EMILY WATCHED ZACK FEED wood to the fire blazing in the floor-to-ceiling river-rock hearth and tried not to relive everything that had happened in the last four hours—and not to imagine what might happen next. Born and raised in this part of Idaho, she’d seen enough winter storms in her life to know that no one was going to show up to rescue her. Not the police. Not the FBI. Not even the highly trained prison SORT team employed by Lockdown, Inc.
She was on her own.
What she needed more than anything was answers. She needed to know who Zack Devlin was and why he’d taken her hostage. Even more, she needed to know why the prison marksmen had been shooting at her. Why Marcus Underwood and Dr. Lionel had been within an inch of injecting her
with truth serum. Why inmates were mysteriously dying…
Shuddering at the possibilities, she looked across the room at Devlin and wondered what secrets were buried beneath all those layers of Irish charm. Was he a dangerous, cold-blooded killer? Who was he really?
Things aren’t always what they appear….
What had he meant by that?
“That ought to keep us from getting hypothermia.”
Emily looked up at the sound of his voice to see him standing a few feet away, watching her with an unnerving intensity. The irises of his eyes were so dark they were nearly black. A day’s growth of stubble shadowed his jaw. The cut on his forehead stood out in stark contrast against his skin. Having worked the last three years as a corrections officer in a maximum-security prison, Emily had dealt with plenty of ruthless, brutal men. But staring into Zack Devlin’s glittering eyes, she thought he seemed by far the most dangerous.
They studied each other for an uncomfortable moment. Emily could hear the wind tearing around the old lodge. Something flapped rhythmically against the exterior window, like a ghost hammering at a nail. The entire place seemed to shudder with every gust of wind.
But even though the man standing across from her radiated danger, she felt strangely safe….
“Why don’t you have a seat by the fire and let me take a look at that bullet wound?” he said.
The thought of getting closer to the fire appealed, but Emily was nervous about Devlin touching her—for reasons she didn’t want to acknowledge.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t know how long we’re going to be stuck here. If that wound is bad, it could get infected and make you sick.”
He was right. An untreated bullet wound could lead to infection, which could be serious. “As long as you can talk and administer first aid at the same time.”
“I’ll see if I can find some supplies I can use to get it cleaned up.” Turning away, he strode through an arched doorway.
She watched his retreat, then rose and wandered around. The main room was cavernous, with high ceilings and massive rustic beams. Arched windows ran from floor to ceiling. The floor was made of parquet and stone and littered with years of dust and small debris. Holes marred the walls where fixtures and wall hangings had once been. But it was the stone hearth that dominated the room. Forty years ago the place would have been magnificent.
The scent of burning wood hung pleasantly in the air. Despite the fire, the room was still freezing, so she crossed to the bench he’d dragged to the fireplace and sat. The warmth felt wonderful against her skin. Her feet were numb. She looked down at her hands. They were red and aching from cold. Her hair and coat were damp. She was in the process of taking off her coat when Zack returned, his hands full.
“This must be our lucky day,” he said.
Emily didn’t feel very lucky. In fact, she thought this was one of the worst days of her life. “Did you find first-aid supplies?” she asked.
“I melted a little snow in this plastic container. I found a bar of guest soap. And last but not least, a bottle of vintage 1981 cognac.”
“I don’t think cognac is going to help our situation.”
“Quite the contrary.”
She tensed when he sat on the bench beside her and began to open the bottle. “This isn’t for drinking, though I might just have a nip considering the age of this bottle.”
“If you’re not going to drink it, what do you plan to do with it? Blow up something?”
“Cognac has a high volume of alcohol,” he said. “It will burn like the dickens, but it will disinfect your wound.” One side of his mouth hiked and he grinned like a scoundrel. “If you’re game, we can drink the rest.”
Emily refused to let herself be charmed. This man had taken her hostage. Thrown her in the line of fire. Risked her life to save his own.
