with wide eyes he whirled and knocked one of them to the ground with a karate-style kick. He deflected a fist aimed at his face and smashed a third man’s nose with a rapid jab, but he couldn’t possibly recover quickly enough to prepare for the man coming up from behind. A blow to the back of his head sent him face-first to the ground, and the others instantly swarmed and started kicking him.
Blood spatter brought another round of raucous cheering. The crunch of each blow caused bile to rise in Gabrielle’s throat. The victim was curling up, trying to protect himself as best he could, but she was afraid they were going to kill him. Someone had to do something.
Her heart pounding so hard every beat vibrated out to her fingertips, she raised her baton, jumped into the fracas and clubbed one of the four attackers. Adrenaline must have lent her strength because all two hundred and fifty pounds of him dropped to the floor like a stone, giving her the chance to hit another before the rest knew what was happening.
“Get off him,” she cried. “Get off him or I’ll club you senseless.” She glared at the remaining two, who paused to look at her with hatred contorting their sweat-and blood-streaked faces. They shuffled a few steps away, but their eyes flicked repeatedly to her baton, and she knew they were only waiting for an opportunity to disarm her.
The two on the ground stirred and shoved themselves up, but before anyone could make a move, Roddy and Hansen finally rallied and began to break up the fight.
“That’s enough now. You’ve had your fun,” Hansen said. “That’s enough for today.”
Roddy grinned with satisfaction. “You finally took him, Manuel. You finally took him.”
With a little help from his friends, Gabrielle wanted to add as she stared, shaking, at the man on the floor. Eyes closed, lip and forehead bleeding, orange jumpsuit torn, he was lying perfectly still. Was he unconscious? Seriously hurt?
The violence sickened her. Fighting the urge to throw up, she bent to feel for a pulse at his neck and found herself staring into a pair of the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Framed by long, thick lashes that matched the black of his hair, they were also, by far, the prettiest.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. He tried to sit up, but she gently pushed him back. “Wait. Let me check a few things first.” Quickly she threaded her fingers through his hair and felt his skull, searching for cuts or lumps, anything that might indicate a concussion. She knew he’d been hit in the back of the head. He could have been kicked there, as well. But she didn’t find anything indicative of serious injury, other than the knot she’d expected, the obvious busted lip and the gash above his left eye.
“I’m fine,” he insisted, batting her hands away as though impatient to escape her probing. He staggered to his feet but favored his left side so badly, Gabrielle was sure he had some damaged ribs. He held his hand at an odd angle, too.
“I’m afraid you’ve got a few broken bones,” she said. “And your forehead probably needs stitches.” She glanced at his blood on her hands and knew touching him had been foolish. He could have AIDS. Prisons were full of HIV. In training, they’d warned her about that. She even carried a pair of gloves on her belt. But she hadn’t been at the job long enough to have established any kind of habit and in the heat of the moment her natural impulse had won out.
“Why don’t you sit until I can bring a doctor in here?” she asked.
“He doesn’t need a doctor. He’ll be fine. Get him back where he belongs.” It was Sergeant Hansen, her supervisor. He’d overseen the herding of the men back to their cells, but now he hovered over her, frowning at the injured convict, who stood half a foot taller than both of them. “Afterward I want to speak to you at my desk,” he told her.
Maybe she’d been stupid to break rank with the others; maybe it was going to cost her her job. But Gabrielle had acted according to her conscience and wasn’t prepared to back off yet. “He needs a doctor,” she insisted. “I’m pretty sure he’s got a couple of—”
“Save your breath,” the inmate interrupted. “I’m not going to get a doctor because, according to your boss and his henchmen, this little incident never happened. Too many fights in one cell block might lead to the truth—that they’re being staged. And staging fights could cost your buddy Hansen, here, his cushy job.”
His voice held a distinctly challenging edge, but even his anger couldn’t fully eclipse the smooth, cultured tones underneath. After seeing him fight like a man born to the streets and witnessing firsthand the power of his muscular body, the fact that he sounded more like a business executive than a maximum security prisoner came as a surprise to Gabrielle—but no more so than his accusation.
“Of course it’ll be reported,” she said. “The response team is probably on its way right now.” She looked to Hansen for confirmation, but the narrowing of the sergeant’s cool gray eyes and Eckland’s strange reluctance when she’d demanded to be let into the cell block shook her faith.
“I was thinkin’ of doin’ you a favor, scumbag,” Hansen said. “I figured you wouldn’t be too eager for me to report another fight, seein’ as how you could lose your privileges again. But maybe you don’t know when a guy’s tryin’ to be nice. So I’ll report it if you say so. Is that what you want?”
The inmate didn’t answer, but a muscle flexed in his jaw and his eyes turned hard and glittery.
Hansen grinned. “That’s what I thought. Now get your ass back where it belongs before I change my mind.”
“WHAT DO YOU THINK you were doing out there?” Sergeant Hansen shouted once Gabrielle had composed herself enough to appear at his desk.
“I was trying to stop a convict from sustaining physical injury,” she said. “I thought I was doing my job.”
“You were risking your fool life, that’s what you were doing. I had things under control.”
Gabrielle had promised herself she’d be diplomatic. She needed her job. The small desert town of Florence, Arizona, revolved around seven prisons, including the juvenile detention center. There wasn’t anything else that would pay her enough to survive, at least not anything she could get. After running away from home at least a dozen times in her teen years, she’d barely graduated high school. College had been out of the question. But she was too honest to suck up to Hansen and pretend she agreed with his actions, so she folded her arms and kept her mouth shut.
“Randall Tucker killed his own wife, Officer Hadley,” Hansen announced as though he were playing some kind of trump card. “I’ll get his jacket so you can read it if you don’t believe me.”
Gabrielle didn’t want to read his jacket or anyone else’s. The inmates’s wrap sheets were sometimes available to the officers, but she purposely avoided anything she didn’t need to know for fear she’d lose the nerve to do her job. Working for the state provided good medical and dental benefits, an excellent retirement plan and favorable hours. Arizona needed corrections officers in Florence so badly, they’d even offered her bonus money to work in this particular prison, and they’d given her days even though most rookies had to take the night shift.
“That’s his name, Randall Tucker?” she asked. “I think I read about him in the paper when I was living in Phoenix.”
He nodded. “Then you know he suspected his wife of having an affair, got insanely jealous and hired
