Chapter 94
94
Aday later, I was in the east yard soaking up some sunshine.
A ‘yard’ in prison is an outside area where prisoners can congregate. With six massive wings radiating from a central hub, San Vittore had multiple yards between its buildings.
The east yard was a patch of concrete and asphalt the size of a small football field. Most of the prisoners in my cell block congregated there during free time.
Some lifted weights; others played football (soccer to you Americans). Old-timers played bocce, an Italian version of horseshoes where wooden balls were tossed into a patch of sand.
There were old wooden bleachers against one wall, where the most powerful men sat – silver-haired mafiosos in their 50s or 60s. They were surrounded by younger bodyguards, and they watched everything that went on in the yard like kings lording over a court.
A lot of inmates were smoking cigarettes. A few were probably conducting surreptitious drug deals, using handshakes to transfer baggies of cocaine and meth that had been smuggled into the prison. The weakest and most pitiful inmates skulked in the shadows, trying not to draw anyone’s attention.
I was thinking of Rachel – and wondering if I should call Gunnar to see if he had made any progress finding her – when the handsome stranger from the other day walked into the yard.
He was alone, but he walked with the calm assurance of a man who knew he was absolutely safe.
The actions of the other inmates seemed to confirm it. Most of them scuttled out of his way or threw furtive glances in his direction. No one dared stare him in the eye for longer than a second.
The handsome man walked past the wooden bleachers. One of the old-timers – from what I could tell, one of the most powerful men in the yard – said something, and the younger man paused to talk.
The younger man said something that made the older man laugh – not in a fake or threatening way, but like he was sincerely amused. They exchanged a few pleasantries, and then the stranger moved on.
I was watching him and trying to figure out who the hell he was when I saw someone sneaking up behind him.
The guy was stocky and tattooed. He was walking too fast for a casual stroll, and I saw that his right hand was cupped inwards like he was concealing something – probably a shiv.
Shivs were improvised weapons for stabbing. They were long and sharp – stilettos rather than blades. They were made for puncturing, not cutting. They could be fashioned from anything, although some of the more common materials were plastic toothbrushes whose handles had been whittled down to a savage point, or metal bolts that had been filed to a wicked tip.
The purpose of a shiv was to poke so many holes in a man’s body that he would bleed to death before the guards could get him to the infirmary. The kidneys were a favorite target, although occasionally attackers went for the belly or throat.
The stocky man was about to shiv the handsome stranger in the back – I was sure of it.
I don’t know why I reacted the way I did. Maybe it was because the stranger had treated me with dignity. Or maybe it was his aura of nobility – that charisma he had that stood out from all the other bastards in San Vittore.
Whatever the reason, I sprinted towards him as I screamed in English, “WATCH OUT p>
The handsome stranger glanced at me, then whipped around to look behind him.
The thug realized he had lost the element of surprise and only had a second to act.
He lunged forward –
And stabbed the stranger in the stomach.
I expected to see surprise or pain on the stranger’s face –
But there was neither.
Instead, I only saw cold, vicious anger.
The thug was shocked. He looked like he didn’t understand what had happened –
That’s when I reached him.
I slammed my fist into his face and felt his nose give way in a hot spray of blood.
As the would-be killer collapsed on the ground, I glanced over at the handsome stranger, expecting to see him staggering backwards with his shirt stained crimson –
But miraculously, he was still upright with not even a spot of red on his clothes.
“BEHIND YOU!” he roared in English.
I turned and saw two more men rushing towards me, chains wrapped around their fists in improvised brass knuckles. One was bald, the other had long hair.
Without warning, the handsome stranger bolted past me and slammed his fist into the bald thug’s solar plexus. The guy doubled over and fell to his knees.
The stranger’s technique was sloppy, but he was strong and fearless – I’d give him that. And he was more than willing to throw himself into the fray.
I launched myself at the long-haired attacker and hit him with a vicious undercut that lifted him two inches off the ground. If he wasn’t unconscious after I punched him, he definitely was when his head slammed into the concrete.
The entire yard erupted in chaos.
People were shouting –
Men were rushing old-timers to safety like bodyguards protecting heads of state –
And dozens of fistfights broke out everywhere.
I turned around just as the handsome stranger kneed the bald guy in the face. CRACK!
“COME ON, LET’S GO!” I yelled.
“Hold on,” the handsome stranger replied calmly, then turned to the man who had tried to shiv him.
The thug was on his back and holding his hands to his bloody face.
The handsome stranger lifted up his foot –
And slammed his heel into the man’s throat.
CRUNCH.
The man on the ground went from moaning loudly to writhing in silence as he clutched his crushed windpipe.
“Alright,” the handsome stranger said, and we took off running, pushing and punching our way through the chaos.
We fought our way to a door to the prison –
Just as a dozen guards appeared on the other side of the yard and started clubbing inmates and cracking skulls.
The stranger and I dashed inside and took refuge behind a corner as we caught our breath.
I looked behind us to make sure we weren’t being pursued, then turned back to the stranger.
“Thank you,” he said gratefully.
His English was perfect – just the slightest hint of a European accent, not even identifiable as Italian.
“You speak English,” I said in shock.
He chuckled. “So do you p>
I looked down at his beige uniform. There was a small hole torn in the front.
“How are you not dead?!” I exclaimed as I pointed at the rip.
He smiled and lifted the hem of his shirt.
Underneath were several thick phone books duct-taped in a cylinder around his abdomen.
A jagged rip in the duct tape showed exactly how bad the shiv would have injured him –
If he hadn’t been wearing the improvised body armor.
“Holy shit,” I said with a laugh. It was the cleverest thing I’d seen in years.
“I had some help from connections on the outside,” he explained as he dropped his shirt back into place. “And from you. Again, thank you p>
“I didn’t do much,” I said, then pointed at his stomach. “That’s what saved you p>
“It only saved me because he didn’t have time to stab me in the throat, which he would have done next. I owe you my life p>
“Happy to help. I’m Lars.” As I extended my hand, I remembered I should use the name I was convicted under – not my real name. “Lars Andersen p>
The handsome stranger shook my hand. “Dario Rosolini p>