Contents ( 84)
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- Acknowledgements
Mansour gritted his teeth through the pain and faced forward, determined to show no reaction. He would not give this man any further enjoyment.
‘Stubborn fucker, ain’t ya?’ the guard whispered, applying yet more pressure to Mansour’s cuff, tightening it at the site of his injury. ‘That won’t last. They’ll break you in here, Abdul. In every possible way.’
He moved sideways and reached for the right-hand bench restraint. As he did so, he brought his mouth closer to Mansour’s ear.
‘And when they do, you’ll wish it’d been you that had your throat slit, and not your piece of shit brother.’
The guard must have believed that Mansour was now a dog on a leash; that, with the left cuff in place, he could control his prisoner. But the final taunt – the reference to Rifat – was too much for Mansour. He snapped. Just as the right restraint clicked open.
Positioned between crouch and standing, the guard was off-balance. His only steadying support was his connection to Mansour; the cuff that linked him to the prisoner’s damaged wrist.
Mansour moved without warning, exploding upwards. The movement pulled the guard even further off-balance; blind to the renewed damage to his wrist, Mansour pulled his left hand into the cell wall, dragging the guard with it and exposing his face and torso to what was coming.
‘HELP!’
The guard managed just a single shout as the top of Mansour’s head collided with his open mouth. The force would have been enough to damage a closed jaw. To an open one, it was devastating. The guard’s upper four front teeth were shattered by the impact, digging deep into Mansour’s skull as they were ripped from their roots.
Mansour ignored the new pain, too; it was nothing he had not felt before, and it was dwarfed by his burning need to damage something. To damage someone. To finally – truly – vent his grief and his anger.
The guard had goaded the wrong man on the wrong day.
Mansour drove him back into the opposite cell. The place from which he had chosen to torment his prisoner.
The guard stumbled backwards, falling against the cell bench. His cuff pulled Mansour with him, and Mansour used that momentum to bring his forehead crashing into the man’s nose, his full falling weight crushing every last iota of cartilage that gave it its shape.
Mansour pushed himself upwards with his right arm, intending to use it to strike down as soon as he was stable. He didn’t get the chance. In the few seconds it had taken him to deal with his guard, two prison officers had entered the van and grabbed him.
He took the moment he had left to look at his earlier tormentor, bloodied, beaten and unmoving against the cell bench.
Mansour would pay for what he had just done. He knew that.
And he knew something else besides.
Whatever the price, it was worth it.
TWENTY-NINE
Joe Dempsey crossed First Avenue at a run, accelerating into a sprint as soon as his feet touched the pavement on its east side. He had one long block before he reached home, The Stratford on York Avenue.