Unlawful Contact (4 page)

Sophie had tried to reconcile Megan’s blindly heroic image of her brother to the cold reality of the arrest report CBI had e-mailed to her. Six years ago the man who cared so much about his drug-addicted sister and her baby had taken a high-caliber handgun and shot a fellow DEA agent, at point-blank range. Not just once, but three times. He’d put John Cross, a husband and father of four, in his grave in order to cover up his own drug dealing. Investigators had found two kilos of cocaine spread out between his house and car and had concluded that he’d killed the other agent to silence him. It was a violent act, heartless and brutal.

How did he square those two parts of himself in his own mind?

“God only knows why people do the things they do,” she said aloud, echoing Tessa’s words of a few days ago.

She exited I-25 and wound her way to US-50, arriving ten minutes early at the Colorado State Penitentiary—a hulking zigzag building of red brick surrounded by high fences, razor wire, and guard towers. She parked in the visitors’ lot in a space reserved for the press, then refreshed her lipstick and checked her hair in the vanity mirror. Not that her appearance really mattered. She wasn’t going to meet Mr. Right in this place.

She sorted through her purse, transferring everything into her briefcase except for her digital recorder, her press card, and a couple bucks in change for the vending machine in case there were delays and she got thirsty. Having covered the prison beat for four years, she knew she’d speed things up and make it easier on herself and the guards if she took with her only the things she needed for her interview. It cut down on the time the guards had to spend searching her and prevented her from having to rent a locker.

DOC regulations for visitors were very stringent, an attempt to preempt human ingenuity when it came to smuggling contraband and perpetrating violence. Postage stamps could carry LSD. Pens and pencils could be used as weapons. Cell phones could be used to communicate with criminals outside prison walls. And almost anything—cigarettes, weapons, drugs—could be hidden inside the human body. Once inside the walls, something as simple as a cigarette butt could be used to control, to manipulate, to dominate.

Sophie locked up her car, dropped her keys in her purse, then picked her way through the icy parking lot. She knew it was stupid to wear heels in the snow, but big snow boots just didn’t look professional. Then again neither did lying sprawled on her butt in the snow. But once she got inside it wouldn’t matter what was on her feet.

On the other side of the fence, a group of inmates in four-piece shackles and orange uniforms was being herded out of a van. She barely noticed the way their heads turned as she passed or the chorus of catcalls that followed her. It happened every time she came here.

She stepped through the entrance and walked toward the front desk. A mother with two young children sat in the lobby, probably waiting to visit her husband. A young woman with tattoos on her arm sulked in the corner. A man in a suit—probably a lawyer—chattered in legalese on his cell phone.

“Hey, Ms. Sophie.” Officer Green smiled and handed her a clipboard. “Whose sob story have you come to hear today?”

Like most COs, Officer Green was open about his low opinion of inmates.

“Some guy named Marc Hunter.” Sophie took the clipboard, filled out the Consent to Search form, and handed it back with her press card.

Officer Green gave a snort. “Mr. Badass himself. Your readers will love him.”

Her curiosity piqued, Sophie couldn’t help but ask. “Is he trouble?”

Officer Green handed her press card back and gave her the sort of knowing look that promised inside secrets. “Depends on how you define
trouble
. He keeps his nose clean, follows the rules—till someone tries to fuck with him. His first week here, he put five guys in the infirmary.”

It was on the tip of Sophie’s tongue to ask what the five guys had done, but she knew Officer Green would talk for hours if given half a chance. She put her press card back in her purse. “Thanks.”

She crossed the room, passed through the metal detectors, then watched while Officer Russell searched her purse. A big, beefy man with a crew cut, he was a teddy bear.

“Here you go, Ms. Alton.” He handed her purse back, then reached for the ink pad.

Sophie held out her hand, watched as he stamped the back of it with an ultraviolet marker. Visible under a black light, it would have to be verified before she could leave. It seemed like a silly thing to do, given that this was a men’s prison and she was demonstrably not male. But rules were rules.

“Be sure not to wash that off.” Officer Russell chuckled.

“Thanks for the reminder.” Sophie laughed at his joke—the same joke he always made when she came through—then headed down the labyrinthine hallway.

