Page 65 of Calder Country

Timbo shrugged. “Taviani wanted him. And what Taviani wants, Taviani gets. The big guy doesn’t say much. I get the impression he’s not the sharpest nail in the keg. But he’s got Taviani to do his thinking for him. All he has to do is take orders.”

Timbo glanced around, then leaned closer. “You can thank me for this later, Dollarhide. You made some enemies while you were working for the old man. They’ll be out for payback, and this time, Taviani won’t protect you. So be ready.”

With another glance over his shoulder, Timbo scuttled away like the little rat he was. Looking across the compound, Mason could see a group of three husky men. He recognized all of them. Two he’d punished with his fists, just because Taviani had told him to do it. The other man had probably resented his being Taviani’s right-hand man and welcomed the chance to take him down.

Mason watched as they moved toward him. He knew how the fight would go. The guards on the ground would look the other way during the worst of it. Only when the melee was slowing down, and after the target had taken a brutal beating would they wade in with their clubs, march the combatants back to their cells and, if need be, drag the loser to the infirmary.

Mason knew something else as he met Taviani’s stony gaze. Timbo had been right. The old man would not step in to save him.

Mason prepared to fight. He could have taken on any one of them, maybe even two. But with three coming at him, he was about to be beaten senseless. The best he could hope for was to do some damage before he went down.

They were coming closer, like wolves circling their prey, hatred blazing in their eyes. The crowd of prisoners opened a path, then closed behind them, forming a ring of watchers. Mason stood his ground, facing his enemies. Taviani, flanked by Piston, stood a few yards behind him.

As the trio closed in, Mason dropped to a slight crouch, shifting on the balls of his feet as he waited for the attack.

It never came.

The leering hostility faded from the faces of the three men as they backed into the crowd. Mason turned to find Piston standing like a brick wall behind him.

For an instant he almost believed he’d been saved from a pounding. Only when he saw the reptilian smile on Taviani’s face did he understand what was about to happen. Piston would be defending his job. Mason would be given a fighting chance to take it from him. The loser of the brawl would be stripped of all respect and become the target of any bully in the prison.

The ring of watchers widened as the two men faced each other. Even the guards had become spectators—all of them probably expecting to see Mason crushed. Piston outweighed him by a good thirty pounds. The brute had a roll of belly fat, but the extra weight was mostly muscle. And his fists were like wrecking balls.

This man had, in all likelihood, killed Ruby’s father. And behind him was the evil mastermind of it all. Mason used that thought to fuel his anger as he aimed the first strike—a hard punch to Piston’s gut.

The big man grunted, but his body was as solid as a sack of cement. Mason felt the pain shoot up his arm all the way to his shoulder. He recovered in time to dodge the swinging hammer of Piston’s left hand and step back. The big man was powerful but slow—that would give Mason a slight advantage. But if Piston landed the right punch, the match could be over except for the mauling that would likely continue until the guards had seen enough.

In prison fights, there were no rules. Biting, gouging, stomping, and kicking brought cheers from the crowd. Sizing up the man who faced him, Mason knew he couldn’t rule out anything. For all he knew, Piston had orders to destroy him.

As Piston lumbered toward him, Mason went for the most vulnerable part of him—his face. He flung everything he had into a punch that delivered a crunching blow to the big man’s nose. Blood spurted. Roaring in pain and rage, Piston waded into the fight, head down like a charging bull. Mason dodged the impact and countered with an uppercut to the brute’s ironlike jaw. The blow landed hard, but the force of the collision threw Mason off balance. He reeled, struggling to stay upright.

Piston was quick to take advantage. A ham-sized fist slammed into the side of Mason’s head. Reeling, he glimpsed Taviani’s cold smile. As he went down, the last thing he saw was the twenty-pound concrete sole of Piston’s boot, prison issue that unruly prisoners were forced to wear. The boot filled his vision. Then everything went black.

* * *

When Mason woke, it was night. He was lying on his back, a dim light shining through the bars of his cell. His left eye was swollen shut, with a tender bruise running from temple to chin. He worked his jaw, expecting it to be broken. But it was only damned sore. So, it seemed, was every joint and muscle in his body.

He struggled to sit up, then abandoned the effort because of the pain. Tomorrow would be worse—he’d traveled this road before. In a way, it was as if he’d never left this accursed place.

He forced himself to remember why he’d come here and what he had to do. He’d promised the feds he would give them Taviani. Ideally that meant getting enough evidence on the old man to end his power and have him moved to federal prison for life. It could also mean finding the secret source of his illegal whiskey. Even killing him might be a solution—but Mason would have to answer for that. It wasn’t the best idea.

“So you’re awake.” The voice was familiar. Raising his head, he could see Taviani’s diminutive silhouette standing outside the bars. “You can thank me for saving your life. Piston would have killed you before the guards got to him.”

Mason took a breath, pain stabbing his ribs. “I’ve got one question for you. Why?”

“Why did I order Piston to attack you, or why did I order him to stop?”

“Both, starting with the first question. I knew you’d be unhappy because I didn’t kill Colucci’s pilot—and because I got caught. But I didn’t expect to be beaten.”

Taviani snorted. “You should know better than that. You were seen leaving the woman’s hotel room with the feds and walking her to the train. You were even seen kissing her goodbye.”

Mason was startled into silence. Ruby had suspected that Colucci employed a maid at the hotel as a spy. But Ruby had been mistaken. The maid had been working for Taviani, not Colucci; and she’d seen everything that went on outside the room.

“I’ve seen more men ruined by love than by money,” Taviani said. “But if you think I’ll forget about your little pilot, you’re wrong. She needs to be silenced. And she can’t run fast enough or far enough to get away. As for you, Dollarhide, you’re a traitor. I wanted to make an example of you. That’s why I told Piston to give you a beating.”

“So why am I still alive?”

The silence lasted several seconds before the old man replied. “Because there’s a chance you could still be of use to me. You’ve seen what Piston can do. But he has the mind of an eight-year-old child. He belongs in an institution, not here. But he’ll do whatever I tell him—even if I order him to kill.”

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