it took a lot just to make a damn phone call, and he’s only got one shot to get through — burner cell, or real cell. he opts for the burner and holy goddamn shit, he’s never been so relieved in his life when nathan picks up.
“when are you getting out?”
“what, not even a ‘hi, how are ya, how’s life in the slammer?’ jeez, nathan, you’re hurtin’ my feelings already.”
“i’m serious, man.” nathan’s voice is all pitchy and tense, the way he always gets when something like this happens. “the cops are still lookin’ for me ‘n i don’t know much longer i can stick around for, but i can’t — i don’t wanna leave without you.”
“then don’t. nathan, nathan — relax before you give yourself a stroke, alright? i got like three more months in here, brother. they nailed my ass to the goddamn wall for, ah — shit, whatever, who cares. resistin’ arrest, on top of everything else. resisting, you believe that crap? five - o, i swear to god. no sense of humor.”
“it’s not funny.”
“’n i’m not laughing. listen t’me, alright, just —”
“sully found us a job. it’s far. harran city.”
“— come again?”
jee-zus, it’s never - ending. there’s no love lost between sam drake and victor sullivan, and he can spin it all he wants — blame victor, make it about something it’s not — but what it boils down to is a matter of pride. hubris and defiance, really. nathan’s his family. his, nobody else’s. they’re all they’ve got, and damned if he’s gonna pretend to be okay with some middle - aged con artist scumbag swooping in from goddamn nowhere to take his kid brother away from him.
fuck that.
he sucks his teeth and scoffs. jerks a nod at the CO who shoots him a look; his own expression states plainly, but witheringly, mind your goddamn business.
“’kay,” he finally says. “’n i’m gonna assume by ‘us,’ you mean you and victor. you’re not gonna take it, are you?”
“it, uh ...” nathan’s hedging now. ‘course he is. “it was — kinda my idea.”
“really,” sam deadpans. “huh. okay. that’s — nah, that’s cute, nathan. truly. i mean, hell, look at you — a real crime lord in the makin’. are you kiddin’ me, bro? what about what we talked about, huh? you ‘member that? you ‘member any of that, or did i black out ‘n lose like ten years of my life in this shithole? i know i ain’t been gone that long.”
there’s silence on the other end for a minute and sam pinches the bridge of his nose, hard, between thumb and index.
way to go, shithead.
“nathan. you there?”
“yeah.” quiet. stung. god fucking damn it all. “i remember, man. how could ... how could you ever think i’d forget?”
“’cause while i’m rottin’ away in here, you’re out there gallivantin’ around makin’ plans with some guy who —”
“i’m not gallivanting, and he’s not just some guy, sam, he’s —”
“well, what would you call it? i swear, every time we talk, it’s like you’re —”
“he’s my friend, he watches my back wh—”
“i thought that was my job.”
“yeah,” nathan repeats, but it’s more fiercely this time. “it was your job. but you’re not goddamn here. you’re in there. so what the hell else am i supposed to do? i can take care of myself, sam. sully’s not what you think he is. he’s not.”
“... whatever, man. i gotta get off here, they’re givin’ me the stink - eye.”
“wh— already? but —”
“time limits, you know how it is. unless you forgot that, too?” holy mother of god, he thinks, where are the brakes on this thing? “... look, i’ll call you again soon as i can, alright? keep that phone on you. if that ain’t too much t’ ask, y’know, as long as victor approves.”
“sam, c’mon —”
“later, nathan. be good out there — or at least better than me. shouldn’t be too hard, right? see ya, brother.”
the receiver’s slammed down harder than intended, and that same CO walks up with a hand on the baton hanging off his belt.
“that’s enough, inmate. back to your cell.”
“i’m goin’, chachi, get outta my ass first. fuckin’ shit, this place is for the goddamn dogs.”
round of applause for the asshole in orange.
that’s the last conversation he’ll have with his brother for a long time. had he known that, maybe he would have said something different. then again, maybe he wouldn’t. the months drag by, monotony broken only by the periodic flurry of fists and smuggled contraband, bartered commissary, cigarettes in plastic bags shoved into the back of the toilet. sleeping with one eye open, if he sleeps at all. he’d made a shiv and stashed it his first week here; hasn’t had to use it just yet, but that doesn’t mean much. these guys don’t screw around.