She knew many of the officers who worked the entrance by name, and most were friendly to her, even if they sometimes disagreed with the tone of her articles. Every once in awhile one of them called her with a news tip, making them valuable to her as potential sources, as well.

Around the corner, Officer Hinkley and Officer Kramer staffed a thick steel gate that marked the entrance to the visitation area.

“So the bastards had him in the shower and went after him with a broom handle. It took the ER doc an hour and a half to stitch up—” Officer Hinkley saw her and broke off. He straightened up, grinned. “Hey, it’s Lois Lane.”

“Hi, guys. How’s it going?” Sophie flashed them a smile, pretended she hadn’t heard, making a mental note to check the incident reports on the way out.

They buzzed her through, and a minute later she was seated in the assigned visiting room. She glanced at her watch, realized she was a few minutes early. Rarely did guards bring the inmates on time. There were so many variables. More than once she’d arrived only to find her interview canceled because of some unforeseen event—fighting on a cellblock, shakedowns, inmate transfers. She sat back in her chair and settled in for the wait.

“L
ET’S GO
, H
UNTER.”
Cormack stepped back from the open cell door, his voice gruff to disguise any hint of favoritism. “Move your ass!”

Marc held out his wrists, relieved to see Cormack was putting him in standard-issue police cuffs instead of a four-piece. Marc had pleaded male pride, telling Cormack that the idea of being seen by a pretty woman while wearing full restraints was humiliating.

“I haven’t been near a chick in six years, man,” he’d said. “I don’t want to shuffle in there like some fucking loser.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but you’re classified red, you know. They can’t do nothing to you they ain’t already done, but
me
they can fire.” Cormack had pointed a thumb at his own chest. “You hurt that lady, and it’s
my
ass that’ll be on the line. I got kids to feed.”

It was too bad about the kids, but Marc had people depending on him, too.

He’d allowed himself to look insulted. “I’d never hurt a woman. Besides, why would I do anything to her? I need her help finding Megan.”

Obviously, Cormack had believed him.

Cold steel touched Marc’s skin, the handcuffs closing with a series of metallic clicks. Then, sandwiched between Cormack and another guard, he walked down the long hallway and through the first checkpoint, ignoring the shouted warnings, obscenities, and threats that followed him.

“You think you the big bitch, don’t you, Hunter?”

“Better watch your back, Hunter! I’m gonna kill you before I kill my number!”

“Check it out! Hunter’s going to lay some pipe. Is she pretty?”

Marc felt his pulse pick up as they left the maximum-security wing. He tried to tell himself it was just the thought of what he was about to attempt that had his adrenaline going, but he knew there was more to it than that. It was also the thought of seeing Sophie again.

What would she think when she saw him? What would she think of the man he was now? Truth be told, he didn’t want to know.

It had been twelve years since that night at the Monument, twelve years since they’d sipped sodas and shared their dreams, twelve years since she’d made what had probably been the biggest mistake of her young life and given him her virginity. He’d always wondered how she felt about it afterward, whether she’d had regrets. He certainly hadn’t. Memories of that night had helped him get through boot camp, sustained him through the freezing cold of Afghanistan, and brought him back to Colorado when his term of enlistment was over.

No, he hadn’t forgotten her.

I’m the kid who always gets in trouble, remember?

Not with me you’re not.

That night had changed his life—for a while. He’d gone into the army with a different sense of himself, had pushed his way up through the ranks, becoming a Special Forces sniper and earning the rank of sergeant first class before giving up the green. He’d parlayed that experience into a post with the DEA, hoping to put away the kind of scum who’d sold drugs to his mother and sister. Some part of him believed he’d overcome his past, that he’d become a man worthy of a woman like Sophie. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered. He’d ended up exactly where everyone had known he would.

Why not shoot for the stars?

Marc had shot—and missed.

Tension drew to a knot in his gut as Cormack led him through the last checkpoint and into the visitor’s area. He was lower than a snake’s ass for even thinking of putting Sophie through this. But she was his only ticket out of this place, and Megan and Emily needed him. Hopefully, the fact that Sophie knew him would give her some measure of trust and keep her from becoming too afraid—or putting up a fight. Then again, if she reacted too strongly to seeing him or was friendly, the guards would get suspicious.

And then he’d be fucked.

