His cellmate drove his shin into his groin, forcing Cole to buckle as all of the breath was swept from his lungs and expelled through his gaping mouth. It would take a second or two for the pain to really sink in, so he rushed the bigger prisoner and slammed his shoulder into the guy’s chest and pushed him against the bars. Waylon and all of the guards walked away amidst the knocking of hard soles upon a harder floor.
When Cole felt an elbow drop onto his back, he rammed his shoulder once again into the slab of beef that was his new cellmate. He kept his head down and delivered short hooking punches to the other man’s ribs as if chopping down a tree from two angles. The prisoner weathered the storm while twisting his body to wedge an arm between Cole’s shoulder and his own chest. As soon as Cole was shoved back, he delivered an uppercut that knocked the back of the other man’s head against the bars. The prisoner barely even twitched before driving an elbow into Cole’s face.
Not only did that elbow hit him like a club, but Cole’s groin now felt like it had been hit by a flaming jackhammer. Two hooking punches barely caught the other prisoner’s attention. A sharp jab to the nose took the smile off the other man’s face, but only until the prisoner thumped his fist against a portion of Cole’s jumpsuit that was already soaked through with blood. The moment those knuckles hit his incision, Cole was done. The prisoner shoved him toward the toilet and walked over to lay his bulky frame on the freshly made bottom bunk.
Since Cole could barely move, he sat on the toilet and prayed for death.
“Hey, friend,” Lambert said from across the hall. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Cole.”
“You got some balls, Cole.”
“Yeah. Too bad they’re up near the back of my throat right now.”
Both of the other inmates laughed at that one.
Chapter Five
The next two days passed in a blur. At least, Cole thought it was two days. Since he wasn’t let out of his cell once in that amount of time, he had to use the movements of the rest of the prison as his only gauge. Meals were served. Lights were shut off and turned back on again. Also, his psychotic cellmate only stopped pounding his face into pulp right before lunch and for a few hours after dinner.
Cole had taken to calling him Chop, simply because letters spelling the words PORK CHOP were tattooed onto his fingers just below the knuckles of each hand. And the only reason he got such good looks at those tattoos was because they were flying at him nonstop for what he guessed was two days. Chop never let up unless he needed to use the toilet, get something to drink, or eat some food off the trays that were slid into the cell by guards who were all too eager to move along. By the time day three rolled around, Cole wondered if he was simply being beaten to death as penance for what he was supposed to have done to those cops in Denver. Judging by the disgusted looks he was getting from the guards, he could very well have been getting off light.
“Step aside, asshole,” Chop said. “I gotta take a piss.” He and Cole were both bloodied and battered from their near-constant brawling. Both men could handle themselves, but neither was about to concede. Even more important, Cole’s incision was healing thanks to his enhanced system and his willingness to let the rest of his body take a beating just to divert Chop’s fists from that spot. Even so, it was only a matter of time before Chop tore him wide open. Judging by the interest with which Waylon scribbled his notes, that might well have been what the man in the suit was hoping to see.
When Chop moved over to the toilet and tended to his business, Cole looked over at Lambert. So far the skinnier inmate had been content to remain on his bunk like a rodent seeking refuge in the narrowest crevice of a cave. The sound of a steady liquid stream hitting dented metal filled the cell, accompanied by a contented sigh from the man directing the flow. Cole rushed at Chop from behind and almost got an arm around the man’s thick neck before the inmate spun around to intercept him. His leaky penis was still hanging over the top of his sweats as Chop once again introduced his tattooed fist to Cole’s face.
“Took ya long enough to try that,” Chop mused before lunging forward to get a grip on Cole’s jumpsuit so he could toss him into the metal frame of the bunk bed.
Cole bounced off the bed and landed in a sideways stance. The plan had been to outlast the constant assault and defend himself until Chop was either called off or convinced that he’d met his match, and Paige’s training had been good enough to get him this far. Now, after days of spitting blood and sleeping with one eye open, he was starting to rethink that plan. The healing serum in his body was wearing thin, and the Nymar tendrils had faded into lines beneath his flesh that gave him occasional jolts of strength along with a constant ache running all the way down to his core.
If the spore was still inside him, Cole knew he could have thrown Chop through a wall or maybe even pulled the cell door from its hinges. With only the torn tendrils left behind, those were no longer options. He wasn’t Nymar. He was just sick and tired of being locked up and knocked around. The pain that cinched around his innards tightened, forcing a hardened scowl onto his face. When Chop punched him in the stomach, his fist thumped against a thick mess of scar tissue. Cole pulled away from the other man’s grip and delivered a quick blow to his ribs. His fist landed in the same spot he’d been hitting ever since the beatings first started, putting one of Paige’s lessons into action. If someone’s weakness couldn’t be found, make one.
Chop kept fighting, but Cole remained one step ahead. By the time he swept Chop’s legs out from under him to drop him straight to the floor, he could hear Lambert hollering joyously from the other cell.
“Put me through my paces?” Cole snarled as he straddled Chop’s chest and clamped a hand around his throat. “What’s that supposed to mean? Tell me!”
“You’re dead, you piece of shit,” Chop grunted as he struggled to pry Cole’s hand away from his neck. “If it ain’t me, it’ll be someone else that does it. You stop now and I’ll let you live long enough to suck my dick.”
After driving his knee into the tempting target still dangling from the front of Chop’s pants, Cole placed his hand flat on the prisoner’s face. As good as it was to be on the winning end for a change, it felt as if his organs were going to rupture like pieces of wet sausage being sliced by lengths of garrote wire.
“Get off him!” a guard shouted from outside the cell.
Lambert stood so his body was plastered against the bars and shouted, “Chop started it!”
“Both of you move to opposite sides of the cell!”
After finally managing to pry Cole’s hand away from his windpipe, Chop sank his teeth deeply into his wrist. The wet crunch was the last incentive Cole needed to do what he’d been trying to avoid for so long.
He’d done it once already, but that was back in Denver when he thought he might be under Nymar influence. Now, with the only Nymar in the vicinity having been turned into a pile of ashen skin flakes in a trash bag somewhere, Cole knew he was acting purely out of frustration, anger, and hunger.
“What the fuck are you doin’?” Chop grunted as Cole dropped his face down to bite into his shoulder. Teeth shredded Chop’s flesh and burrowed down even farther in search of what lay beneath the filthy tattooed layers.
“He’s a biter!” one of the guards shouted. “Get this door open!”
The man who responded to that was the same one who’d ordered Lambert to step aside. Waylon’s profile was barely recognizable from the edge of Cole’s vision as he moved in behind the other guards and gazed into the cell over their shoulders. “Everybody move back,” he said. “Make sure there’s a video feed rolling on this and remove anyone not approved for G7 cases from the surveillance rooms. Now !”