“Let’s go, Fox! You can fag it up on the outside from now on!”
Mickey pulled back, his tired old eyes full of cold, hard truths. “Get the fuck outta here,” he growled, shoving Preacher toward the waiting guard.
“You gonna behave?” Pat asked. A pair of handcuffs dangled from his hand.
Preacher nodded.
“Get a move on, then. That sunshine is callin’ your name.”
Reaching up, Preacher quickly tied back his long brown hair, shot Mickey one last look, and then dutifully turned around and put his hands behind his back.
As Preacher was led through his cell block, he caught the eyes of the men he’d been forced to live side by side with for two years. In the pairs of eyes that met his, he found a variety of emotions. Jealous sneers, genuine smiles and congratulatory nods, and knowing stares—stares that seared straight through him, making him feel like those men knew something he didn’t.
When they left the cell block and entered the bowels of the prison, Preacher released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“You gonna tell me now why they call you Preacher?” Pat asked. “You said you would on your last day, and it’s your last day.”
Preacher smiled faintly. “I don’t know when to shut my fuckin’ mouth. Got an opinion ’bout everything, always preachin’ ’bout this and that.”
Pat was silent for a moment. “Maybe that was true two years ago, but things sure have changed, huh?”
Preacher didn’t bother answering. Yeah, things had definitely changed. He’d lived the last two years being told when to sit, stand, eat, sleep, and take a shit. At first, he’d had quite a bit to say about it, but he’d since learned his place.
“Park it over there,” Pat said as they turned into the booking room. Leading Preacher to a far corner of the room, he removed his handcuffs and pointed to a rundown wooden bench.
Taking a seat, Preacher glanced around the room, rubbing his wrists. It was the same room he’d been brought into two years ago, the beige-colored walls lined with dark gray file cabinets, the same three guards manning separate desks, their heads bowed as they looked over various paperwork.
It was the same room where all his belongings had been taken away, where he’d been stripped and searched, put into a stiff gray jumpsuit, and shuffled off to his cell block. The same room where’d he’d become a nameless, faceless nobody, the equivalent of a maggot, just one among thousands forced to live off the garbage they were thrown into.
“Fox!” Pat called. The guard was gesturing toward a chair beside a desk and the bored-looking guard seated behind it. “We need your John Hancock. Get’cher ass over here.”
When all his release forms were signed, dated, and sealed away, when his belongings—a pair of ratty old jeans, a white T-shirt, a leather jacket, a pair of riding boots, a wallet, and a small gold chain—were returned to him, when he was dressed and ready to walk out the door marked EXIT in big bright bold lettering, he paused.
“Problem?” Pat asked.
Still staring at the exit sign, Preacher shook his head. Was there a problem? He didn’t know.
“What the fuck are you waiting for? You’re maxed out, Fox. Free. You got your ride waiting on you. It’s a new beginning, a fresh start. Get your ass going and stay the hell outta trouble.”
A free man. According to the law and the state of New York, he was indeed a free man. But in reality, he wasn’t free at all. He belonged to the Silver Demons body and soul, for better or worse. And if he stayed on this path, this wasn’t going to be the last time he went to prison.
Pat slapped him on the back and shoved him forward, and then Preacher was moving, one foot in front of the other, through the exit door and down the long corridor. Another guard, standing at his post near a set of double doors at the end of the hall, nodded at him. Then Preacher was through the doors and stepping out into the warm sunlight…
He was free.
Chapter 2
Her gaze flickered from the old man behind the wheel to the world outside the window, a blur of bright greens, blues, and grays. The rickety old truck smelled like stale cigars and feet, thanks to the many cigar stubs overflowing in the ashtray and the well-worn work boots lying on the truck’s floor.
Turning back to the man, who’d muttered somewhere around fifteen miles ago that his name was Dave, she clutched her pocket knife a little tighter. He seemed kind—kind enough—and he was hardly in peak physical condition, but you could never be too careful. She’d learned the hard way exactly what sort of evil could lie simmering inside a well-dressed man with a kind smile.
Dave, in his torn denim coveralls, could hardly be considered well-dressed, and he hadn’t smiled at all, not once. In fact, every so often when the radio station would break from the steady stream of country music, Dave would glance her way, his body hunched over the steering wheel, his thin lips pressed in a firm, disapproving line. Having lived like this for some time now—on her own, on the road—this was nothing new. She was well versed in the judgment of strangers. More than likely he guessed she was rebelling against her parents, or society, or something else equally frivolous. But whatever it was he was guessing, she didn’t see any malice lurking in his faded blue eyes. Still, she’d strategically placed her large canvas army pack between them while keeping her knife clutched tightly at her side, ready to strike if need be. Nobody got to take from her anymore… at least not without a fight.
Her careful stare meandered back to the window. Large, cultivated farms, looming barns, and the occasional tractor hard at work were all there was to see. In fact, this was exactly what most of America looked like when you watched it fly by from the highway.
Eventually a mile marker came into view, boasting in big white lettering that they were now four miles from the New York border. A rush of excited air escaped her. This was the closest she’d ever been. Briefly closing her eyes, she envisioned all those crowded sidewalks, could almost hear the constant rumble of traffic and the unending blare of car horns.
Her goal was New York City, and maybe she could have made it there much sooner if she hadn’t had an entire country to traverse, coupled with the daily worries of food and shelter and bad weather. Not that time mattered in her world; she didn’t live by a clock anymore, and no one was waiting on her.
And New York City, from what she’d gleaned from television and books and word of mouth, was the ideal place to disappear. It was a city teeming with people—enough people to panhandle from and pickpocket without having to worry about going to sleep hungry ever again. It was somewhere she could live in plain sight while still hiding. It was somewhere she could become someone new—anyone she wanted to be. She could start over, maybe have a real life again. In New York City, the possibilities would be endless.