Runaway Queen: Chapter 1

Icaught the man’s eyes across the crowded cafeteria. First, they skittered from mine, and then they returned. I pinned him with a mocking gaze. That silver stare was the first nail in his coffin. I made sure he realized that from my expression.

His name was Gerald, and soon, he’d be dead.

He shuddered and shuffled out of the room, head down.

“He’s probably running back to his cell to cry into his stuffy,” a lilting voice said beside me. Bran lounged against the cafeteria bench like he owned it. A displaced Irish prince giving his time to the unwashed rabble.

“I’m going to make him eat that thing. Every single bite.” I smirked, gripping my plastic fork in the only way that made the damn thing work. I scooped the tasteless white mush on the plate into my mouth. “Food is fuel” was a mantra that really came into its own in prison.

Powdered mashed potato made with water. My favorite. It must be Wednesday. I’d had seven years of mashed potato Wednesdays. Proof that people can get used to anything. I didn’t just survive in prison. I ruled it. I’d almost miss it, and the predictability of the meal schedule, when I finally got out. One month from now.

Bran laughed, rubbing a tattooed hand across his gold stubble, and nodded, his green eyes fastening on the place where the man had disappeared. “I heard that’s how he took them, you know? Chloroform on a stuffy, held it to their faces and…” Bran trailed off, his eyes hardening.

I knew how he felt. I felt it, too. The same white-hot sense of rage that a man like that got to live another day, at the state’s expense. We might all be criminals in the maximum-security prison where I was currently an honored guest, but even felons have a code. That man had none. He didn’t deserve to keep breathing. Unfortunately, New York state didn’t have the death penalty for men like him.

But they had me.

There was no bleeding-heart committee or protest groups that would save him from me. Especially not when we were locked in the darkness together. The monster that stalked the halls of my empty chest hungered for his blood.

Bran whistled under his breath. “We’ve got company.”

The chair beside him jerked out, and a large body filled it. I knew who it was without looking up.

Ramirez had only been inside for a month, and he’d already signed his death warrant by cooperating with the guards to get better privileges. His gang wasn’t happy with him. So, he was coming to me.

The Executioner. Palach.

“Well, Chernov, did you think it over?”

I continued to eat, scooping the liquid mash from the plastic partitioned plate with ease, before I settled back and played with the plastic knife. Ramirez’s anxiety radiated across the table.

Bran tutted. “You should know better than to think that the Palach would be interested in your cause. Bending over for the guards won’t keep you safe in here. It’s too late for that now, though.”

“When you get out, I can make sure you have a real good time. All the coke you want, girls, the best week of your life. That has to be worth something.”

Ramirez was sweating. I could smell him from across the table. I was tired of male sweat and desperation. The smell was one of the worst parts of prison.

“You have nothing I want, Ramirez. Besides, I wouldn’t take anything from a rat. Run back to your gutter and say your prayers. You’ll need them where your old friends are sending you.”

“Fuck you, man, you could fix it, you could help. Instead, you want more blood on your hands?”

A laugh left me at that. One unhinged peal after another. Ramirez flinched, looking to Bran for an explanation. There wasn’t one. There was no reason to laugh at the very realistic thought that this man would be dead by morning, and yet, laughter was all I had for him.

I looked at Bran and jerked my head toward the unwanted guest. “This fuck thinks I’ll care if his blood is on my hands.”

Bran chuckled. “He clearly missed his calling as a comedian.”

Ramirez’s face turned red. He was feeling embarrassed. Eyes were on us. He lost what was left of his sanity and swore at me, reaching into his jumpsuit.

The homemade shiv was out of his pocket and through my hand before I could pull it back. He pinned my left hand to the scarred cafeteria table and spit at me.

“Laugh now, bitch.”

So, I did.

The pain was nothing to write home about. It barely registered. I lifted my hand. The shiv hadn’t penetrated that far, bouncing off the metal of the table. Now, I held my hand up before Ramirez, my smirk still firmly in place.

“Come on, Joey, it’s like you’re not even trying. Did your guard friends teach you how to play ‘just the tip?’ I prefer much, much more.”

With that, I pushed the knife further into my hand. The silence in the cafeteria was deafening. It was boring as fuck in prison, so when someone did something interesting, you drew quite the crowd.

Ramirez went pale, his eyes riveted on mine. He was clearly rethinking his life choices right now. “I’m sorry, man, I shouldn’t have done that.”

I grinned at him. “No, you probably shouldn’t have, but everyone makes mistakes, isn’t that right, Bran?”

My friend grinned widely, settling back and resting his hands behind his head. “Where are your pals now? The ones you bend over for?”

Ramirez licked his lips. “They don’t mess with the Palach.”

Bran laughed. “That’s right. They don’t. I guess they’re smarter than you.”

“It’s fine, bratan. No big deal. I don’t have scores to settle with a soon-to-be-dead man. You can go.” I gestured benevolently toward the doors, dismissing Ramirez.

The sound of the chair scraping back punctuated the silence.

I glanced down at my plate, under my dripping hand, and sudden annoyance flickered through my broken mind. My other fist banged on the table. Ramirez froze, glancing fearfully at me.

“That being said, I wasn’t done eating, and now it’s ruined.” With a fluid motion, I pulled the shiv from my hand and swept the plastic plate with the blood-spattered mash onto the floor, standing to tower over Ramirez.

