Cole: The Mangler: Book 1 (A Phoenix Club Serial thriller)

CHAPTER 1: Tastes Like Chicken

Each inmate was clothed in a padded canvas jumpsuit, wool beanie, gloves, and boots as they shuffled onto the prison transport bus. Steam plumed from their mouths and noses as their warm breath met the bitter morning air. Guard Byrne, an athletic man with thick, scruffy facial hair, led the procession, seating the inmates in pairs and cuffing them to the metal bar that ran along the back of the seat in front of them.

Byrne watched each one warily. These were dangerous monsters under normal circumstances, and even more so now. This bus would take them to the death chamber; they had nothing to lose. And that made them extremely dangerous and unpredictable. Guard Byrne knew monsters and he would not be the one to underestimate them.

Two more guards boarded the bus and took their seats behind the driver. Guard Byrne returned to the front and closed the metal grate door that separated the guards from the inmates. He sat on the short bench closest to the metal door. They had a long ride ahead of them and the bench wasn't at all comfortable, but Byrne hardly noticed. His focus settled on one inmate seated at the center of the bus by the window. The most dangerous monster on the bus? Definitely not. Byrne looked at the two guards across from him.

The most dangerous monster on the bus today... wasn't an inmate.

Guard Rylan, a short, stocky, obnoxious man in his mid-thirties, smacked the partition between him and the driver. "Giddy-up, hoss. Let's get this show on the road."

The bus rumbled to life and pulled forward with a stiff jerk that jolted everyone on board, then rolled through the prison gates. The rig's heavily treaded tires crunched through the newly fallen snow, leaving deep tire tracks in its wake. Winter landscape stretched away in all directions. In the distance, towering evergreens wilted beneath the weight of the snow bearing down on their boughs.

Guard Weston, a tall, lanky, unattractive fellow of thirty, cast a look at the passengers. "Poor bastards," he chuffed. "This is the last time they'll see the light of day, huh?"

Rylan snorted. "Ain't nothing poor about them. Those fuckers are getting what's coming to them."

Byrne casually sized up Guard Rylan. The man was a blowhard. Byrne had only known the man a couple of days and had already tired of his braggart ways. He strolled the catwalks with his nightstick, his sense of superiority wafting off him like a vile stench, degrading the monsters behind the bars. You're no better than them. Byrne didn't need the man to confess his sins, to know he had plenty of evil deeds tucked under his belt. It was in a man's eyes... his depravity and rotted soul. Byrne knew—it reflected to him from his own image.

"You got a problem, new guy?" Rylan drawled as Byrne casually studied him. "Let me guess..." He leaned forward, a dry sneer on his face. "... you think they're just poor, misguided souls."

Guard Byrne held his stare for a quiet moment, then replied in a low tone, "Not misguided."

Straightening, Rylan nodded. "Is what I'm saying." He sniffed, raking his finger over his nose, the chilled air making it run. He looked at his finger and wiped snot on his pant leg. "All these bleeding hearts screaming about the death penalty." He huffed. "Let 'em spend a night or two alone with these sadistic fuckers and see if they don't get on board. I tell you what, they'd be flipping the switch themselves."

A vague, dry smile twitched Byrne's mouth. "I agree."

Rylan glanced at the inmates, some of whom were rubbing their gloved hands together and showing discomfort from the cold. He snorted. "Don't worry, boys. Where you're going, there's gonna be plenty of heat. And you can count on ole Sparky to prepare you for it."

Rylan and Weston chuckled. Byrne just stared at them, a smile on his face that failed to reach his eyes.

"Better watch it, boys," Byrne murmured. "Karma's a vindictive bitch."