Sweet Hell on Fire by Sara Lunsford Read Free Book Online

him.
    I didn’t want to.
    But I would.
    Lives depended on my choices.
    Given his history, I already knew part of what he was capable of, and that would be on me if I let him escape.
    In a split second I imagined the scenario, pulling the trigger, the aftermath. The face of his daughter and if I could look at her after.
    Could I? If I wounded him? If I killed him?
    Yes, I could.
    “Put the pepper spray down on the table and back away slowly. This is your last chance to comply,” I said firmly.
    “Or what? You’ll shoot me?” He took a step toward me.
    I inhaled deeply.
    And I’d fire on the exhale.
    Cool and smooth. On target. Center mass.
    He dropped it and held his hands high. “It’s not like I could do anything. I’m missing half my leg.”
    He didn’t need his leg to kill the nurse. Or the cops who would have pursued him. Especially not since he was a tweaker. If he’d been high, a bullet might not have stopped him. Maybe not even all six.
    “Close your mouth, and sit on the bed.”
    He did as I ordered, and I recuffed him after holstering my weapon. I put him in the belly chain too, restrained him so he couldn’t go for my gun. The nurse suggested they catheterize him so he didn’t need to leave the bed. I told her as medical staff, that was her call.
    When I recuffed his ankle in addition to his wrist, I saw a red circle starting to chafe where the cuff had been, where the skin was obviously thin and about to break open.
    I wrapped a washcloth around his ankle to build a barrier between the metal and his flesh. Not so much he could even shift the cuff around, but enough so that it didn’t tear his skin open.
    One might ask why I’d give a fuck after what had just happened, but like I said, it was my job.

“Hey, Lunsford. How’s it hangin’?” one of the yard workers called to me as I walked into the enclosure for the first rec period of the shift.
    I was a yard dog that night, which meant it would be me and two or three other officers walking around while three hundred inmates had their rec time. This was a dangerous post because when things kicked off (be it a riot, fight, shanking, etc.), it was usually on the yard or in the chow hall. In fact, it had only been a few years since an officer had been beaten to death with free weights on the yard.
    “A little to the left,” I answered.
    He laughed. “Aw, I know that’s right. You’re OG, Lunsford. O. G.” He accentuated both letters individually.
    “Back at you.” I nodded my head in acknowledgment.
    OG means original gangster. He had told me before I was “old school,” both terms that most inmates and uniformed staff respected because someone who’s OG got things done. No touchy-feely let’s-talk-about-our-feelings bullshit that nonuniformed staff who don’t deal with the inmates on a day-to-day basis think is a good idea. You and the inmates both do what you have to do. More often than not it puts you at odds with each other, but there’s a certain amount of respect there too. On both sides. The inmate tries to get something past you and you try to make sure that doesn’t happen, and you both understand it’s just part of the game.
    The best part? The lines are clear. There is no miscommunication about what’s expected from either party.
    It’s the difference between convict and inmate, and officer and guard. And yeah, there is most definitely a difference. Convicts do their time with their heads down. They don’t bitch and they don’t snitch. There’s a saying in prison: Snitches get stitches. But convicts are a rare and dying breed. Prison culture has become popular in the mainstream, glorified in media, and these men who come to prison now behave like inmates. Those that I’d call convict rather than inmate are few and far between.
    An officer does his job and gives them what they have coming and nothing else. Officers are fair, firm, and consistent. Officers are professionals who do their jobs and put their lives on the