Kissed you like you’ve never been kissed before,
an annoying little voice reminded. The memory of the kiss heated her cheeks. She desperately wanted to deny the effect it had had on her. But Emily had always been honest with herself, and Zack’s kiss had moved her in ways no other kiss ever had in all of her twenty-eight years. What kind of woman enjoyed a kiss from a convict?
Like father, like daughter….
For most of her adult life she’d hated her father for what he’d done. For giving into weakness and disgracing the uniform he’d worn. For humiliating himself and his family. Was she like Adam Monroe?
“Looks like you’ve lost a good bit of blood.”
His words dragged her from her painful reverie. Emily looked over to see him fingering the bullet hole in her coat. Sure enough, the material was saturated with drying blood.
“I’m going to roll up your sleeve and take a look now, okay?” he asked.
She nodded, but still she flinched when he touched her.
“Hurt?” His fingers brushed against her arm as he rolled up her sleeve.
“What do you think?” Her stomach roiled at the sight of the bruised flesh and clotted blood.
“It’s not too bad,” Zack said.
“You’re only saying that because it’s not your arm.”
“I’m saying that because it’s a scrape. It bled a lot, which is a good thing. You’ve got some bruising, but not much tissue damage. It’s basically a flesh wound.”
“You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.”
His hands stilled on her arm, his gaze meeting hers. “Maybe I am.”
He dipped a small towel into the pan of water and dabbed at the wound. Because she didn’t want to
look at it, Emily watched his hands. She couldn’t help but notice they were incredibly gentle.
Using the towel, water and soap, he scrubbed the wound. She tried not to wince, but the pressure hurt. “Sorry,” he said. “I just need to make sure there are no foreign particles inside the wound that might cause infection later on.”
She wished he wouldn’t apologize for hurting her. Inmates weren’t supposed to be nice. They weren’t supposed to have a soft touch. Or the kind of hands that made a woman want to lower her guard.
But Emily never lowered her guard. Not in her professional life. Never in her personal life. She had learned at a very young age what could happen when you did.
“This is going to sting.”
Zack’s words pulled her from her thoughts. She looked up to see him uncap the bottle, then drizzle a small amount of cognac over the wound. The pain was instantaneous and fierce, as if someone had dropped a burning ember directly into the wound. Emily ground her teeth, but she didn’t utter a sound.
He stroked her arm with his thumb as he blotted the excess liquid from her skin. His touch was as smooth and gentle as his voice. “You okay?”
She shot him a hard look. “I’d be a lot better if you told me who you are and what’s going on.”
“My name is Zack Devlin. I’m an agent for a branch of the CIA known as MIDNIGHT. Four months ago I was sent undercover to Bitterroot be
cause over the past year alone at least twelve inmates have died under suspicious circumstances. My assignment was to find out why these inmates died and who’s responsible.”
Emily was aware that her heart was racing. That her hands were shaking. And that despite the heat of the fire, she was cold again all the way to her bones.
“I’ve never heard of MIDNIGHT,” she said when she found her voice.
“MIDNIGHT is a secret agency within the CIA. We take on the missions no other agency will touch. The missions nobody ever hears about on the six-o’clock news.”
“I can’t believe an agency would jeopardize one of its agents by sending him into a maximum-security prison like Bitterroot.”
Never taking his eyes from hers, Zack removed his jacket, then rolled up his sleeve to reveal a deep precision cut. One that had bled every bit as profusely as hers, yet he’d never said a word. Emily remembered seeing the blood that morning when he’d accosted her in the prison infirmary. She’d assumed he’d overpowered Dr. Lionel during a minor surgical procedure. Now she wasn’t so sure.
“My superior at MIDNIGHT takes every precaution to make sure his agents are safe.” He glanced down at the wound, which was located on the underside of his left arm. “I had a Global Positioning System device surgically implanted before this mission in case something happened and the agency needed
to locate me quickly. Earlier this morning two corrections officers came into my cell, cuffed me and took me to the infirmary, where the device was removed.”
“How did they know it was there?” she asked.
His expression darkened. “The only logical explanation is that my cover was compromised.”
Because she hadn’t yet decided if she believed him about his being an undercover agent, she went to her next question. “Why are the inmates dying?”
