A buzz like an eight-hundred-pound hornet echoed down the tier and bounced off the sheet metal walls. A moment later every door down the hallway clicked and the metal gates slid open.
A voice shouted: “RECREATION. EVERYBODY OUT. SANCHEZ, JONES, GET YOUR ASSES TO THE DUTY DESK.”
Miguel sighed. Sometimes he was Miguel, sometimes even Magoo, but whenever he was Sanchez it wasn’t good news. He slid into his low-tops and shuffled up the hallway.
Sammy was waiting at the desk; Miguel knew it would be him. Gene was likely to tell you about his grandkids, and Fred just liked to bullshit, but Sammy was usually good for some blood. ...