thomas laughed and said, “Like us all. Like us all.”