Healing Haven - Book 2 in Haven Series [Complete]

22| Patron

Randy dragged scarred knuckles across his thigh, knee bouncing with impatience. Fucker was late and that cut down on the window. He'd taken a shank to the shin to make this meet happen, the least the bastard could do was be punctual. Eyes glancing up to the clock, Randy noted the ticking hand swinging up and around the beige face of the wall clock, each wasted second mocking him. Angering him.

Finally the sound of feet shuffling up the hall perked his ears and he angled towards the door as it opened. Reid, the guard on watch, poked his head in, his dark skin sheened with sweat from brow over the shaved palate of his head. His eyes lifted to Randy, nodded in understanding.

"Y'got ten minutes Kincaid. Not a second longer."

Randy's teeth set so hard he heard the enamel crack. "I was supposed to get thirty."

"Ten," Reid snapped, reaching for his stick. "Don't fuck with me on this." And stepped back so the man in the hall could step inside. Javier 'Lobo' Morales entered the private room of the infirmary, a black toque pulled over his long hair and down over his brows. A tattooed tear curved from his left eye. The hallmark of his gang.

He swiped a finger under his nose and thrust his chin up in greeting. "You don't look so good, esé. What, these fuckers not feeding you or something?"

Randy smirked at the sarcasm. His diet was fine, thanks to the float to his commissary. Guards slipped him his needles and supplements, made sure he got his protein shakes and carbs. In six months he'd hauled ass in the yard, packing on forty pounds of muscle on his already hulking frame. With the loss of Patron, the only thing keeping him alive was muscle and experience.

Years of in and out, Randy knew how to pick his allies and how to play sides—anything to keep himself alive another day. But even that was only going to get him so far. Patron wasn't a moron and he'd find a way to get to him eventually. He had the money and the connections to make it happen. Anyone could be gotten to on the inside.

The only thing working in his favour was that Patron wasn't the type to move quickly—he liked his blows to come in slow. To make you sweat as you saw that knuckled beast coming your way, knowing you can't stop it. Can't escape the crushing blow to your nose, jaw or kidneys. He'd been a prized boxer in Columbia. More than once Randy had seen some idiot who'd made the mistake of getting on his bad side, and was strung up like a side of beef. Patron would work him like a punching bag for hours. Leave him swinging, and then come back the next day.

And the next. And the next. Until the body couldn't possibly take anymore abuse.

Until the bones were splintered and the organs encased within—mush. Randy recalled one he'd help dispose of. How when they'd laid him out on that tarp, all he could think about, as they'd cut that body open, was the bag of crushed Doritos he'd found under the passenger seat while driving down to Florida that hot, blistering summer with his pops. Who knew how long the thing had been under there, kicked around—stomped on. The plastic bag remained intact but inside? Inside it was all dust. Pulverized until not a single, solid piece remained.

That's how that guy had been. Fragments inside a meat sack.

Randy would chew through his own wrists before he suffered that kind of fate. 

"Why am I here?" Lobo sighed, leaning back against the door, his foot cocked up against that paint chipped panel. Pose casual but Randy could smell his unease. Even with his busted shin, Randy was still dangerous. Any man who made the mistake of thinking any different usually learned the hard way—and swallowed his own teeth. Or tongue.

"What's the news of my transfer?" Randy asked, setting his bare feet to the faded blue linoleum. Lobo inhaled slowly, eyes skimming somewhere over Randy's shoulder.

"I made the calls, but it's not easy to pull these kind of strings. Not this fast."

"I gave you two weeks."

"They're working on it. Guy says he can swing it by end of next month. Slip you in with—"

"It has to happen next Tuesday," Randy interrupted. Plans were set. He'd worked hard and pulled too many favours on the inside to push back everything else he had in play. All that shit aside, another couple weeks in here and he'd be a dead man. It was Tuesday or the grave. "And I'm gonna need you to make good on that cash debt you owe, plus find me a contact in Seattle who can put me in touch with what I need on this list."

Lobo pushed from the door, held out a cautious hand for the folded slip of paper Randy held. He waited as Lobo unfurled it, his eyes skimming the penciled items. Surprise flashed there, and curiosity.

"What're you gonna need a gun for? And wheels?" Lobo narrowed his eyes. "What're up to, hermano?"

"That's no one's business but mine." Randy shifted where he sat, had the pleasure of seeing Lobo jerk back, poised to throw down. His left hand had been cuffed to the bed, but given his size could probably jerk the rail off it he had a mind to. Lucky for Lobo, he was of more use to him alive than dead and sending a message to his brothers. 

"I ain't gotta take shit from you. You're out, esé. You don't get to call the shots anymore."

Randy smiled. "Hey man, I'm just having a little fun. Got fuck all else to do in here. Get me the details and cash in forty-eight hours." His smiled dimmed and he let the chill of threat flood his eyes, his voice—the kind of chill that made him a formidable enforcer to the Columbian cartel for almost ten years. "Or I'll make a call to Patron with word about who really got Bianca knocked up. I think he'll set aside his feelings about me for that bit of intel, don't you think?"

Lobo paled. Colour bleeding away behind fading tattoos on his cheeks and neck. "Claro, esé, claro. But, I do this and we're square. No more calls. No more favours. This is as far as we go. Shit," he paused, spitting into the bin. "I'm fucked enough as if anyone finds out I came here to see you."

Smiling, Randy nodded. "Square."

Lobo scratched a thumbnail over his nose, assessing the list a second time before stuffing it in his back pocket. "'Ta bien. Tuesday. You have my word. I'll send word through my cousin, Alvarez out in gen pop, when it's done. He works the kitchen and can slip you a note in seg."

"Good." Not a second to spare, Reid opened the door. Stepped inside with two more guards, that Asian cunt Xang who nodded at Lobo, escorting him out into the hall as Reid approached, keys in his hands to free him from the infirmary bed.

"We gonna have issues?" he asked, raising thick brows over bulging eyes.

Randy gave a quick whisk of his head no. Waited placidly as the old man worked the key in the cuffs. Waited for the lock to spring before seizing the guy by the back of his head and smashed his face into the rail. Hard enough to draw blood—but not hard enough to knock him out. 

Reid jerked from his hold, lip split and screaming curses. Xang shot back into the room, stick drawn. Emperado with him. Randy laughed as the guards hailed on him, waiting fists and nightsticks. A rain of blows beating him over the ear, neck and shoulder, over the back of head and across his face.

And laughed still, gurgling blood, as they dragged him back to solitary.