Free Noble Warrior by Alan Lawrence Sitomer

its bleak stack. A place so primitive, M.D. thought, they still burned their trash.
    “You may not like me, may think I’m a fuck, but from day one I have told you the truth,” Puwolsky said. “Your father is inside. That is the truth. The High Priest is
inside. That is the truth. Your father sold you out to the High Priest and if you don’t go inside and take his life he’s going to kevork up your girl. Detroit can’t stop that.
Only you can. That is the truth.”
    Puwolsky pulled up to the guard manning the second gate.
    “Name’s Puwolsky, I’m on the list.” The colonel had to practically shout to be heard through the downpour. “Notify Krewls I’ll meet him in back by
delivery.”
    The guard checked his clipboard, found Puwolsky’s name, and waved the vehicle through. “Make a left at the fork,” the guard shouted as rain crashed down on his slicker.
Puwolsky rolled forward again and M.D. watched as the gate closed behind him.
    “What’s that mean, they’re gonna kevork her?” McCutcheon asked.
    “You know, kevork. Jack Kevorkian, that Doctor Death physician-assisted suicide guy,” Puwolsky said. “Some of his muscle will grab her and make the murder look like a suicide.
Probably tie it to her love for you to make it seem all the more legit.”
    M.D. swallowed hard, feeling as if he might puke.
    “Don’t be so shocked. This is D-town, post bankruptcy, and there’s a war going on for the soul of the city,” Puwolsky said. “The High Priest, his kind of
ruthlessness is unprecedented. That’s why he needs to be stopped. That’s what I’m doing here. That’s what you’re doing here. It’s black and white.”
    M.D. looked to his right. Cement, brick, iron, and steel. Not a blade of grass, not a tree, not even a rebellious weed.
    “Look, kid, I knew you didn’t know any of this stuff, and I ain’t gonna hold it against you if you say no to me and want to turn around right now. You say the word and
we’re gone, because the truth is, if you go in there, I can’t protect you. All I can do is yank you out once you say you’ve had enough,” Puwolsky told him. “But your
first chance to pull that plug won’t come for at least three days. That’s seventy-two hours from now. In one way it’s forever and in another, it’s not that long at
all.”
    “Why three days?”
    Puwolsky reached under his seat and pulled out a file. On the front cover a seal read STATE OF MICHIGAN , DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS .
    “Because Lester Rawlins, who is doing forty-five years to life for two counts of murder one, needs to be processed. Jentles doesn’t own the most efficient prisoner intake system in
the world. It’ll take you a little bit to get things settled.”
    M.D. opened the contents of the file and saw a picture of himself next to his new name.
    Rawlins, Lester Alfred
    Prisoner ID# 8765KT76Z
    Eligible for Parole: July 2063
    Though the documents were forged, they looked real to McCutcheon. As real as it gets.
    “You have my word that if on Thursday you want out, I’ll pull you. Remember, I’m the guy who tells the truth.”
    The Cadillac made its way around the side of the prison and drove past a kennel of black hounds living under a thin, silver roof behind a chain link fence. At the sight of the vehicle, the dogs
started barking, raging like feral beasts. If not for the metal fence keeping them quarantined, M.D. was sure, these huge animals would have attacked the car, biting bumpers and trying to break
through windshields. These weren’t puppies, these were people chewers; and as soon as M.D. caught sight of the dogs he felt sure that more than a few unfortunate prisoners had been on the
wrong end of their teeth and claws.
    The car came to a stop at the loading dock in the back and one thing immediately seemed clear to McCutcheon: Jentles State Penitentiary was a place where what happened inside remained
inside.
    “So what’s it gonna be?” Puwolsky asked. “Are you going to