Dangerous Faces Vol. 1: Saratoga: Dangerous Faces, #1

Dangerous Faces

Vol. 1: Saratoga

by

Joseph Jammer Medina

All's not quiet on the western front…

A massive breakout at Rawlins Prison kills most of its personnel. As 72 prisoners escape, the United Territories begins the greatest manhunt of all time. Two of those prisoners are Dan Q and Cole Jackson.

Linked by a pair of shackles, Dan and Cole search for their contacts and a chance at freedom in Saratoga. But in this town, aptly nicknamed The Den of Bounty Hunters, the fugitives have little chance at a second escape. As a gang of corrupt bounty hunters chases them down, with the U.T. marshals not far behind, will Dan and Cole make it out alive?

Dangerous Faces Vol. 1: Saratoga is the first installment in a six-part western epic centered around a prison escape, a manhunt, and a scramble for the most dangerous weapon in U.T. history.

Copyright © 2015 Joseph Jammer Medina

Dangerous Faces: Vol. 1: Saratoga

By Joseph Jammer Medina

Second Edition

License Notes

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this

publication may be reproduced, distributed,

or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of Joseph Jammer Medina.

Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

All characters, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real places,

events, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Second Edition, E-book

Published 2015 by Joseph Jammer Medina

Editor: Margie Aston. Check her out at http://margieaston.com/

Cover Design: Pulp ART. Check them out at http://pulp-art.squarespace.com/

About the Author Photo: Kiersten Eberle. Check her out at http://kmichelephoto.com

Formatting: Joseph Jammer Medina

All rights reserved.

To my parents and sister, who have always been there to support me.

And for Kiersten, who puts up with me. Seriously, I think she has a problem.

CHAPTER ONE

Rawlins Prison

The two thin crescent moons hung high on either side of Rawlins Federal Prison, where the lowest of the low took up involuntary residence. The dim, pulsating lamplights bled through the barred slits along the outer brick walls—the only semblance of human life in the otherwise black void of night.

Within the confines of the brick and mortar prison, silence and lifelessness only pervaded the atmosphere even further. One would have thought they’d arrived among the dead were it not for incessant droning of Cooper’s snores.

The overweight, middle-aged guard had his arms crossed in front of him, his head leaned back, and his mouth wide open in what was a sure sign he had grown too complacent in a room full of criminals. He had it easy compared to most guards, though. In his wing—the smallest and most remote wing of the prison—he only had to deal with the thieves and rapists. The more murderous folk were kept deeper within its confines—folks who’d cheated hangmen all around the United Territories. It was only through the good graces of what the politicians called human decency that these men still breathed behind lock and key.

A prison. What a novel concept that had been for the United Territories—a country where justice was usually dealt swiftly by a town’s sheriff. It had been enough to ignite a civil war that nearly ripped the country apart, and its conclusion resulted in the opening of Rawlins Prison.

The first of its kind.

Bzzt!

Cooper’s mouth snapped shut and he was on his feet in an instant, wiping the line of drool caked to the side of his face. He blinked hard twice as he stared down the empty hallway, clearing his vision from the deep sleep he’d been awakened from. His calloused and crusty fingers rubbed up against his leather holster, ready to free his six shooter from its cradle at a moment’s notice.

Bzzt! Bzzt!

What in the shit is that? an irritated voice cried out from down the long corridor of prison cells. A pair of meaty hands grasped onto the bars from within one of the cells near the end.

Back to sleep, Garreth! Cooper said.

Fuck off. I never get to see shit in here, the prisoner yelled back.

I ain’t gonna tell you again, Cooper said.

Well shit fire to you then. If I’m gonna—

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! An ear-piercing voice rang out, sounding like a man getting ripped limb from limb.

Whatever you say, boss. Garreth’s arms retreated back into his cell.

Cooper felt his legs grow weak with fear. He was used to dealing with crooked fuckers in the cells, but he knew what to expect from them. Whatever was making the man scream like that was…

He slid his pistol from the holster, raising it with both hands, and taking slow, deliberate steps down the row of prison cells.

Clink!

Clink! Clink!

Clink! Clink! Clink! The sounds grew more relentless as Cooper inched closer to the corner. Eyes paved the sides of the hallway, and Cooper felt the gaze of every prisoner as he made his way down. Whatever the hell was happening, they wanted to know, too.

The clinking stopped by the time Cooper reached the end of the corridor. He turned the corner to find the hallway empty.

What is it? One of the prisoners called out.

Nothin’, Cooper said, placing the gun back in its holster. As he did, a sharp and bitter scent wafted into his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose and squinted his dumb eyes.

The hell’s that smell? one of the prisoners said.

I know what that is, another responded. That’s burned rock, that is.

Shut it, Cooper said, trying to listen for any further indication of movement.

