Prologue

Priest

10 years ago

New Orleans Correctional Facility

I wrapped my hands around the man's throat, and not for the first time, I wondered how it would feel to choke this piece of shit for real.

I may only be twenty-one years old, but the men in here fear me. If not for my size alone, standing at six-foot-four inches, I'm also wide set and muscled with a mean streak some call vengeful. My mother once said I had the face of an angel, but the mind of a little devil. Then again, she didn't turn out to be much of a mother to begin with, so maybe she got it wrong. I can't deny I've used my looks to my advantage, but it isn't like the chicks I've been with don't know what we're there for.

Women seem to like me — or they did until I wound up in NOLA Correctional Facility on a bullshit charge. I swear the fuckers around here have it in for me, but that won't exactly help me now. Then again, beating my stepfather, Eric, to a pulp was what got me locked up here in the first place. As it was ruled self-defense — and I didn't manage to kill the fucker — I got a lesser sentence of six months with probation. Still. The correctional facility isn't Disneyland. You've still gotta watch your back. There are slimy fucks everywhere.

I'm known on the streets of New Orleans, and not for anything good.

The cops locked me up for selling drugs here and there — luckily I didn't have shit on me when I beat Eric, or I know I'd be suffering a worse fate than I am now. Still, two months into my sentence, and I've made allegiances and allies. That's how you win in prison. I didn't come here to be pushed around by other inmates, but survival is key, and this facility is no walk in the park. I guess that's why I've lived in this low down place for as long as I have.

"You're doin' it wrong," Riot says from behind me. My cellmate, as well as resident yapper.

I turn around. "Fuck off."

"He's turnin' blue, better give him air unless you got a plan?"

Riot got his name for obvious reasons, but since he's part of the NOLA Rebels MC, he has a price on his back which is why a lot of the cell mates protect him. They want in at the club, and the MC holds a lot of weight around here. They accept ex-cons, but their prez, Cash, is notorious for being a hard ass. I guess he took my cell mate in, and Riot is a good guy when all's said and done. He may be shorter than me, and far too cocky for his own good, but he can fight. The little shit is dirty though, like all street brawlers are. I'm glad I have him as my cellmate and not the motherfucker who just jumped me.

"I've got a plan." I punch my cell mate in the ribs and he gasps for air when I let him go. "The question is, do you, motherfucker?"

He gasps and sputters, trying to catch his breath.

Riot keeps guard while I fuck him up a little. "The fuck was he thinkin' jumpin' you here?"

"Judgin' by the state of him, he's cooked." Most of the inmates here are big-time drug addicts. Me? I don't touch the stuff, only to deal. "What I wanna know is who wants me dead, shit head."

I slap him around a little. "You think I'm some fish who hasn't been here before, asshole?"

In here, they call me Shadow; because I possess the ability to go reasonably unnoticed. Keeping to myself, silently observing the intricate dynamics. But now I'm thinking they should change it to Cobra. Because when I strike, I'm deadly.

He shakes his head.

"Who was it?" I ask. Of course, I know who it was; The Brute and his crew who think they run shit around here. Sure, he's thick as fuck, but I've watched his fighting skills, and he's just solid. He has no skill at all. In a fight, I know I could take him. But they fight dirty. Every last one of them.

"The Brute?" I prompt.

He nods. I punch him again and again and again. It'll send a message, not before I handle the Brute myself. I knew I had it coming, but his time is gonna be up soon.

"You know they're gonna retaliate." Riot leans against the wall, unaffected by my actions. He's seen it all before.

"I don't give a fuck. They wanna come for me? Come for me. I have nothin' to live for anyway." That's mostly true. Staying alive just to drink and get pussy is getting pretty old.

Coming in here again has made me realize that.

Riot chuckles. "Whatever you say, bro."

I lean toward the asshole"s ear. "Next time, that blade will be spurting your blood all over my feet while I mop it up with your lifeless corpse, understand?"

"Y–yes," he gasps. I shove him toward the bars and kick his ass to help him out. "Fuck. I wouldn"t mess with you," Riot chuckles after he's gone.

I glance at him. "Luckily I like you. Fuck knows why — you whine like a little bitch."

Riot is one of the good guys. Maybe when I get out, I might look at joining his MC.

He holds his hand up. "My mama always said if I can use humor to get out of any situation, I should do that, before resorting to violence."

"That's why you're known as Riot?" I shake my head, picking up the switchblade and placing it under my mattress. Of course, it can't stay there, but it'll do for now.

"Hey, not my fault I also inherited my father's temper."

I grunt and give him a chin lift. "We're gonna need it if we ever plan on walkin' out of here."

He taps his nose. "Leave it to me."

"I hate it when you say that."

He grins. "Say, Shadow, you ever met a holy man?"

I frown. "Nope, and I don't plan to."

"I really think you and Big Apple might hit it off." Big Apple is the spiritual counselor who assists inmates in finding God, as well as listening to their concerns and fears. He's respected in here, though. They leave him alone because he's an old man. Even the Brute and the other miscreants. I'd say Big Apple holds a lot of secrets, and to me, that means he's a liability.

I snort. "You think I can pray my way out of this hell?"

Riot shrugs. "Maybe. He doesn't just pray, though. He's taught me a lot; how to control my anger and seek guidance when I need it."

