Page 1 of Above ’N’ Beyond

Chapter One

Five months. Two weeks. Three days.

Port Authority K-9 Sergeant Jamie Pataglio, aka Jimmy Santoro, aka inmate number 22A5140, had counted off every godforsaken day he’d been here—inside the walls of Sing Sing Correctional Facility.

Getting locked up had been easy. All it had taken was an anonymous call to the police that he’d been carrying a concealed, unlicensed handgun. If things went as planned today, he’d be walking out through the gates in two weeks.

If things went to shit, they’d be hauling him out in a body bag.

Jamie and the other prisoners waited for the guard to open the heavy iron gate that led to “the yard”—the outdoor recreation space where they were permitted to blow off steam for a couple precious hours each day.

After a loud buzz, followed by a clunk, the gate squealed in protest as it slid open. Jamie and his neighbors from Cell Block A squinted and shielded their eyes from the blaring sun. Early June in Ossining was already hotter than the muzzle of his service weapon after shooting off a thousand rounds.

Sing Sing, otherwise known as “the big house,” was what Batman had been referring to when he told the Penguin, the Joker, and all the other criminals he and Robin busted that they were going “up the river.”

Jamie followed the other prisoners outside. He drew in a breath of fresh air, enjoying it while he could and welcoming the day he no longer had to suck in the stench of the prison. The rank, stale air, thick with the smells of body odor, urine, and God knew what else, stuck to his skin like a layer of crud he could never wash off.

He walked farther down the line of tables studding the grass, then stopped to retie his sneaker. With his head bent down, he lifted his gaze, methodically searching the yard for his target. Tony Mancuso.

Mancuso was the sole reason he was here.

Jamie sat at one of the picnic tables. Casual and disinterested was the look he was going for. Inside, he was coiled tighter than a barbwire fence.

Rubber balls pounded on the handball court. Metal clanged from the iron pile—the weight area. Jamie had never understood the rationale behind allowing prisoners to bulk up and become strong enough to overpower the guards. Prison bureaucracy at its finest, and for the last six months, he’d taken full advantage of it. He’d never been fitter, leaner, and stronger in his entire life.

All because of what was about to go down. Here in this yard. Soon.

Sweat dampened his T-shirt and trickled down between his shoulder blades. Knowing his target liked to hold court every day as if he were the king of England, he kept searching. Sitting at another table a hundred feet away was a group of men. Tony Mancuso’s boys. Nicky “Nails” Bonnano, Paulie “Nuts” Aiello, and Sammy “Sneakers” DiCicco.

Jamie strummed his fingers on the table. What he’d agreed to was risky as hell. With his dad’s life hanging in the balance, he had no choice.

Another inmate strolled over and sat next to Jamie. “Aren’t you hot with that beard?” David asked. “They’re gonna make you trim it. Summer’s here. Why not shave it off?”

Jamie grunted, then ran a hand down his beard. “You’re probably right.” For about a nanosecond. To cover his ass, and in case the FBI screwed up, Jamie had grown his beard right up to the prison limit. One inch.

Before arriving at Sing Sing, he and Special Agent Jenkins had pored through the files on all the current inmates, searching for anyone who might know Jamie was a cop. Even after he was processed in, Jenkins continued that review of every prisoner sentenced to Sing Sing. If the FBI had done their job, the only person here who knew Jamie’s identity was the prison superintendent. Not even the other inmate, who was about to play a critical role in this crazy ass plan, knew Jamie was a cop.

David tipped his chin. “Here come da king.”

Tony Mancuso ambled from the far end of the yard and headed toward the table where Nicky Nails, Paulie Nuts, and Sammy Sneakers sat waiting.

David snorted. “Court’s about to begin.”

“Looks like.” So far, Jamie had only exchanged a few nods with Mancuso in passing. While he watched Mancuso, he ran down everything he knew about the man.

Tony Mancuso, Mafia capo and only living son of Paola Mancuso, current head of the Mancuso Crime Family. Six feet tall, brown eyes, brown hair, and two hundred pounds of muscle. And, like Jamie, due to be released in two weeks. Unlike him, Mancuso had been in prison for three years on loansharking and drug trafficking charges.

Another inmate leaned his shoulder against a nearby tree, his hands shoved into his pockets. He didn’t know the guy’s name but had caught glimpses of him around the cell block. To anyone else, the pose probably seemed relaxed, just another inmate enjoying his outdoor time in the yard.

Not to Jamie. His muscles tightened as he followed the direction of the inmate’s gaze—Mancuso.

This could be the guy.

To make it look good, he’d been kept in the dark about which inmate had been paid off to kickstart the next part of the FBI’s plan. Thanks to a discreet head nod from the prison superintendent this morning, Jamie knew it would be today.

When the inmate pushed from the tree, Jamie stiffened. With his hands still in the pockets of his jeans, the guy started walking in a direction that would cut Mancuso off before he made it to his throne at the other table.

“Think I’ll take a loop around the yard.” Jamie stood, hoping David would sit tight, which he did.