Breakout, Paul Herron [chrome ebook reader .txt] 📗

out cells that haven’t been looked at in years.

“Yo!” someone shouts from somewhere above. “How the hell does a used condom get in here? The place is supposed to be abandoned!”

Evans is sitting on the floor below with his eyes closed, his back against the central pillar, cradling his shotgun against his shoulder. “Just pick it up!” he shouts, without even opening his eyes.

“I ain’t touchin’ that thing! There’s black stuff inside it.”

We’ve been working for about two hours. The joking and shouting has died down. Everyone just wants to finish up and get back to their cells.

Felix and I have a good system going. I sweep the shit out onto the walkway. Felix carts in a bucket of water and throws it down, then mops up while I gather all the crap into plastic bags before moving on to the next cell. It’s killing my back, though. The next time Felix heads out to refill the bucket, I lean the broom against the wall and stretch, hearing my spine crack and pop as I do so.

“Hey there, Jack,” says a voice from behind me. “Long time no see.”

I turn around.

Malcolm Kincaid stands in the door to the cell.

Malcolm fucking Kincaid.

Shit…

FourFour years ago

The day Malcolm Kincaid’s case goes before the judge, a drizzle the temperature of warm piss falls from the sky. It makes the heat of the day even worse, creating a damp, cloying blanket that shrouds Miami, turning the whole city into the equivalent of a steam room at a back-alley gym.

Mason and I sit in the car outside the courthouse, waiting for an update from Captain Mendes. The AC doesn’t work. Sweat prickles my skin, makes my shirt stick to the cracked vinyl seat.

“How long you think he’ll get?” asks Mason.

“Fuck knows.” I chew nervously on a nail. “Not long. Too many people owe him favors. But a couple years at least.”

“It’s not enough.”

It’s definitely not enough. Malcolm Kincaid deserves to be put away for life. He’s one of the nastiest pieces of work I’ve ever come across, and that includes my tour in Afghanistan.

It’s the casual nature of his villainy that gets to me. It’s an old-fashioned word, villainy. I felt like an idiot the first time it entered my head. But it fits him perfectly. Kincaid isn’t the typical Hollywood-type bad guy you usually find on the streets. All show. All bark. Doing everything for the look of it. Making sure everyone knows exactly how mean he really is.

No. Kincaid lets the reputation he’s built up over the decades speak for itself. He’s the top of the criminal food chain in Miami, and he lives a life that reflects that. Beachfront villas. Fingers in the property market—all legit, of course, so he can prove he’s an honest-to-God businessman.

But it’s all a front. The guy is legit psycho. Not a raging, go-on-a-killing-spree psycho, but an I’ll-wait-three-years-for-revenge-then-slit-your-throat-at-your-kid’s-ballet-recital psycho.

The only problem with being top dog is that everyone wants to challenge you. The younger generation, those just getting into the game, they all think they’re better than Kincaid. Stronger. They see what he has and they want it, without necessarily putting in the time. When they challenge him—and they always do—Kincaid likes to show them personally how dumb an idea that was.

That’s how I caught him. His arrogance. His ego. It’s the weak spot I always knew would bring him down.

“What the actual fuck?” says Mason.

I look up. Malcolm Kincaid stands at the top of the courthouse stairs, shaking hands with his lawyers.

My stomach sinks. I watch as they share a joke, Kincaid laughing and slapping one of them on the back.

Once again Malcolm fucking Kincaid has dodged the charges.

I was so sure this time. A witness literally placed him at the scene of the crime. A necklacing—something I’d read about in South African history books—where a car tire is placed around the victim’s neck and set alight. The aftermath was one of the most horrific things I’d ever seen. Skin and tendon burned away, rubber fused to blackened vertebrae, weeping red burns crawling up the victim’s face like bloody ivy creeping up a wall.

I always knew Kincaid was powerful, but I thought this time it would be different. The case Mason and I had built up was airtight. I was convinced he was going down.

I was wrong.

He descends the stairs, heading toward a black Mercedes. His wife is waiting for him, leaning against the car. She’s the same age as Kincaid, late fifties, but looking good for it. Black hair, tanned skin, slim figure. A wide smile on her face as Kincaid pulls her into a kiss.

I shove open the car door, but Mason grabs my arm.

“Don’t,” she says.

I resist briefly, but then sink back into the seat. I slam the door, harder than necessary.

The noise alerts Kincaid. He looks up, says something to his wife, then approaches the car.

“Stay cool,” warns Mason.

“I’m always cool,” I mutter.

The side window’s already down. Kincaid crouches and nods to Mason.

“Detective.”

She ignores him, so he turns his attention to me, a sympathetic look on his face.

“Jackie-boy,” he says. “How you feeling?”

I don’t answer.

“I’m thinking not too good. Bet you thought you had me, huh?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Don’t feel bad. Better cops than you have tried to put me away. They all gave up in the end.” He leans close and lowers his voice so only I can hear. “Either that or they ended up dead.” He pats my arm, then straightens up and strolls back to his car.

I throw the door open. I’m out of the car before Mason can stop me. Kincaid hears me coming, starts to turn around.

He’s too late. I grab him by the shirt, slam my fist into his face. We both fall to the ground. He gets his hands around my neck, flips me over so I’m lying on the wet asphalt with his grinning face above me, blood from his lip dripping onto my shirt.

Mason appears behind him, yanking him off, pulling