Suarez Correctional Center
1235 Diego Rivera Blvd
San Jose, Ca 95101
The blade changed partners like a grand ball in the chow line as the Sons of Liberty prepared to make history. An old soldier signaled one of his brothers to move towards the assigned mark.
The inmate waited as the guard to make his rounds before making contact.The mess hall was constabtly under big brothe, the cameras couldn't catch everything. The minute man removed a small blade from his pamphlet called, The American Architect . The shiv was made from melted plastic and metal scrapes from door hinge. For added measure it was dipped in things that were better left unsaid. Using a slight trick of the hand, he passed the shiv to a fellow associate. An eagle with an anchor crossed with a trident was etched one the inmate that concealed the weapon.
The patriot knew his mission and would carry it out for the brotherhood. The funds for the hit had already been put in an off-shore account. The money could buy training gear and even help with unpaid bills for those left behind. Most people didn't have the stomach for sliding a blade into another human being. Even trained commandos showed hesitation the first time. It took a special breed of predator to carry out a hit like this.
The Sons of Liberty believed the cartels and the federal goverment used drug money to lock up everyday citizens across America. Surely The crime lords would rain hell for this one day. But everyone would know who ruled the coop in Northern California. For the SOL. It was no different than Target driving out Wal-Mart.
The former specialist waited for Manuel to return to his cell. There was a small hallway he had to pass before he arrived. It was a perfect spot for an ambush. No witnesses, no calling for help.
Manuel Gonzalez looked forward to watching the Christmas special in his DVD player. Even hardened felons need something to look forward too. Suddenly he was yanked out of his winter wonderland into a very real nightmare. The assassin grabbed the back of his hair and threw him to the ground. Manuel began to fight back. In another life before the cartel, he did counter-narco operations for the government. He had even fought and bled warring against the cartels at one time. He was no stranger to a blade between the bones.
The Matador prayed to Santa Muerte and reached for the blade in his back pocket and tried to stab at his attacker's ankle. The cut was intercepted by the heel of a white laced prison sneaker. There was a mild snap at the wrist. The Matador still held on to his makeshift weapon when another stomp came to his nose. Red liquid spattered against white laces.
"Looks like we have one tough hombre."
As one soldier held him down, another one mounted Gonzales. The goon grabbed Manuel's arm and put it over his face. It served two purposes. He wouldn't have to look his victim in the eyes it was harder to kill someone that looked human. The secondary measure could puncture the armpit. Cutting the throat is only quick in the movies. The blood always made a mess. The armpit allows shock to take hold a lot quicker. Around the world, in every tribe, violence was a universal language.
The killers were in fight and flight modes. It reduced the larger questions in life and made it quite simple. The convicts never caught the dark blue blur from the shadows. Their ears didn't even hear the footsteps as something fierce pounced on him. One second the soldier smelled the fear of another human being. The next he was the smell. The obscure figure slammed the would-be killer into the wall.
Smacking a wall was better than using a fist, Brick and mortar made a better equalizer. The second inmate was bewildered by the sudden onslaught. The mystery man played off this glitch and sent a well-placed karate kick across the man's jaw. The bone snapped out of place upon impact. The assassin regained focus and lunged towards his new opponent.
