CHAPTER SEVEN
Drake Logan sucked on a menthol cigarette and let out a long, easy breath. He looked out over the nighttime desert from the porch of an isolated cabin a good five miles from the nearest paved road. It was quiet here. Peaceful. Nothing but the brilliant stars above and the occasional howl of a coyote.
The worst thing about prison was the constant noise. You never got a chance to be by yourself, never got a chance to be alone with your own genius.
Most guys in the pen were afraid of getting shanked or bent over. Drake had never worried about that. He could take care of himself. All he had to do was set a few examples and he could take a shower in peace. The few times someone came at him with a shiv, his followers always gave him plenty of warning, and he was armed and ready.
