A tray clattered to the ground, lukewarm gruel sloshing out and across the concrete floor. Dressed in rags, the man in the cell scrambled for the watered down oats and grease. He snatched the tray, snarling at the guard watching from the other side as he retreated to the concrete cot where he tucked the tray behind him. He glared back growling until the guard left, and only then did he relax.

  It was nothing new, he’d been dealing with it each day for two months now, moved between facilities here and there due to his tendency for sticking a shiv into his cellies. It took a few months of this before they got the hint and dumped his ass into this shit hole a week earlier. The starvation that slowly ate away at the man wasn’t helping his condition, but they were making a grave miscalculation on how much food the man needed to sustain himself.

  He reached out, picking up the tray with his left arm before setting it on his lap and using his fingers to scoop it into his mouth. Hygiene was the first thing lost to him upon winding up in the infernal cell. A mistake, to think that his patron wouldn’t have eyes in Chile, and one he was paying dearly for.

  He’d gone to sleep in the hospital, where he had been recovering for some weeks, and woke up in a cell. He had wondered each night if he would just not wake up come morning, knowing the people that would be after him for the failure he had suffered. All because of that upstart bitch.

  Oh how Alejandro yearned to see Inferno’s life fade from her eyes. She had been an excellent pawn, easily manipulated into serving his own purposes. Then she got wise. He knew that the Viuda would have pawns working against him, but he was certain Headhunter had been successfully brought under his thumb. Caralina had failed to fully convince the bitch to dance to his tune, and he had no opportunity to make sure she was eliminated before he was forced to flee across the sea, landing in Panama.

  Fantasies about torturing the brat Caralina would birth danced through his mind, even if the thing was his own flesh and blood. He’d made a tool, and it failed in its sole purpose. Disposing of it would be something he did if he managed to get out of this mess alive. He had few friends left, and even fewer that were in positions of power.

  That didn’t mean he was helpless, it just meant he needed to present himself as such.

  Being down an arm certainly helped present that image, and it even had the benefit of being somewhat true. Lacking his dominant arm would only hinder him for a time, but he was already making great strides in learning to use his left effectively. Just because he was in prison didn’t mean he was sitting idle.

  A shiv was safely tucked away, always within reach, one that he had practiced with for long hours when he knew the guards were napping. He was in a proper prison, or at least as close as one got to one in the hellscape he landed in. There was a good chance that whoever had seen to his arrival would be visiting him eventually, but only when they felt absolute confidence that he wouldn’t pull something out of his ass.

  It was reasonable to assume, given that trait marked his entire rise up the ranks of Alonzo’s little smuggling scheme. His eccentric personality might have been a mask he wore, but it was also a part of him all the same. Leaning on that, he just might be able to get them to underestimate him.

  He’d played at insanity, acting more animal than man at each passing check. The walls of his cell were smeared with his own shit, now dried. An act from his first days in the cell to drive the ruse home. None of the guards bothered to clean it, which told him everything he needed to know about the guards.

  Alejandro resigned himself to spending years in the pit he found himself in, content to bide that time until he was in a position to make a move.

  “Shit sculpter.”

  Alejandro glanced up at the mention of the nickname the guards had given him during one of his more outlandish activities. Sculpting chess pieces from his own excrement then playing games with the pieces. He despised having to debase himself like that, but he needed to embrace the most extreme elements of his persona, to lower the suspicion of him that the general staff carried. He was just an insane man, living in his hole and not bothering anyone.

  One of the guards was at the window, a serious expression on his face. Alejandro didn’t answer him, just staring vacantly.

  “We’re getting you a shower, you’ve got a visitor and need to be presentable,” the guard said.

  Oh, maybe he wouldn’t be stuck for long months after all, not if this visitor was who he expected. The new year was approaching, and he was curious for news from his old haunt, maybe he could get some information out of the visit. He grabbed his shiv, tucking it away as he did, confident that even if they stripped him out properly, he could keep it hidden.

