What would Peyton think? She’d fought so hard against this. And what would happen to Laurel and Mia and Jake?
“You bastard.” Buzz held a shank, the handle of which appeared to be a ballpoint pen, the sharp end a nail. But he hadn’t struck yet. Virgil could sense his reluctance. He was so close to being free; he didn’t want to bury himself under another prison sentence. That partially fueled his rage. He blamed Virgil instead of the leaders of the Hells Fury for forcing his hand. “I was plannin’ to get you in, help you become one of us!” he growled, keeping his voice low.
The others acted as a wall to block the view of anyone who might glance back.
“You sure you want another ten to fifteen for murder?” Virgil breathed.
“I do what has to be done.” He pounded his chest with his free hand. “I’m loyal! I’m HF!”
Virgil struggled to remain on his feet. “And you think Detric Whitehead would sacrifice a decade or two of his life for you? That’s the lie, man. He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He’s using you.”
“Get it over with,” Hutchinson barked. “We only have a few seconds. You get me in trouble again and I’ll tell the cops who killed that judge.”
Eyes shining with adrenaline-fueled fury, Buzz lunged forward.
Virgil managed to sidestep the first jab. He had almost no energy, but his own adrenaline had helped him that much. Then he went for the guard. The C.O. was his only hope because he wasn’t expecting to be attacked. No one else expected him to go after the C.O., either. But the guard had a can of pepper spray on his belt. If Virgil was going to use the last of his strength to do something, he needed it to be effective against more than one person.
Buzz thrust again just as Virgil reached for the pepper spray, but Virgil saw the shank coming and, in a motion born more of instinct than intent, pulled John in front of him.
The C.O. stumbled, nearly fell, then jerked and cried out as the shank went into his neck.
Virgil didn’t have the strength to bear John’s weight. He had to let go of his human shield as the others pressed forward to finish what Buzz had started.
Another guard came running, screaming for the cons to stand down. Virgil could hear the pounding of his feet, the shouting of the other men, and yet it all seemed to be coming from a distance. Even if that C.O. was closer than he thought, Virgil doubted he’d act quickly enough to help. The guard didn’t know what was going on, would need to take precious seconds to assess the situation.
Fumbling to get hold of the pepper spray before it was too late, Virgil grabbed the canister despite John’s thrashing around on the floor. He pulled it from the C.O.’s belt and sprayed—but not before someone got him from the side.
When Peyton arrived at the dining hall and found Virgil lying on the floor, her panic turned to anguish. She was too late. Judging by the blood on his shirt, he’d been stabbed again, this time on his right side.
Was he dead? He wasn’t moving….
John Hutchinson lay next to him, writhing in pain. A shank protruded from his neck. He gasped for breath while the C.O.s who’d responded when the alarm sounded herded Buzz, Ace Anderson and an inmate by the name of Felix Smith against the wall.
“Medical personnel are on the way,” Hostetler told her. His manner was matter-of-fact, businesslike. He’d handled this situation by the book. But this wasn’t just another violent episode that they had to process according to a set of rules. One of the people affected by this incident meant everything to her.
Images of what it must’ve been like for her father, dying in much the same way, ran through Peyton’s mind as she sank to her knees. Had she lost someone else? After all the years she’d worked in corrections, trying to make a difference?
Succumbing to tears, she reached for Virgil’s hand. It’d taken her thirty-six years to fall in love, and then she’d done it against her better judgment and in only a matter of days. Was it over before it had really begun?
“Virgil?” she whispered, cupping his cheek. She could feel the surprise and attention of the others. Their eyes bored holes in her back, but she didn’t care.
There was no response, but he was warm. Praying that meant there was still a chance, she pressed two fingers to his throat—and found a faint pulse. He was alive! She didn’t know how long he’d last, but she clung to the slim chance implied by that barely perceptible movement.
“Virgil, can you hear me?” she asked. “I’m with you.”
“She knows him?” someone muttered.
“Looks like it…”
The medical team that rushed into the room behind her tried to pry her away, but she refused to let them. As long as she could touch him, she felt she could lend him some of her strength, her energy, the determination and spirit to keep fighting.
“Chief Deputy.” The doctor’s voice was filled with reproof when she resisted.
She shot him a defiant look. “I won’t get in the way, but I won’t leave him, either,” she said.
She was glad she’d refused when they lifted him onto the stretcher and his eyes fluttered open and focused on her.
“Don’t cry,” he mumbled with a tender smile.
By the time Peyton had Virgil removed from Pelican Bay and admitted to Sutter Coast Hospital it was another late night. The doctors said he had a systemic infection and needed stronger antibiotics, as well as more stitches. They weren’t making any promises that he’d survive. He wasn’t in good shape. Apparently he would’ve wound up in the hospital—or dead—even without another shank wound. But she was cautiously hopeful. At least he was out of Pelican Bay and getting the best medical help available. And she no longer had to pretend she didn’t care about him. Too many people had seen her reaction to his injury. That removed a weight.
She was dozing in a chair next to his bed when he began to stir. Fighting the exhaustion tugging her toward unconsciousness, she forced her eyes open so she could make sure he was okay, and found him staring at her in the half light streaming from the hallway.
“Hey, you,” she said, getting up so she could move closer.
“Hey,” he responded. “What’s going on?”
She bent down to lean her elbows on the edge of the bed, which put her face only a few inches from his. “You’re pretty sick, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“My shank wound is infected.”