“That’s unforgiveable.” Bran stood beside me. “Mash Wednesdays are his favorite.”

There was a gathering tension in the air, like the crack of electricity before a storm.

“What game are you in the mood for today, brother?” I aimed the question at Bran, although my eyes never left Ramirez.

“Hmm, maybe whack-a-mole?” Bran laughed and picked his tray up, just as another inmate, an idiot who’d just arrived the day before and was poor at reading the room, wandered past.

Bran cracked him over the head with the tray, a signal for all hell to break loose.

I launched myself at Ramirez when he tried to turn and run. The lunchroom exploded in thrown food, followed by punches. Blood spattered across the tiles, and the sound of screams and an alarm blaring in the distance was a comforting lullaby for my fractured mind. Prison might smell like shit, but sometimes, it was entertaining as hell.

The man in cell 3H actually slept with a stuffed animal. I had no idea what psychiatrist had fought for him to have it, considering who he was and what he’d done, but I had half a mind to put them on my shit list as well. The list of people who needed killing when I got out of here grew longer day by day.

He barely made a peep when we took him. I watched my men carry him out of the cell. It was dark, and the guard shift change was purposefully delayed. Bran hadn’t even had to twist their arm that hard. No matter what kind of man you are, if you have even a scrap of humanity in you, you didn’t mind turning a blind eye to some good old-fashioned justice for a man like this one.

We took him to the shower block. It was only polite to make the cleanup easier.

He whimpered when he was tossed to the floor.

“Hello, Gerald,” Bran said, approaching the cowering man. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Gerald Townsend. Local coach and do-gooder. I heard you clocked more hours of voluntary work this year than anyone else in the city. What a hero,” Bran chuckled, but there was nothing warm in his tone. “Though, I’m not sure the kids at the different foster homes you volunteered at would agree, would they?”

“I never—they lied,” he fumbled out.

Bran was quiet, and I knew he was fighting the urge to rip Gerald’s throat out.

“You’re telling me over thirty kids lied? And they all had the same details? Wow, that’s some bad luck for you, isn’t it, Gerald?”

Bran moved away, getting too worked up. I got him. Men like Gerald made me enjoy killing. I’m sure there were plenty of men like Bran and my brother, Kirill, who could be detached and unemotional, and end a man like Gerald out of necessity, so he could never hurt a child again. They’d never enjoy inflicting pain like I did. They’d never linger and watch the life drain. They didn’t have a twisting fun house of chaotic horror inside their chests like I did. The world had started its carnival spin the day I’d found out Sofia was dead, and nothing had ever had the power to stop it since. It was like being drunk, when the world blurred and your heart raced, but it never went away. The vestiges of my shattered sanity held on for dear life, as the merry-go-round spun its never-ending circles inside me.

Round and round the mulberry bush… pop goes the weasel.

I spoke from the doorway as I lounged against the wall. “I’m afraid your streak of bad luck is set to continue. Do you know who I am?”

Gerald blinked at me, paling further. He licked his thick lips. “Yes, you’re the Palach. The executioner.”

“Wow, Niko, you’re famous,” Bran laughed.

“I’m flattered, but in this case, flattery will get you nowhere, Gerald.” I crossed the room toward him, pulling the stuffy from my pocket. The sad-looking rabbit was missing an eye.

“Here, you forgot something in your cell,” I murmured, passing it to him as I crouched to his level.

He took the rabbit and held it close, huddling in a horrifying parody of his victims.

“Since you’re new here, let me be the one to explain to you how this place works. You’re in here with hardened criminals, violent psychopaths… and that’s just the guards. In here, there’s no one small and meek who you can victimize. In here, you’re the prey.”

Gerald whimpered.

“Do you know what most criminals have in common, Gerry boy?” Bran chipped in. His grin chilled even my blood. “They have families, kids, little innocent nieces and nephews, godchildren. Even the Palach has them.”

Gerald turned his terrified face back to me.

I smiled at him, unsettling him even more. “That’s right. Two, actually. I’ve never met them, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t kill for them, in their honor. A man who likes to hurt little kids needs to learn to play with boys his own size. What do you say, Gerald? Do you want to play with me?”

Gerald wet his lips, his gaze darting fearfully around the place, at the men watching us silently. My loyal devotees.

“What kind of game?”

Bran laughed, and I smiled.

“What kind of game would you like to play? How about… hide-and-seek? Or tag? Truth or dare?”

Gerald wet his lips. “Hide-and-seek.”

“Ding-ding-ding, we’ve got a contender here.” I stood and stepped back.

I nodded to one of my men by the door, and the lights went out suddenly, plunging us into unrelenting darkness. My natural habitat.

“Hide, Gerald. I’ll give you until the count of ten before I look for you.”

His stumbling steps made him easy to find in the dark.

“One, two, three,” I trailed off, moving easily toward Gerald’s lumbering shape. I was used to the darkness. I’d lived inside for seven years. Seven years of darkness and horror. Seven years to forget the starry skies of my childhood.

Seven years to forget her.

I’d found that I could forget a lot of things in seven years, but I hadn’t forgotten her. Every single second we’d spent together was tattooed on my memory, etched in blood. As permanent to me by now as the madness that plagued my mind.

I closed in on Gerald from behind. He opened his mouth to scream, and I shoved the rabbit inside it, enjoying every second of his fear.

“Ten.”

Then I pulled Ramirez’s shiv. It fit my hand like an old friend.

Now, came the fun bit.