Solitary Confinement was buried at the deepest end of the prison.
A dim corridor, heavy iron doors on both sides, each one fitted with nothing but a small meal slot in the middle.
The air smelled like old piss.
The guards called it the entrance to hell.
They weren’t wrong.
The prisoner who’d put Rick in the hospital, Thomas Miller, was locked in one of those cells.
Leon didn’t rush.
He swung by the guards’ break room first and made himself a cup of instant coffee.
An old guard named Frank was slumped in a chair, reading a newspaper and trimming his nails at the same time , a man who had long since mastered the art of doing nothing productively.
Frank had been here twenty years.
A genuine old-timer who knew every dirty corner of this place.
“Hey, Frank.”
Leon set his coffee down and dropped into the seat across from him.
“What’s up, Leon?
Some girl giving you trouble again?”
Frank didn’t look up.
His tone carried a familiar smirk.
The Ashley situation had already made the rounds.
“More annoying than that.” Leon took a sip of scalding coffee.
“Block B got a new arrival.
The one who attacked the officer.”
“You know — the one Officer Shawn personally delivered.”
Frank lowered the newspaper.
Now he was interested.
“Oh?
That poor bastard.” He flicked a nail clipping into the trash.
“What, did the Warden send you to roll out the welcome mat?”
“Just going to take a look.
Make sure nothing gets out of hand.”
Leon kept his tone casual.
“Who runs Block B these days?
Still that big guy they call King?”
“King?” Frank let out a short laugh.
“He’s the king, alright.
In Block B, the Warden’s word doesn’t carry half as much weight as his.” He paused.
“You’d be smart to stay out of his way.
He doesn’t like guards.”
Leon nodded slowly.
Good.
That confirmed it.
This “King” , real name Marcus Washington , was a Black man standing well over six feet, built like a wrecking ball.
In for robbery and murder, serving life.
He’d turned Block B into his own private kingdom, with a crew of loyal enforcers and control over most of the contraband flowing through the prison.
More importantly, Marcus was deeply arrogant and razor-thin sensitive about anything racial.
Any remark he read as disrespectful, any tone he didn’t like , he treated it as a declaration of war.
That was exactly the kind of piece Leon needed on the board.
He finished his coffee, dropped the paper cup in the trash, and headed for Solitary.
The slot on Miller’s door scraped open.
Leon looked in.
The bruises on Miller’s face had darkened overnight , purple and blue spreading across his jaw, a split at the corner of his mouth.
His eyes, though, were still sharp.
Mean.
Like a wolf that knew it was caged and hated every second of it.
“The hell you looking at, you stupid chink?”
Miller’s first words.
No warm-up.
Leon didn’t get angry.
He smiled.
A white supremacist, too.
What a complete and perfect piece of garbage.
Killing him was going to be genuinely guilt-free.
“Came to bring you something.” Leon fished a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and slid it through the slot.
“And to give you a heads-up.”
Miller stared at him.
Took the cigarette anyway.
In Solitary, that thing was worth more than gold.
He tucked it behind his ear , saving it for when the craving got bad enough.
“What kind of heads-up?”
“You’re getting transferred to Block B soon.” Leon dropped his voice, warm and conspiratorial, like he was doing Miller a personal favor.
“It’s not a good place.
Especially for guys like you.”
Miller’s eyes narrowed.
“Guys like me?”
“White guys, buddy.” Leon lowered his voice further.
“Block B is Black territory right now.
Their leader calls himself King — big, mean gorilla who thinks the whole prison belongs to him.
Acts like everyone’s supposed to bow down.”
Miller’s expression shifted.
Contempt layered over wariness.
“I didn’t come here to take orders from some primitive.”
“Of course not.” That was exactly what Leon had been waiting for.
“I pulled your file.
You’re from Mexico — probably haven’t dealt with American prisons before.”
“So listen.
There are rules here.
You walk in there soft, they’ll treat you like a soft target.
First day, they’ll have you on your knees shining shoes.” Leon leaned closer to the slot, voice low and urgent.
“You’re a hard guy, Miller.
You shot a cop dead.
Own that.
The moment you step into Block B, you make sure King knows it.
The harder you come across, the less anyone touches you.
Don’t give him a single second where he thinks some white boy can be pushed around.”
