Nicky, this isn’t bad, isn’t bad at all.
“I can live with this,” Nick answered. He’d been in The Fortress for just over two weeks. There was very little interaction among the inmates. Once a month, they had a movie night with the inmates on their block, but other than that, the only time they interacted was at meals. Meal time was heavily guarded. The inmates were allowed out in groups of thirty. There were about fifteen US Marshals in the cafeteria with others watching. The Marshals weren’t bad either. They treated him with respect. They even let him have science books that were obscure. There really wasn’t much on TV and he couldn’t have a beer, but that was fine. His mind had been wilting in recent years.
“You have a visitor,” the guard announced. Nick looked at him strangely. He didn’t put anyone on his visitor’s list, how could he have a visitor? Nick stood, placed his hands through a small hole in the glass. Cold steel slipped over his wrists. He knew the drill, everyone did. They made you practice it your first day there. There were two other US Marshals standing nearby. One had a stun baton, the other had an unholstered gun. This was routine, he was expecting it far more than he was expecting a visitor.
The US Marshals led him past a row of cells. A few of the inmates snickered. A few others gave him a strange look.
“You’re in trouble,” one whispered. He didn’t know the name of this particular inmate, but the words were ominous, as were the giggles and looks. Who could be here that would inspire such behavior from the rather civilized group of killers on his block? His stomach flopped.
The cells ended, replaced by solid cinderblock walls. The walls were painted grey. The floor was painted grey with some strange glitter in it. The ceiling was grey. The cells were also grey. It was the primary color scheme of the prison. It wasn’t just a flat grey either, it was a bluish-grey that seemed cool and devoid of emotion.
The Marshals took him into a room that was bigger than his cell. There was a table, a couple of chairs, and two hook rings. The Marshal escorting him unlocked the cuffs and replaced them with full shackles. The shackles were then fed through a hook ring on the table and one on the floor. Nick tried to move closer to the table, but the chair wouldn’t budge. The other two Marshals left. The remaining one stood in a corner, face impassable.
“Why am I here?” Nick asked him.
“You have a visitor,” the Marshal repeated.
“I can’t have a visitor.”
“Yes, you can,” the Marshal stated as the door opened.
The tall, gaunt figure that reminded Nick of Death walked through the door. He nodded at the Marshal, the Marshal nodded back. The tall figure sat. Nick couldn’t remember his name, he wasn’t with the SCTU though.
“Nick,” the figure spoke his name and it gave him chills. “I’m Special Agent Malachi Blake, do you remember me?”
“Yes,” Nick’s fear increased. This was the guy he’d shot several times. Why was he visiting?
“Good,” Special Agent Blake’s voice still had that cultured sound with the unidentifiable accent. “I like to be remembered, especially by people that have shot me. Just ask around, some of the others in here will tell you about it.”
“Why are you here?” Nick asked.
“To give you a friendly warning,” Blake said. “For now, you have a nice, comfortable position here and you will, possibly for a long time. However, there’s a guest in here that has it out for you, bad. He’s memorized your picture and he’s just biding his time. The Marshals will try to keep you apart as much as possible, they know it’s going to be a problem, but at some point, they will fail. When they do, they’ll try to save your life. There’s a good chance they’ll fail at that too. Not on purpose, but because this particular guest hates you so much, it’s all he can think about and he has a lot of time to think. More than most of the guests in this place even, because he only thinks about revenge. It’s consumed him so much, he’s barely recognizable as a human anymore.”
Blake stood up. Nick made the attempt, but the shackles prevented it. He made a racket and fell back into his chair.
“You could at least tell me his name!” Nick protested, yanking at the hook ring in the table.
“Oh, that won’t mean much to you,” Blake told him.
“It should if this guy wants to kill me for revenge,” Nick was almost pleading.
“His last name is Clachan,” Blake started towards the door. “However, I think it’s his younger sister that might ring a bell.”
“Who’s his sister?” Nick was frantic now. Blake turned to look at him. His gaze was unsettling. The elevator didn’t go all the way to the top, in Nick’s opinion. The guy had the same stare as half the inmates in the place.
“US Marshal Aislinn Cain,” Blake said.
“She’s put away half the people in my cell, why would her brother focus in on me?” Nick was confused.
“Because stabbings, shootings, even being set on fire, she is tough enough to deal with, it’s a life choice. You were adequately punished for the skin graft, which by the way, is terribly painful. But when your brother is a mass murderer who likes to kill killers, well...” Blake spread his arms wide.
Nick just stared at Blake. Blake smiled and walked out of the room. Nick turned to the Marshal in the corner.
“Is that true? Does the US Marshal have a brother in here?”
“I can’t release that kind of information,” the Marshal answered.
As Nick was unhooked from the floor and table, he felt sick. His knees had turned into rubber. The FBI Agent Malachi Blake was creepy enough, Nick couldn’t believe he was going to have to watch out for a murderer that might be related to the strange US Marshal.
“A visit from Blake will do that to a man,” the man in the cell next to him said.
“How’d you know?” Nick asked.
