Osama by Chris Ryan

Author:Chris Ryan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9781444706444
Publisher: Coronet
Published: 2012-09-13T00:00:00+00:00

The razor blade Joe had secreted under his tongue nicked the soft flesh inside his mouth. He could taste his own blood, but kept his lips tightly closed as he entered the dining hall.

He sensed the mood immediately. Atmospherics. Like going into an enemy village when the enemy know you’re coming. The buzz of conversation was quieter, the dull tapping of plastic cutlery against steel trays louder. More than usual, Joe saw inmates cast furtive glances in his direction as he walked slowly up the gangway towards the serving area. Even a couple of the screws standing along the side walls looked anxious.

Joe had covered a third of the gangway when he spotted Finch. He was sitting ten metres ahead and to his right, at the table closest to the serving area and with his back to it. His eyes were fixed on Joe, and he was chewing very slowly.

Joe walked on, the blade still needling at the underside of his tongue.

He recognized two members of Finch’s crew sitting to the left of the gangway, also with their backs to the serving area.

Also watching him.

His every sense was heightened as he walked. He felt he could hear every chink of cutlery.

Now he was next to Finch. The guy was two metres to his right and had laid his fork across his half-eaten tray of food. He followed Joe with his gaze as he passed, but he didn’t stand up.

Two metres from the serving area, Joe stopped. He could feel something dripping from the left corner of his mouth.

Three cons were waiting behind the hotplate, dressed in grease-spotted aprons and white paper hats. They were staring at the crimson trickle on his chin.

Joe saw himself distorted in the tea urn – like in a funfair.

And there were four men behind him.

They were not Finch’s. He recognized the Middle Eastern men who had been sitting cross-legged in the exercise yard that morning. He couldn’t tell how close they were because the distance was warped by the urn. Five metres? Less?

But they were definitely gaining on him quickly.

Joe spun round. So many things happened at once.

McGuire had appeared at the far end of the gangway. He was shouting something, but Joe didn’t register what it was. He was too busy with the Middle Eastern guys. The closest of them was three metres away, the other three a metre behind that. They were all carrying something. Two of them had bootlaces. One had the plastic tube of a ballpoint pen, its end sanded sharp. The leader had a broken bathroom tile, fashioned into a jagged blade. He was holding it like a dagger.

The whole room had fallen silent. There wasn’t a single inmate in the dining hall who didn’t have his eyes on the violence they knew was about to happen. But Joe’s focus wasn’t on the audience. It was on the enemy, two metres away.

He opened his mouth, pulled out the razor blade and spat a gobful of blood into the face of the fucker with the bathroom tile.

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