  He smoothed out his rags and stood, making sure he didn’t walk in a way that gave up the game before he moved to the door and presented his wrist for restraints. The cuffs were snapped tight, pinching his wrist in the process. He hid the wince, giggling instead. If given the opportunity, he would kill all of them without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Other arm,” the guard demanded.

  He shifted, showing his stump. “I think I lost it somewhere, could you help me find it?”

  Grumbling, the guard instead opened the door, leaving the cuff dangling as he did. Alejandro was quite tempted to use it to teach the man a lesson about why that was a stupid ass decision on the guard’s part, but he might miss out on whatever this delightful distraction turned out to be. The cuff was then removed and he was escorted rather forcefully to a room with a drain and a makeshift pipe that served as a shower.

  The shower was cold, but it felt good to get all the shit off his skin. Once cleaned, they sat him down and took a pair of hair clippers to his scalp, stripping his hair close to bald. Not that he minded, most of his hair was a completely lost cause with how matted it was. They trimmed his nails, shaved his beard, and got him fresh clothes.

  The whole while he played at being delirious, not letting anyone see the focus in his eyes as he took everything in. That they were going through the effort of cleaning him up suggested he was about to meet someone important, who had influence over the prison.

  That suited him just fine, it would give him the opportunity to escape that he needed. From there, he would be able to find his former backers and put a bullet through their eyes for the betrayal that he suffered. No, that would be too slow, but at the same time, he learned his lesson on gloating when he didn’t splatter Inferno across the payment, instead opting to take in the look of fear in her eyes first.

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  That was a mistake he wasn’t about to repeat.

  Two arms grasped his remaining limb and pulled him along through the corridors. The sights were oddly interesting, given how rarely they let him out of the cell. Even when the other prisoners would be released for a shower, they just threw a bucket of water on him and called it good enough. Now, he was actually getting a good look at the place.

  And memorizing the layout.

  He would be remiss to not take advantage, he needed each one he could squirrel away for his grand escape after all. Though, depending on who came for him, that might just be this day. At least the section he was being escorted to looked cleaner than the rest of the shithole. He knew from some of his boys that Russian gulags were nicer than the pit he was currently in.

  Two guards stood by a door at the end of the corridor, one moving to open it as they passed through. Alejandro knew he was now within the administrative portion of the prison, since it had actual carpets. He was guided further and started to wonder if they would be taking him out of the prison entirely.

  That hope was fleeting as they stopped before a door and led him inside. They sat him down forcefully, then pulled a set of cuffs and threaded them through a steel link on the table before fastening both to his single wrist. Confident that he was secure, they left him alone in the plain conference room.

  Given the trouble they went through, Alejandro mused on how much of his persona he should affect for whoever this mysterious visitor ended up being. A middle ground would probably be best, he could then dial it up or down as needed. If it ended up being his treacherous patron, he wouldn’t be leaving the room on his own feet. Not after the beating that would come for finding a way to shank their visitor.

  His musings on how long it would take before he managed to wash all the blood off of him were cut short by the door opening once more, admitting three men. He strained to see them, despite the chair’s back being to the door. Each wore a sharp black suit, though one was clearly the muscle of the group. The other two were quite a bit older.

  Actually, scratch that. All three were old as balls. Certified fossils if he had a word for how wrinkled their skin was. To top it off, they were about three shades too white to be caught dead in this part of the world, assuming he was where he thought he was. He had his money on Argentina or Cuba, but couldn’t be certain since he hadn’t seen the light of day since he left the hospital.

  That was when he caught sight of the faces of the three visitors, or rather, their lack of visible ones given each had a fucking mask on. The smallest of them took a seat in the lone chair across from him, their white mask only offset by two intersecting lines of bright silver.

  “Tell me,” the visitor said, clasping his hands on the table between them. “Have you enjoyed wallowing in your own shit these past few months?”

  “Well, this is a surprise,” Alejandro said, dropping the persona. There was no point putting on any airs with the fucking Silver Cross. “Thought you were dead.”

  “I am largely retired,” the man said, nodding his head slightly. That was the thing about those that wore masks, they tended to get emotive. “Though the current situation in my home has required some hands-on intervention as of late.”