“The less you know about—”
“Don’t give me that,” she cut in. “I need to know everything.”
He sighed heavily, then looked away from her to stare into the fire. “The Bitterroot Super Max Prison is the largest privately run prison in the country. As a corrections officer, you’re probably aware that the facility is inspected at the state and even federal levels, but that doesn’t mean those inspections are thorough. And it doesn’t mean things can’t be hidden.”
“Things like what?”
He turned his gaze to hers, and for the first time Emily saw the spark of a very dark emotion she couldn’t quite read.
“You know what kind of men end up at Bitterroot,” he said. “Murderers. Rapists. It was designed for the most violent offenders. In many cases, their friends and family have either disowned them because of what they’ve done or have simply grown tired of Sunday visits and have fallen out of touch.
If something were to happen to those inmates, there would be no one to ask any questions.”
“What are you saying?”
“A year ago MIDNIGHT was approached by another agency. Some checking of the prison records revealed that several inmates had died under mysterious circumstances. Inmates with no one to question…or even take notice of their deaths. MIDNIGHT tried to assess the situation by sending in operatives posing as government inspectors. But the people at Lockdown, Inc. guard their secrets well. They’re tight with information and even tighter with what they tell their own employees and management. As a last resort, my superior approached me with the idea of my going deep undercover, and I accepted the mission. I was thoroughly briefed. A fake identity was created documenting my so-called crimes in police and court records. Then I was sent into the prison population as an inmate.”
Emily’s mind was reeling. “What’s happening to the inmates?”
“I believe Lockdown, Inc. is using inmates to test chemical weaponry.”
She knew most of the corrections officers. She knew Dr. Lionel and Marcus Underwood. She knew Warden Carpenter.
“There’s no way something so…heinous would be condoned by Lockdown, Inc.”
“I’ve seen the results, Emily. Healthy men sent to the infirmary for some minor problem return deathly ill. Some of them suffering from horrific
skin lesions. Others with severe respiratory illnesses. Healthy young men bloodied and poisoned and screaming in agony when they’re brought back to their cells. And those are the lucky ones, because most don’t return at all.”
Emily could barely absorb what he was saying. Never in a thousand years could she have imagined something so cold-blooded. To think that the people she had known and worked with for three years were capable of such utter brutality made her sick to her stomach.
Rising abruptly, she paced over to the hearth and leaned against the cool stone. “How can you possibly know all of that? You were an inmate. You were not privy to infirmary records.”
He hesitated for an instant. “I’m not the only operative working out of Bitterroot.”
“But who else—”
“That’s classified information.”
“That’s convenient.”
“For your own safety. If Underwood thinks you know something and gets his hands on you, believe me, he’ll use any method available to him to find out what I’ve told you.” He looked away, his jaw taut. “Including torture.”
A chill rippled through her.
“The inmates see a hell of a lot more than you think,” he said. “They talk. We’re talking about men who’ve led violent lives. These men don’t frighten easily. But I’ve heard the talk. And I’ve heard the screams. I’ve seen hardened, brutal men
cowering like frightened children in the months I was there.”
“Why didn’t this get reported? I mean, we have an inmate relations officer—”
“An officer who may very well be part of it. You think anyone is going to open his mouth and risk being tortured to death?”
The scenario made her shudder. “Who is Lockdown, Inc. testing weapons for?”
“I don’t know,” he said, frustration evident in his voice. “But I suspect there is a company somewhere in the United States manufacturing the chemical agent. From there, the agent is shipped to Bitterroot for testing. Once the weapons are deemed effective, they’ll hit the black market. Worldwide. Lockdown, Inc. receives money for their part, and no one will be the wiser. Bitterroot is the perfect location. Remote. Isolated. No residents nearby to notice the supplies being trucked in and out daily. It would be easy for such an operation to continue without interference.”
“Who ships the weapons?”
“We don’t know. But as you can imagine, there are plenty of terrorist organizations and rogue nations that would go to great lengths to get their hands on some easy-to-implement chemical weapon.”