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writing down the day’s workout in his notebook.
    … eight, nine, ten …
    Patrik came up. Talked to Mrado. Told him, “I’ll call you on Friday about the job. I think I’m in. That work?”
    “Thanks, Patrik. You’re in. We can talk more when you call.”
    … eleven, twelve. Pause. Rest a minute. But don’t let the muscles contract.
    Mrado walked over to the giant. Stood next to him. Stared. Arms crossed.
    The giant ignored him. Began the count over again.
    One, two, three … 
    Mrado picked up a sixty-five-pound dumbbell. Did two lifts in time with the giant. Heavy on freshly worked biceps.
    … four, five.
    Dropped the dumbbell on the giant’s foot.
    He screamed like a stuck pig. Dropped his dumbbells. Grabbed his foot. Jumped on one leg. Eyes teared up.
    Mrado thought, Poor, stupid oaf. You should’ve taken a step back and raised your guard instead.
    Mrado swung with full force at the guy’s other leg. Three hundred and thirty pounds hit the floor. Mrado over him. Unexpectedly quick. Careful to keep his back to the window. Pulled his gun. Smith & Wesson Sigma .38. It was small but, according to Mrado, functional: It could easily be worn under a blazer without being seen.
    People outside couldn’t see what was happening. To flash a live weapon—unusual for Mrado. Even more unusual at the gym.
    The barrel pushed into the giant’s mouth.
    Mrado released the safety. “Listen up, kiddo. My name is Mrado Slovovic. This is our club. Never so much as set foot here again. If you have any foot left, that is.”
    The giant as passé as a reality TV celeb three months after the fact. Realized he’d lost face.
    Maybe forever.
    Maybe he was done for.
    Mrado got up. Angled the gun down. Aimed at the giant. His back to the window. Important. The giant remained lying on the floor. Mrado stepped on his bad foot—265 pounds of Mrado on fresh-crushed toes.
    The giant whimpered. Didn’t dare wriggle away.
    Mrado took note: Was that a tear he saw in the corner of the guy’s eye?
    He said, “Time to limp home, Tiny Tim.”
    Curtain.

4
    Life dr
aaagged.
    When you’re locked up from eight every p.m. to seven every a.m., there’s a lot of time to think in your cell. One year, three months, and, now, sixteen days on the inside. Escapeproof, they said. Forget that.
    Jorge was walking on eggshells. Craved smokes. Slept like shit. Back and forth to the crapper. Drove the screws nuts. Had to unlock his cell every time.
    Slow nights brought serious thoughts. Memories.
    He thought about his sister, Paola. She was doing well in college. Had chosen a different kind of life.
Suedi-
style with security. He adored her. Prepared things to say to her when he was out, when he could see her for real. Not just stare at the photo he’d pinned up over his cot.
    He thought about his mother.
    He refused to think about Rodriguez.
    He thought about different plans. He thought about the Plan. Most of all: He was working out more than anyone else.
    Every day he ran twenty laps around the compound, along the inside of the walls. The total distance: five miles. Every other day: a session in the prison gym. Leg muscles were top priority. Front, back of thighs, and calves. He used the machines. Meticulously. Stretched like crazy after. People thought he’d lost it. The goal: 440 yards in less than fifty seconds, two miles in less than eleven minutes. Could work, now that he’d cut back on smokes.
    The area was well groomed. The grass well cut. The bushes low. No tall trees—the risk was too obvious. Gravel paths around the buildings. Good to train on. Big open lawns. Two soccer goals. A small basketball court. A couple of outdoor bench presses. Could’ve been a nice college campus. What sabotaged the collegiate snapshot: a twenty-three-foot wall.
    Running: Jorge’s thing. His build was sinewy, like a guerrilla soldier’s. Not yolked, no extra fat. Veins protruding on his forearms. A nurse in junior high once said he was every blood bank’s