Inside Sing Sing, nothing changed.
Officially.
The warden denied any unusual activity.
Roll call proceeded as normal, minus seven men marked “unaccounted for.”
The remaining guards said nothing.
Because they understood something now that they hadn’t before:
Bumpy Johnson’s reach did not stop at prison walls.
It barely even noticed them.
At 4:11 a.m., deep in an abandoned warehouse somewhere along the Brooklyn waterfront, all seven officers regained consciousness.
Not at the same time.
Not in the same place.
Each of them was alone.
Tied to a chair.
Hands bound.
Mouths dry.
The air smelled of salt, oil, and something metallic.
Blood, maybe.
Or fear.
A single light hung above each man.
And in front of each man… a table.
On the table:
A glass of water.
A clean towel.
And a small envelope.
Inside the envelope was a photograph.
Every single one of them had the same image.
Bumpy Johnson.
But not from the newspapers.
Not from a mugshot.
This was something else.
A candid moment.
Him laughing.
Alive.
Untouched.
Then came the voice.
Not loud.
Not angry.
Calm.
Measured.
From a speaker somewhere in the darkness.
“You had a man,” the voice said, “who followed your rules.”
Silence.
Continued on next page