The Canary in Cell Nine
June 2, 2025
When the cell door slammed shut behind Marcus “Skiv” Dalton, the clink echoed like a warning. Greenridge Correctional Facility was quiet that night, but not silent. There was always a low hum of something—grief, rage, or anticipation. Inmates felt it like a storm behind steel.
Marcus wasn’t new to the inside. Two stints for burglary and assault. This time, though, he wasn’t here for a crime. He was here for a job.
“You got five days,” Warden Ellis had said in her office, handing him the file. “Find out who’s behind the hits on our federal informants. Someone’s killing canaries in their cages.”
He was in as an undercover snitch. One mistake, and he’d be the next corpse with a toothbrush shiv in his ribs.
Cell Nine was his new home. It came with a bunkmate.
“Name’s Jerry,” the man grunted without turning. Late 50s, gray hair in patches, reading a water-stained Bible. “I don’t talk. Don’t ask.”
“Good,” Marcus replied. “I don’t listen.”
He dropped his duffel, lay back, and kept one eye open. First rule in Greenridge: everyone’s watching someone.
By Day Two, Marcus had a lead. Word in the yard was that three informants had died in the last two months. Each one transferred to Block D. Each one dead within a week.
Marcus wasn’t stupid. If he acted like he was looking for anything, he’d be gone by lights out. So he played it cool. He watched. He waited. And he listened.
It was during laundry duty that he heard it.
“Heard Canary Three got the same package,” said a thin inmate with wire-frame glasses, folding sheets with robotic precision.
“What package?” Marcus asked.
The man blinked. “You new here?”
“Transferred in. Solano County.”
“Then here’s a tip. If someone hands you a mint green envelope—flush it. Fast.”
That night, Marcus found one on his pillow.
Inside: a single word written in shaky ink.
“CHOIR.”
Day Three. Marcus got careless.
“Hey,” he whispered to Jerry as lights dimmed, “you ever hear of something called the Choir?”
Jerry didn’t respond.
Ten minutes passed.
Then, just as Marcus was drifting off, Jerry said softly, “They come when the singing stops.”
Marcus turned to face him. “What the hell does that mean?”
But Jerry was already snoring.
Day Four. Marcus made his move.
He cornered Calvin “Spools” Romero in the cafeteria—an ex-hacker turned fixer. If anyone knew about secret operations in Greenridge, it was him.
“Spools,” Marcus said, sitting across from him, “I need a name. Someone’s offing informants. I know about the Choir.”
Spools dropped his plastic spoon.
“Say that word again and you’ll disappear,” he whispered.
“Already got the envelope.”
That gave Spools pause. He looked around.
“Cell Block D. South Hall. Third vent from the left in the kitchen. Midnight. You didn’t hear it from me.”
Marcus made his way to the kitchen after lights out. The guard rotation was light, and he had clearance from Ellis for access. He crouched beside the vent and waited.
At 12:02, he heard it.
Voices. Male. Confident.
“They moved him to Nine. He got the note.”
A second voice: “Ellis is pushing. We take him tonight.”
Then: “We’ll sing him out.”
The voices faded.
Marcus stood, heart pounding.
He’d heard the legend. The “Choir” wasn’t a gang—it was a hit squad. Trained. Protected. Used by certain staff to silence those deemed too dangerous to let talk.
And now, he was on their list.
Day Five. Marcus went to Ellis.
“They know. Tonight’s the hit.”
The warden raised a brow. “Then catch them red-handed.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not bait. That wasn’t the deal.”
“You want out? Fine. But I’ll find someone who won’t flinch.”
He stared at her for a moment, then nodded. “Fine. But I want control over the room.”
That night, Marcus left the cell door open. Jerry was gone—moved, or worse. A camera had been installed behind a vent cover. Hidden mic in the lightbulb. Backup team waiting outside.
He lay on the lower bunk, pretending to sleep.
At 2:11 AM, he heard the footsteps.
Three figures entered—black masks, rubber gloves, short batons.
“Dalton,” one whispered. “Time to sing.”
He stayed still.
“Move,” another barked, raising a baton.
Marcus rolled and kicked the nearest one in the knee. As the figure stumbled, Marcus shouted, “Now!”
Lights flooded the cell. Sirens wailed. Guards stormed in, guns raised.
Three men were arrested.
Two were guards.
One was Assistant Warden Graves.
The fallout took days.
Ellis kept her word. Marcus was extracted, scrubbed from records, relocated under a new name.
Three federal agents took over Greenridge. Thirty investigations were launched.
As for the Choir?
It never sang again.