Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Wallstreet smiled, interlocking his fingers on top of the table. His usual spot was at the back of the cafeteria, wedged in the corner of the room to protect his back and side. Two men, looking like matching carrots in their orange jumpsuits, glared as I came closer.
No one could get to Wallstreet unless he wanted them to. Money bought more than respect—it brought longevity in a place where cutthroats and psychopaths wanted you dead.
His wrinkled face and greying hair were manicured and healthy. His eyes were bright and well rested, his jumpsuit ironed—fucking ironed—and dental hygiene top-notch. He was the magistrate in here. Even the prison officials let him be in charge of the criminal population.
Cigarettes? He got them.
Drugs? He got them, too.
Women? He’d hook you up, but offered no guarantee you wouldn’t die of fucking syphilis.
“Hello, Arthur. Lovely of you to join me.”
Prisoner #FS788791 pressed on my shoulder—or tried, seeing as he was like Pee-wee fucking Herman—coaxing me onto the bench. I shrugged him off, preferring to tower over the man at least forty years my senior.
“Name’s not Arthur. It’s Killian.” Arthur had died the moment Cleo had. No one would ever address me that way again. It hurt too fucking much.
I crossed my arms, planting my legs wide, hoping I looked angry as hell and just as terrifying. “Why me?”
“Excuse me?” Wallstreet chuckled, reclining a little and placing his hands in his lap. There were no dirty dishes or trays—either this douche didn’t eat, or his cronies had already cleaned the table.
“Why pick me? What did I do to deserve an audience with His Grace?”
He laughed again, raising an eyebrow. “Why not you?”
“No. Answer the fucking question.” I unwound my arms and wagged a finger in his face. “No cryptic crap. No bullshit. No games of any kind.” Slinging my leg over the metal stool, I sat and splayed my hands on the table. “I’m sitting. I’m listening. I’m giving you exactly three minutes to tell me why the fuck you wanted to see me on the anniversary of my arrival into this hellhole, and then maybe I’ll stick around and listen to more.”
Prisoner #FS788791 growled, “Respect, boy.”
Wallstreet waved him away. “It’s fine, Pat. He’s highly strung. That’s all.” His eyes glinted. “And impatient.”
I nodded. “Hell yes, I’m impatient. I’ve avoided stepping on toes or being roped into sides the full three hundred and sixty-five days I’ve been here. I want to stay neutral and you’re wrecking that by making people think you’re playing favorites with me.”
Wallstreet nodded, his blue eyes bright and sharp. “Fair enough.” Looking at his three stooges, he muttered, “Leave us. I want to talk to the boy alone.”
Prisoner #FS788791 stepped forward. “But what about…”
Wallstreet held up his hand, shushing him in one powerful, understated move.
What I wouldn’t give to have that power. That clout.
“Give us a few, Pat.” When the prisoner didn’t move, Wallstreet added, “I’m not asking.”
The guy grumbled but moved away obediently.
I didn’t say a word, just glared until the fellow convicts moved out of hearing distance. Wallstreet visibly relaxed, which didn’t make sense as he’d just shooed away his bodyguards.
“Killian. Let’s start with something easy. What do you know about me?”
I tensed, willing my heart rate to remain steady and nerves to die a painful death. I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of anyone anymore.
I rolled my eyes. “What is this? A ‘get to know your fellow criminal’ lunch?”
Wallstreet smiled tightly. “No. This is an interview.”
I coughed. “What?”
Wallstreet leaned forward, losing the pretence of conversation, getting straight to his point. “I know about you, kid. I have a one-time deal that will change your life. I can give you back your world—with more power than you could ever dream of—so stop being a little shit. Tell me what I want to know and cut the crap, because you get one chance. If you fuck it up, you’ll die in here, and wish to God you’d stopped flashing your cock and actually listened.”
He breathed hard, running a hand through his thick grey hair. “Now do I have your attention?”
My attention was riveted to his jumpsuit collar and the vein in his neck. My mind was busy picturing how badly he’d bleed if stabbed him with the shank I kept hidden in my cuff. My brain was busy calculating how many seconds the rubber bullets and batons would take before they ripped into my body.
One point five seconds to strike.
Four seconds before anyone understood what happened.
Eight seconds for the guards to aim and fire.
Eleven point nine seconds before any chance of being hit by a rubber bullet occurred.
But if I did, I would have zero chance at getting what I wanted.
Equations.
Algorithms.
Probabilities and calculations.
Math.
Where vengeance was my life, math was my lover. Everything—regardless how senseless, surprising, and damn fucking unfair some things were, math could always find a simple answer. Provide solutions to impossible situations.