“You taking it from here, Kramer?” Cormack motioned Marc through the next gate and stepped aside.

“Yep.” Kramer adjusted his leather belt with its Glock 21.45 caliber and looked at Marc with obvious disgust. “Why anyone wants to talk to this piece of shit is beyond me.”

Some of the tension inside Marc settled. He liked Cormack and hadn’t been looking forward to roughing him up. But he had no qualms about kicking Kramer to hell and back. In fact, he’d probably enjoy it. Kramer was a cold bastard who got off on breaking inmates’ balls.

“Over here, Hunter.” Kramer led him toward one of the visitation rooms. “You got thirty minutes. And just in case you got ideas about putting your hands on that sexy bit of gash, just remember I’ll be standing right behind you.”

Bit of gash?

Yes, Marc was going to enjoy this. He met Kramer’s gaze and smiled, the edges of the little shim he held in his mouth sharp against the inside of his cheek.

I’m counting on it, asshole.

Then through the Plexiglas window, he saw her.

He quit breathing. His step faltered. His mind went blank. He didn’t notice Kramer opening the door or ordering him inside or shoving him into a chair, one beefy hand on his shoulder. He was oblivious to the heavy click of the locking door, Kramer’s hulking presence behind him, the weight of the handcuffs on his wrists.

He was aware only of Sophie.

She was even prettier than he remembered—not a teenage girl, but a woman. Her strawberry-blond hair was still long, and she wore it up in a style that was both feminine and sophisticated. Her gentle curves seemed fuller, softening the professional cut of her navy blue blazer and skirt. Her face seemed even more delicate, her cheekbones higher, her lips more lush, her eyes impossibly blue.

Fairy sprite.

He bit back the words and drew in a deep breath to clear his mind.

A mistake.

Her scent slammed into him, subtle and fresh and so very female, igniting every drop of excess testosterone in his blood. How long had it been since he’d smelled anything but the sweaty bodies of other men? If his hardening cock was any indication, too goddamn long.

Jesus H. Christ!

He fought to clear his mind, to think, to relax. He needed to focus, to rein in his hormones, to control his emotions. Anything else would get him killed.

She seemed to study him, her expression detached, her hands folded in her lap. She wore no rings—no engagement ring, no wedding band. She reached to shake his hand. “I’m Sophie Alton from the
Denver Independent
. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”

That’s when it hit him.

She didn’t recognize him.

She has no idea who you are, Hunter.

The realization came like a fist to the gut, cutting short his breath, the force of it taking him completely by surprise. It had never occurred to him that she might not remember him. It didn’t seem possible, but he could see in her eyes that it was true.

He willed himself to speak, took her small hand in his, tried not to look like a man whose world had just imploded. “My pleasure.”

Helluva blow to the ego, isn’t it, dumbass?

But it was more than that.

It meant that she would be terrified.

He looked at her sweet face, saw the girl he’d made love to—and wondered how he was going to bring himself to do this to her. Then he thought of Megan, alone and running for her life, Emily in her arms, and he knew he had no choice. He’d already lost his sister once. He wouldn’t risk losing her again.

Sophie pulled her hand back, feeling strangely uncomfortable. There was something about the tone of the inmate’s voice, something in the way he looked at her…

She set her digital recorder in the middle of the table, cleared her throat. “Since I can’t have my notebook or pens here, I need to record our conversation. I hope that’s all right with you, Mr. Hunter.”

He nodded, his gaze focused entirely on her. “Whatever you want.”

Marc Hunter wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d known he’d be tall because his sister was tall. But Megan was also fragile and out of shape, the result of heroin addiction, a sedentary life, and years of prison food. There was nothing fragile or out of shape about Marc Hunter.

At least six foot three, he was athletic and well built, his orange prison smock stretched across a broad chest, the sleeves of his white undershirt rolled up to reveal powerful, tattooed biceps, the U.S. Army’s eagle and shield on his right arm and a Celtic band on his left. His brown hair hung to his shoulders, thick and wavy. A dark beard covered the lower half of his face, concealing most of his features, emphasizing the hollows in his cheeks and his high cheekbones, and giving him a threatening look that was lessened somewhat by a full mouth. His eyes were a piercing green that seemed to see beneath her skin.

