Communicating with an inmate in federal prison is a complicated process.
No incoming calls are accepted. Phone calls can be made from inside out only and are made collect. Cell phones can’t accept collect calls, so they have to be routed to a land line.
Which means someone has to be there to receive the call. Which means setting up an agreed-upon time in advance.
The length of the call is limited to no more than fifteen minutes. When that’s up, the call will simply cut off with no warning. The inmate can’t call back again.
Keeping the communication private is even more complicated.
Guards listen in on all phone calls. They sit only a few feet away in the visitation area, watching like hawks. They monitor all incoming and outgoing letters and email, the latter of which is restricted and only allowed under special circumstances. Then examined, word for word.
So all in all, communicating with a federal prison inmate is a pain in the ass.
Unless that inmate has paid off everyone within the prison system to get special privileges.
And paid them well.
“You take care of it?”
The voice on the other end of the line is male, raspy, and heavily accented. Max has been a two-pack-a-day smoker for as long as I’ve known him, and it shows in both his voice and his face. His teeth aren’t so pretty, either.
“Yes.”
With that one word, I’ve told the most dangerous lie of my life. Max has had men killed for far less.
I should know. I’ve been the one who pulled the trigger.
He grunts. “Good. I don’t like loose ends. She know anything?”
“No. She knew nothing. She would’ve told me if she did.”
His chuckle is low and mirthless. “That’s why I sent you for the job. Everybody talks when you’re the one asking questions.”
It’s true. I’m the best in the business.
Usually, that kind of compliment would give me a certain sense of satisfaction, if not outright pride. Today, however, it makes me depressed.
I don’t have to wonder why. I know the reason.
That reason has raven-black hair and full red lips and eyes the color of a stormy sea, blue-gray and moody. That reason is sweet and funny and sharp and sexy. And honest. And brave.
And a hell of a lot tougher than she thinks.
From the first time I saw her, that reason kicked me right in the guts. Or made me feel like it, anyway.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making me feel something. It’s been a long time since someone did. I wasn’t sure I could anymore.”
Those ten seconds of conversation have affected me more than anything else in years. Decades. It’s burned into my brain. My ears. My heart.
I didn’t think I still had a heart, but I must. That hollow space in my chest I’ve had for so long is filled with wild beating.
Because of her.
“I’ll follow up on the other leads. Get back to you as soon as I have anything.”
“You do that. And Kage?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Ya rasschityvayu na vas.” I’m counting on you.
“Ya znayu.” I know.
Picturing Natalie’s face, I close my eyes.
If anyone ever finds out I didn’t do the job I was sent to do, we’re both dead.
