Nick suspected Clyde was targeting the entire New York judicial system, but no matter how hard he racked his brain, he couldn't figure out how Clyde—already convicted and locked up—could pose a threat to such a massive institution.
Since their first encounter, Clyde had either pretended to be terrified and helpless to deceive Nick or displayed a calm, calculated demeanor, as if everything was under his control.
This thought left Nick distracted all morning, his mind racing with guesses about Clyde's next move.
At 12:30 PM, a delivery from Field's Restaurant arrived on time with Clyde's requested meal. However, his remarks in court the day before had left the entire New York judiciary feeling humiliated.
The warden at Bilton Prison, where Clyde was being held, was especially irate. Though the food had already gone through a security check, the warden ordered it to be inspected again, ensuring it was stone cold before reaching Clyde.
"Let it go, guys. The agreed time is 1:00 PM," Nick reminded them. Frustrated after spending the whole morning puzzling over Clyde's intentions, he added, "That bastard probably has some reason for insisting on one o'clock."
The warden, his face dark with anger, snapped, "Prisoners don't get to dictate time. I'm in charge here. I don't care about 1:00 or whatever he says. That bastard's in my custody, and there's no way he's getting a hot meal on my watch."
Turning to his staff, he barked, "Check it thoroughly again! We can't risk any trouble from higher-ups."
Nick tried reasoning, "Think about it, everyone. If 1:00 PM is tied to Bill Reynolds' life, who's taking responsibility if something happens? Look, Clyde's not getting out of here alive. We'll have plenty of time to make him suffer later."
"To hell with later," one officer grumbled. "I want him to suffer now. My bonus this month is already down the drain thanks to that bastard."
Hearing this, the warden sympathized and ordered yet another round of inspections.
What should have taken ten minutes dragged on until 1:05 PM. Only then did they push the food cart to Clyde's cell.
Two burly guards entered the cell and cuffed Clyde and his cellmate to the iron bedposts. Once the area was secured, the food, served with harmless prison-issued utensils, was placed in front of Clyde.
Clyde casually pinched a fry with his fingers, tasting it with a grin, which made the group standing outside the cell—including the warden, law enforcement officers, and guards—visibly upset.
Nick, seeing his colleagues' reluctance, stepped into the cell, standing before Clyde with visible frustration. "Aren't you going to say something?"
"Oh," Clyde replied nonchalantly after finishing the fry, as though noticing Nick for the first time. "Napkin and utensils, Nick."
Before Nick could respond, the warden pulled a plastic fork from his pocket. "Regulations say he can only use this."
Clyde took the plastic fork from Nick without protest and began eating with enthusiasm.
Growing impatient, Nick pressed, "I gave you what you wanted. Now, tell me where Bill Reynolds is."
"OK, OK. What time is it?"
"One o'clock sharp," the warden answered immediately.
"You sure, Nick?" Clyde asked, looking skeptically at him.
Nick checked his watch, his expression grim. "It's 1:08."
"Ha!" Clyde chuckled, glancing at the warden. "1:08? You might want to get your eyes checked, Warden."
The comment fueled the warden's simmering hatred, and he silently vowed to find a way to deal with Clyde.
Seeing Clyde's composed demeanor, Nick suddenly felt his earlier suspicions were correct. Slamming his palm on the table, he demanded, "Where is Bill Reynolds, Clyde?"
"Relax, Nick," Clyde said with a smirk, spearing another fry with his fork. After a deliberate pause, he added, "Listen carefully. I'll only say this once, so don't blame me if you forget."
Nick, prepared, pulled out his phone and hit record. "Hurry up. Tell me the address."
Laughing, Clyde glanced at the phone and said, "I like you, Nick. North latitude XX, east longitude XX. If I were you, I'd hurry." Turning to the warden, he added mockingly, "Bill Reynolds doesn't have much time left. If he dies, it's on you, Warden."
"Dammit," Nick muttered as panic swept through the group. Realizing they had been outplayed, they scrambled to respond.
"If Reynolds dies because we delayed, we'll all pay for it," Nick shouted, urging everyone into action. "Get the helicopter ready!"
Rushing out of the prison, Nick and two officers boarded the helicopter, arriving at the coordinates fifteen minutes later. Tragically, they were too late. Bill Reynolds, locked in a box and buried underground, had already suffocated to death.
"He's dead," Nick muttered in despair. "Dammit, he's dead."
He turned on the officers who had delayed the food delivery, yelling, "If it weren't for those ten wasted minutes, he'd still be alive. Are you happy now?!"
"I don't care about that!" one officer retorted angrily. "If Clyde wants to play games, we'll play. We're not his puppets."
But it was too late for excuses. Staring at Reynolds' lifeless body, Nick felt a wave of hopelessness. "How am I supposed to tell his wife? What do I say to her?"
The officer, struck speechless by guilt, retreated in silence.
Moments later, Nick received a call that sent chills down his spine. It was his superior, Bruce Mack, informing him that Clyde had strangled his cellmate to death. The justification? The man had been a scumbag who had assaulted multiple women.
"Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT!" Nick cursed furiously after hanging up. He knew Clyde's reason wasn't justice—it was retribution for their delay.
One careless decision had led to two deaths. Nick felt crushed by guilt, blaming himself for not sticking to the agreed time.
Dragging his exhausted body back to the prison, he learned that the furious warden had thrown Clyde into the prison's dark, damp solitary confinement cell.
This, of course, was exactly what Clyde wanted. The rarely used solitary cells gave him a perfect opportunity to dig tunnels, connecting the chambers and creating a hidden escape route.
Standing in the solitary cell, Nick stared at Clyde lying on the bed. "Bill Reynolds is dead."
------------------
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Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 542)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 924)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1284)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1289)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1316)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1402)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld! (Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
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