Even if she hadn’t read his criminal record, Sophie would have known he was dangerous. He had an air about him—intimidating, menacing, aggressive.

A killer.

She pushed the record button and struggled to compose her thoughts. “Um…As I’m sure you know, I’ve been following Megan’s situation since—”

“I’ve read the articles,” he said, adding, “obviously.”

She hadn’t revealed to DOC officials that her interest in this interview had originated with an anonymous caller sent by the inmate, sure they’d refuse to grant her request under those circumstances. She wasn’t going to acknowledge that fact now, either, not with Lieutenant Kramer listening. Mr. Hunter might not care whether he aroused their suspicions, but she did.

“What you might not know is that I care very much for Megan and Emily and haven’t been able to think of anything else since they disappeared. I was hoping you might have some idea why Megan vanished or where she’s gone.”

His lips curved in a slow smile. “And here I thought you might be able to tell me.”

Confused, Sophie stared at him. He had contacted her, hadn’t he? The man who’d called had told her that Marc Hunter would be able help her find Megan. And yet Hunter was sitting here saying that he hoped
she
had information. It made no sense.

His smile faded, and his expression grew serious. “Megan is a very troubled young woman, Ms. Alton.”

And you’re a model citizen!

Sophie kept her expression neutral and waited for him to say more.

“She’s been fighting drug addiction since she was a teenager, and every time I think she’s made it, she relapses.”

No news flash there. Sophie had already reported this in her articles. “Are you saying you think that’s what has happened this time?”

“That’s what your article led me to believe.” He stretched out, his muscular leg brushing against hers beneath the table.

She sat up straighter, tucked her feet beneath her chair, wondering if the contact had been accidental. The guy had been in prison for six years, after all. He wouldn’t be the first inmate she’d interviewed who’d tried to make physical contact. “I know Megan was in touch with you. Did she say anything to make you think she’d started using heroin again?”

“I haven’t had contact with Megan for years. We’re not allowed to communicate with one another, as I’m sure you know. What did she say to you?”

Growing annoyed by this purposeless, circular conversation, Sophie found herself glaring at him. What kind of game was Marc Hunter playing? She glanced up at Lieutenant Kramer, who looked like his mind was a thousand miles away, then back at Hunter. “Is there anything about Megan you’d like to tell me, Mr. Hunter?”

He started to speak, his words cut off by a coughing fit. He raised his cuffed hands to cover his mouth, croaked out, “Can I get…some water?”

Lieutenant Kramer nodded, and Sophie realized he expected her to get it.

“All right.” Biting back a retort about middle-aged men and sexism, she stood, crossed the room to the watercooler, and filled a little paper cone.

Why had Hunter wanted her to come down here? If he had something to tell her about Megan, why didn’t he just tell her? He’d known a CO would be present during the interview, that he wouldn’t be able to speak with her privately.

She carried the water back and held it out for him.

It happened all at once. The splash of cold water against her wrist as he exploded out of his chair, hands somehow free, feet flying. Her own scream as Lieutenant Kramer fell, unconscious or dead, his weapon out and in Hunter’s hands. Hunter’s iron grip as he grabbed her wrist and yanked her roughly against the hard wall of his chest.

Their gazes collided, his green eyes as hard as jade and unreadable.

Light-headed, her body shaking, her pulse frantic, she gaped up at him, tried to jerk away. Then her splintered thoughts drew together, formed one word. “N-no!”

“Don’t fight me, Sophie!” He wasn’t even out of breath. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

From outside in the hall came shouts and the shrill peal of an alarm.

They knew. The guards knew. They would stop him.

They would protect her.

Stay calm, Alton. Stay calm.

Even as the words entered her mind, she found herself spun hard about, her back crushed against his ribs, his arm locked around her shoulders. She heard him rack the slide on the gun, felt the cold press of steel against her throat, and then she
did
understand.

You’re his hostage, Alton. He might kill you. He might kill everyone.

She shuddered, felt her knees turn to water.

This couldn’t be happening. It could
not
be happening.

Marc felt Sophie’s heart pounding, saw her lips go white, and hated himself for doing this to her. Then she did something that made him hate himself even more.

“Pl-please don’t! I-I h-helped your s-sister!”

It was nothing less than a plea for her life, a desperate appeal to his conscience.

Too bad he no longer had one.