Look at that! Garreth’s finger pointed to a red glowing string stretching from the ceiling to the floor right outside his cell. A wisp of black smoke floated from where the string touched the floor.

I’ll be damned… Cooper said, mesmerized by its glow.  Garreth’s hand inched toward the string. Don’t touch it, jackass! You don’t know what it is.

It’s string.

It ain’t string.

I think it’s string! the bucktoothed prisoner across from Garreth called out.

No one ain’t asked you, Bucky.

I think it’s string, too, the long-haired man down the hall said.

You can’t even see it from there, Hank! Cooper said. And when did this turn into a goddamn democracy? All y’all shut the hell up while I figure this out!

Aaaah! Garreth screamed, recoiling back into his cell. It cut my finger! He said through clenched teeth. He held up his pointer finger. It was split right down the middle from tip of the finger to the second knuckle, the bone splayed out in opposite directions

I told you not to touch nothin’, you whiny sack of cow shit, Cooper said. Now nobody touch the damn glowy string! I feel like I shouldn’t even have to say that!

Bzzt! The red string bolted from Garreth’s cell over to Cooper, leaving a mark along the floor.

Cooper looked closely and saw it wasn’t just a mark, but a deep cut etched through the floor. A cut so deep he could see through it into the cells below. He looked up at the ceiling to find a similar trail etched into the brick above.

The red string made a high-pitched sound as it darted into a nearby cell, cutting a thin line clean through the bars. The prisoner inside let out a squeal as the string sliced through his body in a second. A pool of blood splashed outward into the corridor.

Panic erupted in the cells as the prisoners pulled on their barred doors, begging to be let out. The string picked up its pace, swinging from one cell to the next in the blink of an eye and without discretion.

CHAPTER TWO

Mustachio Banderas

It had been a long time since Mustachio Banderas had found himself under such shitty circumstances.

Only an hour ago, he and his gang had popped into the Twin Peaks Inn, hoping for a hot meal and a shot of whiskey.

That shot of whiskey turned into ten, and now he found himself backed into a corner. The night was cold, but that didn’t stop the pools of sweat from forming beneath his quivering ’stache.

What do you think you’re doing? Mustachio said.

A chorus of gunshots went off, and Joaquin and Nevada hit the floor of the Twin Peaks Saloon. An involuntary exhale left Mustachio’s body as he saw his comrades slain in front of him. The scare was enough to make him keep his mouth shut for once in his life.

So what was that you were saying? said Tim Wrinkler, whom Mustachio saw as the ringleader of the group. The man had a thin mustache, barely shading the top of his lip—almost as if he weren’t even proud of the damn thing (which Mustachio didn’t understand in the least. In his eyes, the size of a man’s pecker directly correlated with the grandiosity of his ’stache). Tim’s eyes were small and squinty, as if he spent too much time looking too closely at something until they got stuck that way. Something about me not knowing who I’m dealing with, or some other typical outlaw bullshit? Tim pulled out a sheet of paper from the inside of his coat. Pictured on it: MUSTACHIO BANDERAS, WANTED ALIVE.

You see, since you walked through those doors, I’ve known exactly who it was I was dealing with, Tim smiled. You’d think someone like you would at least have the common sense to shave that damn mustache of yours.

Never.

Mustachio responded as though Tim had just offered to violate his own mother in front of him. He looked around the saloon. Guns were pointed at him from almost every angle. How was he going to get out of this one? He looked over to the bar, where the bartender stood, wiping a mug with his eyes closed. Mustachio could almost make out an expression of resentment in his face, as though the man was doing his best to stay silent.

A million different scenarios ran through his head, and every single one ended in him either getting captured or shot. But if these men were really bounty hunters, they wouldn’t want to kill him. That’d reduce their earnings by seventy percent, per the newly enacted law (and thank the gods for that law, Mustachio thought). He looked toward the door. Only one man stood between him and the exit. If he was lucky, he could bank on them wanting to collect a full bounty.

Then again, if these guys made it a habit of collecting high bounties, it might mean nothing to them if they kill him and collect a small bounty. They could always just make up for it when the next big head come strolling through town. His chances were fifty-fifty.

Click! One of the bounty hunters cocked back the hammer on his gun. That man, Mustachio thought, has the biggest set of nostrils I have ever seen.

Don’t kill him, Quincy, said Tom, holding his hand up to his wide-nostrilled colleague. We want him alive.

Mustachio smiled. Perfect. A small one-shot pistol popped down from his sleeve into his hand. In one swift motion, he shot the man blocking the exit and leapt through the double doors, rolling onto the porch outside. He quickly sprang up, jumped onto the back of his horse, and took off down the dusty road.

As Mustachio turned the corner, he looked behind him to see if anyone was on his tail. No one.

"Shoot the damn horse out from under him if