Code Name: Sleeper
Copyright © 2018 by Aliyah Burke
Remote Super Max Prison
Michael Whyte spit out the blood pooling in his mouth. Another day, another fight. They always came at some point during the day. Staring at his reflection, he touched the fading bruise on his cheekbone, put there courtesy of one pissed off Hawaiian-Samoan male. He moved his fingertips to the new one around his left eye—that was from a pissed off Aryan nation jackass. Not that they were anything but pissed off ninety-eight percent of the time.
Sending another line of blood into the porcelain sink, he used a battered hand to start a stream of cold water. He stuck his left hand under it and winced at the sting as it washed more red down the drain.
“Whyte! Damn, didn’t you hear me?”
In the mirror, Michael stared without emotion at the bald man behind him, Ringo Dalmore.
“Yep. Didn’t give a fuck.” He switched hands, eyes down but definitely still paying attention to the space behind him. Wasn’t planning on a trip to the infirmary.
Ringo approached slowly, hands at his sides. Michael knew why. He’d put one man in the infirmary for rushing up behind him. When Ringo was beside him, Michael turned off the water and reached for some paper towels.
“Something to get off your chest, Ringo, or are you now just fucking following men into the bathroom, hoping to get some up your ass?”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, I overheard some of Lance’s guys were looking for you.”
He shrugged and lobbed the towels into the trash. “I’m not hiding, they know where to find me.” He walked out.
Fuck, I’m tired of this shit. What I wouldn’t give for a good night’s rest.
He hadn’t had one since he got here. Except the few times he’d been placed in solitary.
He walked on, ignoring the stinging in his jaw and knuckles. Once he reached the room with the one television in it, he claimed a seat in the back. Protected by the wall, he allowed himself a bit of relaxation while he watched without paying attention to the show that was on.
At least until the program was interrupted by breaking news.
“News from the Capitol. We’ve just heard that Secretary of State William Daniels, who passed away in the early morning hours, is to be replaced by Sampson McNeal.”
The announcer went on, but Michael ceased listening. In his gut, a chunk of lead landed that had no intention of moving. He got to his feet, scanned the room, found his target and walked over to him. Without any warning, Michael decked him. Hard.
As he fell his crew lit into Michael. He didn’t fight back, allowing them to beat him until the guards came to break it up. After they moved him to the infirmary, Michael lay still and waited for the escape he knew would be coming.
He had no choice. They were continuing without him. The plan had been put in motion. Now, he had to get out and find a way to stop this, or it was all for naught. Everything he’d done over the past years to those he cared about but couldn’t tell them.
Taking the chance for some protected rest, he shut his eye. It was going to be a hard trip. Lying in the infirmary, he waited quietly while the guards came and went with other inmates. He took the rest offered yet never once gave up alertness. That night, when lights out went into effect, he worked up the energy to get up from the bed. It was faint, but he didn’t miss the squeak of a rubber sole on the clean, smooth floor. Instant adrenaline pumped into him. This had been expected, the gang would undoubtedly have retaliation planned.
They tended to be pissed about their members getting beat down. Michael climbed from the bed and shoved his feet into those uncomfortable shoes. His ribs still hurt but he moved into the shadows. As the only one in the infirmary, there wasn’t anyone else they could be coming for.
Any sort of weapon was locked, and he used the paper clip he’d swiped to unlock the nearest cabinet. Scalpel. That would work. He grabbed a handful, closed the door, and stepped back into hiding seconds before a beam of light swept across the space he’d just occupied.
Listening, Michael identified three separate footfalls.
Fuck, I’m in the goddamn motherfucking infirmary. Why send three? Not that he cared. How many they sent, he had to take out of the picture and escape.
Super max prison or not, he’d had plenty of time to figure out his escape.
All I have to do is survive this attack.