“That’s how you survive here.”
Silence.
Miller’s eyes moved slowly, thinking it over.
A man caged and furious.
A committed racist.
The worst possible person to give this kind of inflammatory advice to , which was exactly why Leon had chosen him.
“I know what to do,” Miller said flatly.
“Don’t need some yellow monkey telling me how to handle myself.”
“Fair enough.” Leon straightened up, easy smile still in place.
“Good luck.”
He slid the slot shut.
Step one, done.
Time to meet the King.
During afternoon yard time, Block B’s exercise yard was loud and churning.
Inmates clustered in threes and fives , some running the basketball court, some quietly moving product in the corners, most just standing around sizing each other up with flat, hostile eyes.
Marcus was in the center of the yard at the weight benches.
No shirt.
Bronze skin stretched over muscle that looked like it had been carved out of something harder than flesh.
A handful of men built nearly as large stood around him, orbiting him the way planets orbit a sun.
Leon straightened his uniform, pulled a slow breath, and walked straight over.
“Mr.
Marcus.”
He stopped in front of him.
Marcus racked the barbell.
One of his men moved in to take it.
Marcus sat up, his massive frame rising like something architectural, and looked Leon over with the unhurried patience of a man who was never in a hurry.
“What can I do for you, Officer Leon?”
His voice was low and full.
The kind that carried without effort.
“Nothing major.
Came to say hello.” Leon held out a cigarette.
The man nearest Marcus intercepted it, sniffed it, then passed it over.
Marcus turned it in his fingers but didn’t light it.
“And to give you a heads-up,” Leon added, his tone easing into something almost friendly.
“That new guy in Solitary gets transferred to your block tomorrow.”
“The white boy that hit the cop?”
“That’s the one.”
Leon nodded, then leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something only the small circle could hear.
“I should warn you — his mouth is something else.”
Marcus’s hands went still.
Leon kept going, as if he hadn’t noticed.
“I was down in Solitary earlier.
Heard him going off.
Some real ugly stuff.” He paused.
“He said prison is where dogs belong.
Said he’d never take orders from a…” Leon let it hang there, not finishing the word, but every man in that circle filled in the blank themselves.
“If any of that gets back to you, I’m hoping things stay calm.”
The air compressed.
The men around Marcus went rigid.
Their eyes cut to Leon , reading him, checking for the lie.
Leon kept his face open.
Concerned.
A little uncomfortable, the way a well-meaning guard might look when he’d seen something he felt obligated to report.
“There’s one more thing,” he said, as if this part cost him something.
“He said he was going to make sure everyone in Block B knew who the real boss was.”
A beat.
Then Marcus laughed.
Short and quiet.
“Did he.”
He rose to his feet.
He was a full head taller than Leon , maybe more , and the shadow he cast was considerable.
“Appreciated, Officer Leon.” He set a hand on Leon’s shoulder.
Easy pressure.
Almost friendly.
“Thanks for telling me.”
“Just doing my job.
I’d rather you know what you’re dealing with than have something ugly happen the first day he’s in.” Leon kept his voice mild.
“I don’t want to see more blood.”
Marcus smiled.
“Don’t worry.
We’ll be real gentle with him.”
Leon gave one last nod, turned, and walked away without another word.
He could feel the eyes on his back the whole way across the yard.
The next day.
Lunch.
The cafeteria was its usual riot of noise , food smells and body heat and overlapping voices bouncing off concrete walls.
Leon had made a point of coming to the men’s section today.
He collected a tray, found a corner table with a clean sightline to the whole room, and set his phone out where he could grab it fast.
It didn’t take long.
The doors swung open.
Two guards walked Thomas Miller in.
He’d been processed.
Orange uniform.
His face still showed the damage from before, bruises fading from purple to yellow at the edges.
But his chin was up, his shoulders back, eyes scanning the room like he owned it , like a hyena strutting into a wolf den.
Shooting a cop dead had apparently convinced him he was dangerous.
The noise in the cafeteria dropped as he walked in.
Conversations tapering off, trays forgotten.
Every head turned.
Marcus was sitting at the center table, eating without any particular urgency.
He glanced up at the new arrival and looked him over slowly, the way a man looks at something he finds mildly interesting.
➤ Next: Mission Accomplished