“We all know when Special Agent Malachi Blake of the Violent Crimes Unit arrives. He’s a psychopath with a badge. He looks like Death and rightfully so. The guy can kill without a problem, but can’t seem to be killed. I slipped a sword through his ribs and he got up, pulled it out and beat me with the hilt.”
“I shot him and he still nearly strangled me. If it hadn’t been for Henders with the SCTU, I think he would have.”
“You dealt with SCTU and VCU?” The man sounded slightly amazed. Nick was dying to see his face.
“Yeah, I dealt with them both.”
“You the guy that bombed the carnivals?”
“Yes,” Nick said.
“Well done, you have no idea what you got yourself into,” the guy said.
“What do you mean?” Nick asked.
“The only person that gets more buzz when they enter is US Marshal Aislinn Cain. She even has a fan club that meets once a month. The Marshals allow it because it’s a very calm gathering.”
“Why does she have a fan club?” Nick was even more confused now.
“Because she’s more nuts than Blake, she just hides it better. They’re best friends in the real world and rumor has it that she can control his reins. She’s killed more than he has, even more than the rest of the SCTU and VCU put together.”
Nick wasn’t sure what to say. He sat quietly, thinking about this new information. His mind found the memory of Blake stalking into the bomb shelter. He’d been there to kill him and Henders had stopped him.
“Yeah,” the guy said. “Those aren’t your only problems though. See, her father and sister were killed when she was in school. The guy skated on the charge. So, her brother took matters into his own hands, climbed a building and started taking out prisoners in a prison yard. He’s now inside. Pretty docile guy, easy to get along with, unless you piss him off.”
“What pisses him off?”
“Oh, not much,” the guy said. “He’s never retaliated against anyone that Cain has put in here, even when she’s been maimed in the process. He says it’s just part of her job and she can take care of herself.”
“But?” Nick felt his stomach sink.
“But we heard that Reece had died and then been resurrected because of a clerical error. We also heard that Cain took it pretty hard. That might be enough to get on Eric’s bad side. I’d do my best to avoid him for the first year or so.”
“Eric Clachan?”
“That’s him,” the guy said. “Did you know before...” The guy stopped talking and made a sound. “That’s why Blake was here, to instill the fear of Clachan in you. It’s probably a mind game with Blake, I wouldn’t worry about it too much, unless Eric marches towards you. Just be prepared if that happens.”
“You guys make weapons?” Nick asked.
“Hell no,” the guy responded. “Do you have any idea what the punishment for that is inside here? No, there are a few rules that never get broken. Eric would do it with his bare hands.”
“Thanks,” Nick no longer felt so safe in The Fortress. “Who are you?”
“Brent Timmons, better known as the Tallahassee Terror and president of the Aislinn Cain fan club,” Brent told him.
Nick rushed to the toilet. His breakfast came back up. He’d put the Marshal in the hospital for weeks and he was in the same cell block as the fan club president.
The buzzer sounded for lunch. His cell door opened. He didn’t feel like having lunch. He felt like staying in his cell for eternity. He wanted to call his lawyer, but phone privileges weren’t until later in the day.
Shuffling feet filled the hallway. Nick stood and joined the line of inmates. At least they didn’t have weapons.
His tray was filled. He found a seat at an empty table. A tall bald guy sat down next to him. He smiled at Nick. Nick didn’t smile back.
“I’m Brent,” the man said. “The guy next to you.”
“Hello,” Nick said.
“Hi,” Brent smiled. Faster than he could blink, Brent’s fingers were wrapped around Nick’s throat. He gagged and struggled to breath.
Not good, Nicky. Do something to defend yourself.
Nick grabbed at the head of the Tallahassee Terror, digging his finger into the man’s eye. Brent grunted at him.
“Enough,” a smaller man with dark hair and a crooked nose said. Brent instantly let go.
“I was just warming him up,” Brent moved. The Marshals had been moving in. They still stood closely, watching.
“Today is not your day to die, Nick. Not your day at all. It’s coming, but my sister has been through enough these past couple of months. The fan club won’t bother you again. When you die, I want you to be looking into my eyes, not theirs.”
“Why?” Nick asked. “It’s part of her job.”
“Oh, I really don’t mind her being shot, strangled or fighting for her life. I don’t even care that she had to have skin grafts. She’s a big girl, quite capable of taking care of herself and healing her physical wounds. What rubs me wrong, is that the hospital made a mistake. They told her that Reece had died as a result of your bombs. I know my sister and I know that ate at her like a painful, parasitic infection that she couldn’t cure. My sister doesn’t care for many people, to have one die, however briefly, was more agony than the burns and the skin grafts. But you’ll wait. I’m expecting a more important visitor. Another killer succeeded where you failed and a member of her team, Michael Giovanni was buried a few days ago. Until that killer’s dead, you get a reprieve. Now, if she finds and kills him, you’ll die much faster. If he ends up in here, you’ll have to wait until I get out of confinement for killing him before your death comes. But it is coming,” Eric Clachan stood up. Nick heaved for the second time that day and began to pray the sniper was never found.