Remo Went Rogue by Mike McCrary Read Free Book Online

slipping it discreetly to Dutch.
    “Only inmates get hurt. No guards, right?” asks Frank.
    Dutch still offers nothing. Frank hates having to act like customer service to this bastard. He knows the situation, sure, but he has his limits, and he’s just about pushed to the edge of his. He looks at Dutch, raises his voice to a harder tone. “Listen, you piece of shit. If that monster of yours hurts my wife in any way . . .”
    Dutch’s face doesn’t even attempt to alter expression. His heartbeat rests comfortably, as if he were lying on a raft drifting in a pool in Vegas. Dutch was threatened, beaten, shot and stabbed—all before he could he could drive a car. Not too long after that, Dutch was the one delivering the threats and beat downs. He’s shot more people than the LA and Detroit PDs combined. Butchered more poor bastards than Jason Voorhees.   Not a whole helluva lotshakes Dutch’s tree. Certainly not some prison yard bull who Dutch has by the balls.
    Which is why Dutch doesn’t even give the courtesy of eye contact as he simply replies, “What?”
    Frank’s blood boils, working him into a lather as he attempts to retort. Dutch cuts him off. “Was that your big plan? Raising your voice?”
    Frank stands down.
    “We have a deal, sweet-ass. You do what you want to do and we won’t.” They lock eyes. Frank has no choice but to trust him. The whole time, Dutch never loses concentration on the basketball court.
    “Now, please. I need to go get violent for a moment,” says Dutch, whistling as he strolls toward the court. He cuts through the game without pause, forcing the players to alter their movements. He strolls to the center of the court, the mean, high-intensity game in full swing.
    Dutch couldn’t care less.
    He parts the players like the Red Sea , bringing the game to screeching halt. The players surround him. Black and white alike, they’ve found a common enemy. A mountain of muscle steps up, itching to throw down a ton of unpleasantness. Any reason to unleash pain on someone is an excellent reason. He towers over Dutch. Mountain snarls, “The fuck, Dutch?” The players crowding around are dying to tear this old guy apart.
    Other guards start to take notice.
    Dutch, calm as Hindu cows, gives a disarming crack of a smile before ripping the shiv across the Mountain’s neck. So fast, so clean it doesn’t even bleed at first. It starts to spit slowly, then gushes like water from a dam burst. The Mountain grabs his neck, blood rushing through his thick fingers. Shock and disbelief are stuck in his eyes as his life spills out onto the court.
    Dutch spins, a devil’s holiday, jamming the crude weapon into anyone unfortunate enough to be around him. Inmates fall back, bleed, drop.
    Cutting.
    Plunging.
    Ripping.
    Multiple stab wounds for each. Sounds of thick flaps puncturing skin followed by the stomach-turning tearing from the blade’s exit. Dutch moves like a man possessed, lightning fast, an impressive, beautiful blur of violence.
    He releases an inhuman, hollow wail, face expressionless. An atypical outburst for a man like Dutch. He usually conserves his vocal cords, only using them as necessary, but in this situation he feels it’s just the right finishing touch.
    The right amount of violent crazy to get him on that bus.
    Frank gives it a standing eight count before rushing over to join the other guards as they swarm the scene. They push their way through the crowd, stepping over, and sometimes on, wounded, dying inmates. The group pins Dutch to the court with hands and knees, fat sausage fingers.
    Dutch’s eyes flare, the pleasure he’s drinking in, the excitement, permeates his very bones. Veins pop on his forehead, an insane smile spreads. The ecstasy of the moment, this is what Dutch lives for.    
    Violence,
    Death with a purpose.
    His purpose.

    Dutch doing what Dutch does best.  

10
     

    The morning sun illuminates the stainless steel fixtures, polished hardwood floors, and