Later that night at Riker’s Island, after countless hours of negotiations, Carl Randall was escorted to the far-left wing of the prison, a special section where convicted cops were kept. Bright lights surrounded the corridor, shining off the white walls and long steel bars. A bolted door guarded the wing, mechanically controlled by the nearby security station. Walking back to his cell, Randall passed a parade of flying spit and idol threats that came from his former officers who felt betrayed. He was a broken man. Even if granted freedom, he will never live free again. Breaking the law was bad enough, but he crossed the line by partnering with John’s underground network. He saw the fortune without looking at the price he had to pay to get it. The consequences of his groundbreaking confession sealed his fate. By this time tomorrow, all of New York City will that his claim of evidence against John Hart was a sham. Dwelling in his lonely cell, suffocated by constant banter, Randall feared that Hart would respond within the next few hours. Minutes. Seconds. Either way, the show was over.
Suddenly, the lights shut off. Murkiness swallowed the entire wing. Like frightened children in the dark, the imprisoned cops yelled for the guards to turn the lights back on. Everyone panicked except for Randall, who got the message loud and clear. This was the response.
A flash of light burst at the end of the hall, swaying back-and-forth and traveling along the walls. Obscenities erupted into raging threats as the officers rattled on their prison bars, unable to get out.
“SCREEEEEEEEECH!!!!!” The sound of a machete scraping along the
steel brought the wing to thunderous silence.
Light laggardly moved along the curves of a muscular female, dressed in a prison guard uniform. Her pasty face radiated in the dark like a glow stick. The cops shrieked at the sight of pure evil. Cat Strutter had arrived! One officer distressingly yelled, “SOMEBODY CALL THE POLICE!!!!”
In unison, the cell doors swung open. Cops instantly groveled on their knees, pleading for their lives to be spared. Randall walked from out the crowd and stared at Cat’s evil presence with tearful eyes. He willingly dropped to
his knees, ready to accept his bloody fate. The blonde menace stood over him, dangling her deadly machete above his head. He closed his eyes and gulped one last time. Then his blood splashed against the walls after his head got separated from his body with one slice.
Like a hungry wolf, Cat attacked the rest of the cops, butchering them like cows in a slaughterhouse. Echoing howls were muffled under the sounds of flesh being sliced open like cold cuts and fluids splashing all around the corridor.
After several gruesome minutes of inhumane butchery, the screams faded to gasps, until nothing sounded at all.
Seconds later, rows of light flickered down the corridor, shining brightly once again. But strangely, the wing door remained locked. It never opened. Burgundy spatters stained the white walls. Mutilated officers floated in a thick pool of blood that ran across the glossy floor. Randall and the 14th precinct
were no longer an issue. Cat Strutter had vanished. And John Hart’s hands were totally clean.