lawtey correctional is a level 3 security prison for men — violent offenders with behavioral problems doing hard time. sam is older than some, younger than most. he’s three years into this. copped to grand larceny and breaking and entering, but denied involvement with the manslaughter part — they pinned it on him anyway, because he wouldn’t give up any names. no word on a trial date yet. no idea if he’s even gonna make it to trial, or if they’re just gonna leave him in here to grow moss until he’s too jaded to care. or until he snitches, which isn’t happening. sam is a lot of things, but a rat isn’t one of them. his state - issued public defender certainly doesn’t seem to give a shit either way.
the tv bolted to the wall has been on all day, sports and bullshit, he hasn’t been paying close attention. cards litter the steel tabletop between him and a couple other guys from the pod; for legal purposes, it’s poker for bragging rights. cigarettes and ramen packets trade hands later. so far, he’s cleaning house.
“man, fuck you.” trip, a big, goofy - looking kid from miami, folds with a dramatic toss of his cards. “this shit is rigged.”
somebody else snorts. “drake’s wipin’ the floor with your sorry ass, bro. sucks to suck.”
“hey, i’m playin’ an honest game, fellas,” sam grins, toothpick between his teeth. “ain’t on me if you can’t keep up. gotta say, though — it’s gettin’ almost too easy. sit this next one out ‘n gimme a real challenge, huh?”
he doesn’t catch the comeback because as soon as he tosses a glance toward the tv, he hears part of the news report. just a name: harran.
“wait, wait, wait —” spinning in his seat, he snaps his fingers and gestures at the screen. “hey, hey, somebody turn that shit up, i wanna hear this.”
“nah, change the channel, i wanna check the sc—”
“yo, what’d i say, dipshit? none’a you clowns better touch that fuckin’ thing if you ain’t turnin’ up the volume, seriously, you do not wanna fuck with me right now.”
a female reporter in a newsroom with a banner of text underneath. breaking news. crisis in harran.
“... spokesperson for the local ministry of defense confirmed early this morning that the quarantine wall had been approved, and construction will begin shortly. the global relief effort issued a statement to assure the public that the outbreak is contained, and that the wall is simply a precautionary measure to prevent this virus from spreading into harran city itself. military forces, both foreign and domestic, are keeping the area secure, but the CDC remains tight - lipped regarding this crisis. many believe it’s a terrorist attack, as the virus seems to be an advanced and fast - acting strain of rabies, although we’ve received no information to indicate that the pathogen is airborne. we go live now to washington, d.c., where the president is set to address these concerns in an emergency press conference with ...”
sam’s standing a foot from the tv screen with no memory of getting there. footage of fires and armed troops on the ground, of crowds of panicked people, of tanks patrolling the streets. it’s far, nathan had said. harran.
harran city.
“oh, nathan, please tell me you didn’t take that goddamn job.”
he says it out loud, and a couple inmates glance his way; he ignores them. the rise and fall of his chest is so hard and heavy it’s making his pulse thump, overtime, way faster than the recommended range. quarantine. outbreak. virus. if that’s where he’s at — so help him, if nathan’s in the middle of some biological - warfare - shitstorm, somebody’s gonna pay.
“hey,” sam blurts, halfway to the CO stationed on door duty behind that window of bulletproof glass. “hey, richards, hey — i gotta make a call, man. c’mon. you gotta let me use the phone ‘n call my lawyer, it’s an emergency.”
“sit your ass down, drake. window’s closed for the day.”
“listen t’me, man — you think i’m playin’ with you? i look like i’m makin’ this up? please — richards, bro, please. gimme five minutes, that’s all i ask. just five minutes on the phone, you can listen in the whole time, i swear. c’mon. five minutes. you can’t give me five friggin’ minutes?”
the guard eyes him for what feels like a geological epoch, then finally gets up, pulling out the cuffs, nodding his head.
“five minutes,” he says. “not a second more, you hear me?”
“yeah, yeah, yeah —” sam’s damn near breathless, all jitters, holding his wrists out with a level of obedience he’s never granted them in here. “i hear you, bro. i got you. not one second more.”
five minutes. five minutes on the phone with a PD who probably couldn’t care less whether he lives or dies in here. but this isn’t about him. this is about his brother. he has to get out of here — he has to get to his brother.
fuck it, he thinks, as he’s lead to the phones.
if they want names, he’ll give them names.