  “Well, your little storm did fizzle out,” Alejandro said. “Gotta sting that some upstart rich boy usurped all of that for a political play.”

  “Ellington is of a minor concern,” Silver Cross said dismissively. “His influence on the city is waning, in the wake of his national efforts, as well as the efforts of an old friend of yours.”

  One of the men set a picture on the table, sliding it so he could see. He couldn’t help the grin that was born from his growing ire. “Well, look at the little flame.”

  It was a picture of Ashe Hamilton from the waist up, wearing nothing but a tank top that he could see. The text did make him chuckle though, ‘Eat your girl out or I will’ would certainly piss off the Patriot supporters in the city, which knowing her was the entire point.

  Her arms had gained a fair bit of color, what with the flame tattoos trailing up one arm from where she had been injured at her wrist. On the other side, vines emerged from a bullet wound, winding around her arm with colorful flowers of blue and pink growing from the branches. Within those branches was a spider’s web, and a widow that denoted her membership with the Viuda. So much for those efforts of dividing them.

  Hell, she hadn’t even gotten the ear fixed, or grown her hair back out to hide it. He remembered that much, seeing the hole his bullet had blasted through it in the instant before he registered losing his arm to Hanabi’s shot. He now knew that Inferno had ordered the shot in Japanese. He’d studied the language a bit while recovering and ran into that helpful bit.

  “He no longer goes out as Inferno,” Silver Cross said, pulling the picture back. Alejandro wasn’t surprised by the insult, given the man was a Nazi, but it was still rather crass given how the bitch had proven herself to the code they lived by. “He has instead become a vocal activist in his civilian persona, using his old crew as organizers, despite having folded them in with the Viuda for protection.”

  “Let me guess,” Alejandro said, leaning forward. “They took over all my territory, folded her own into the Viuda, and now they’re pushing the Patriots out.”

  “Essentially,” Silver Cross agreed. “I may not agree with the methods, but everything I built is in danger of being destroyed. I need to upset the balance that the city has reached. I need an element of chaos to shake things loose.”

  The other man then set a set of keys on the table. One that he knew full well had everything he needed to walk out one of the side doors before the sun rose. Thing was, he knew it was bait. A man like the Silver Cross wouldn’t come seeking his aid if they didn’t have a separate motive.

  “Why me?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “You wouldn’t be caught dead associating with me, yet here you are, dangling the revenge I absolutely crave and offering all the tools I need to make it happen. What’s your angle in all this?”

  “It’s simple,” Silver Cross said. “I want you back in Jericho, to drag a certain flame back into the spotlight.”

  Alejandro’s voice dropped to a near whisper, trying to hide just how much he wanted this. “You are aware I’ll be trying to kill her for what she did to me?”

  “He could use the fire under his ass,” Silver Cross said dismissively. “If you succeed, then I was wrong about him, simple as that. I want him back on the streets in a mask, his civilian support structure completely burned away. I want him to embrace the lifestyle, to become Inferno completely. My family created a legacy for the city, and he would be the best motivator for bringing it back.”

  Alejandro thought about that, and what it would mean to accept that help. He would be given a golden ticket to freedom, but at what cost? What other hooks would this man leave in his offer that might serve to completely ruin him on the verge of triumph. All he wanted was a crucible to help forge Inferno into something. Probably a scapegoat to rally his old gang behind.

  Could he accept that? To be the pawn of someone else? If it got him his revenge, he certainly could stomach some things, but how much? He wasn’t sure, but this would be his best shot, and there were good odds that if he turned down the offer, he would be dead before the week was out.

  No, this wasn’t a choice, this was terms being rendered.

  “Alright, I’m in,” he said. “I have conditions though.”

  “I’m listening,” Silver Cross said, as if he fully expected what was going to come next.

  Turned out, Alejandro hadn’t been wrong, and the old bastard truly was rolling out the red carpet for his return. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, but as long as it meant that Inferno died violently and in public? He would dance to the mad Nazi’s fiddle.

  At least until he changed the game completely, because where was the fun in following someone else’s script?