"Sounds like he's pussy whippin' you. What's next, do we all sit around chanting?" I don't need saving, cringing at the thought I brush it off. Maybe it's a deflection because this isn't the life I wanted, but it's the life I carved out for myself.

"Just sayin'. It's only a matter of time until you get jumped again."

"And how is Big Apple gonna help with that?" I turn to face him, annoyed.

"You have an advantage. You're known as the Shadow. When Fat Harry gets back to his cell, they're all gonna know you're a dark horse. They're gonna come for you, and you gotta know when to pick your battles. When to cause havoc and when to lie low."

I point in his face. "You think I haven't been doin' that? How do you think I got my nickname?"

He shakes his head. "That's not what I'm sayin'. Trust me, I didn't get my name by bein' the quiet one amongst these four walls. But I'm still here. Still breathin'. There's a lot of guys who just wanna do their time, but the system is fucked and you know it," he says.

"What has any of that shit gotta do with me?"

He shrugs. "Big Apple will be gettin' out soon enough. He's gonna need a successor."

"I'm here for three more months, big shot. Then I'm gone."

"You really think you're gonna keep your nose clean in here and you'll be out in three months?" He holds in his laughter. Asshole.

"I don't think it — I know it."

"What about on the outside?"

"Speak English, brother."

"When you get out. You know you can prospect, but I know a way you could get in the NOLA Rebels and fast track all that bullshit."

This piques my interest. "So speak."

"Cash has been talkin' about lookin' for someone to guide the club, spiritually. He used to be one percent; you know what that is?" He gives me a chin lift and I nod. "Well, now he's legit. The whole club is. But obviously some of us go off the rails and get mixed up in bad shit from time to time. Havin' someone in the club like Big Apple, who tends to the needs of the members has worked in lots of other clubs. A chaplain, or spiritual guide."

I laugh. "Chaplain? I prefer Priest. Believe it or not, I grew up Catholic, not that I practice any of that now. I don't even know what I believe anymore."

"Is that why you have that cross tattoo?"

I shoot him a look. "Let's not get into that, it'll make your eyes water, pretty boy."

He sighs. "Just think about it. Like I said, it's two years minimum as a prospect, and trust me when I say, you don't wanna be doin' that if you can help it."

I honestly don"t know why he's telling me this. I guess he really does want me to join the MC, and what I've heard about being a prospect sounds like no picnic.

"If it'll keep you off my back and not talkin' for five seconds, then I'll think about it."

He grins. "Good. I think you'd get along with the guys."

"Are they as yappy as you?"

"No, but free snatch, grub and all the beer you can drink gotta be worth it. And a roof over your head."

"Cash okay with ex-cons?" I already know the answer to that, but I wanna hear it from him.

"If he likes you, then yeah. I fucked up, but he knows I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's tight knit, you know that by reputation. Cash won't just let anyone in, but he trusts me."

"I'll take your word on it."

He pushes off the wall. "So, what are you gonna do with that blade?"

I face him and grin. "I'm gonna bury it in the Brute's neck. What do you think I'm gonna do with it?"

He doesn't flinch. Going up against the worst criminal in here is potential suicide, but right now, I've nothing to live for. I have no prospects at all, even if joining the MC has piqued my interest. "I wanna be there when he's on his knees pleadin'."

I rub my chin. "Maybe I should talk to Big Apple after all, I need to be able to know how to read someone their last rights."

He chuckles. "Penance, my friend? And you said you weren"t Catholic anymore."

I reach for the blade, tucking it into my shoe. Who knows how soon I'm gonna need it.

"By the time I'm done with the Brute, or any other jailbird around here who wants to fuck with me, they'll all be on their knees praying for mercy." It won't be the first time I've killed a man. Not that I've ever been locked up for it. But trust me, the assholes deserved it. The more I think about it, the more I'm starting to like this idea.

He whacks me on the back. "That's what I like to hear."

Club Chaplain? It has a ring to it.

I could do that. I could fast-track into the MC and get my life back on track. Or I could die here in prison.

The only question is, can I really hand myself over to the almighty? Faking it could come as naturally as breathing, but even I have my superstitions. I don't mess with holy shit.

I've always had a sixth sense, and it's eerily accurate. I can always see right through people, it's a gift I've had since I was small.

People have always confided in me, and I've no idea why. It's like I'm the flame to the month, not the other way around,and they just can't help themselves.

One thing I do know is that the Brute is going to die in this jail, and it'll be at my hands. I also know I'll get away with it, easily. The question of what to do with myself after that remains.

It could be a way out. The brotherhood I've always craved and wanted. To belong, to be needed; deep down that is my ultimate desire and is what's kept me alive this long.

I rub my chin once more. Maybe all of this hell on earth I've been suffering was for a reason. Maybe this is my calling? And if I get free grub, snatch and a place to live, how bad could it be? I could even start to like it.

I smile. "Come to think of it, I'm sure I could be reformed for the right situation." I lean back on my bunk and my smile spreads into a grin. "I think finding the Lord could be my meal ticket outta here."

Riot nods his head. "Best thing I've heard all day." He reaches out to clasp my hand. "I'll join the dots with Cash, you've just gotta do the leg work."

"Best go find a bible then, hadn't I?"