CALLEN (Second Chance Novels Book 3) (2 page)

Hope filled her chest when she spoke those words. Determination became her stronghold, and she kept her head high. Having dealt with men like her husband my entire life, I didn't share the same hope. I knew he'd never let her go easily. The road ahead of her was going to be painful and difficult, and all I could do was vow to help her through the process as her protector and her shoulder to lean on.
 

Her protector. What a fucking joke.
 

My eyes open again and I take a deep breath as I survey my empty bedroom. Again. My chest aches and my hands hurt from clenching them so tightly. I always tell myself the memories are worth the pain which follows, and I always believe my own bullshit until I open my eyes again.
 

I look at my hands again. Weakness rests hidden behind my fingerprints. Upon inspection, my hands appear strong. Reality, however, lies in their inability to save her.

Evelyn is dead. And it's my fault.

I drop my head into my pathetic hands like I do every time I torture myself by thinking about her.
 

I attempt to scrub away the memories by running my hands roughly along my face, but all I can do is walk to my shower with the vision of Evelyn's bruised, dead body taunting me from behind my eyes. I punch the doorframe on my way into my bathroom.

The guest room holds a bittersweet place in my house. Chest-tightening grief squeezes me, knowing Evvie slept only feet away from my table…the table I'm using to plan revenge on her murdering husband. The dynamic between the love and the hatred I feel would be comical if the intensity weren't so painful.

With a set of blue-prints in front of me, I scan the many scraps of paper and post-it notes strewn around me, and I consider option after option. I smirk. The Level-4 Security prison which houses her bastard husband will tumble like a house of cards. I will exploit every molecule of weakness as a means to remove John Bennet from the planet and deliver the justice Evelyn deserves.
 

A final notation scrawled on the blue-prints concludes this morning's coffee and obsession before I contain my anger and drive to my real job.

"You working at the jail today?" Mason asks me as I enter Delta Security. I flex my knuckles absentmindedly.
 

"This afternoon," I respond distractedly, walking to my office and opening a client file. My current case involves a restraining order against someone's psycho ex-girlfriend. I'm on protective services for his current crush. The off-duty cops I've been coordinating to work the case filed another report last night which deserves my undivided attention, no matter how difficult shifting my focus from the jail may be.
 

The business Mason and I started together is growing. My priority however, remains solely at the iron door of former-mayor John Bennett. Sharing my focus irritates me, but I promised Mason a partnership. I won't go back on my word to him, or to the memory of the woman I love.
 

"Hey," Mason says sharply, forcing my attention. I glance up annoyed, but I only see concern on his face.

"What."

"You haven't talked about your…uh,
project
at the jail for a while. How's it going?"

"I'm in," is all I ever repeat in the frequent need to answer that same question.
For a while?
More like two days. I know he wants to help. For so many reasons, however, I need to do this alone.

"Come on, Bash. Tell me the situation there. At the very least I can toss ideas with you."

I stare him straight in the eye. "It's my op."
 

"Jackass idiot," he mutters under his breath, but he knows better than to think I'll cave so easily. He's smart enough to change the subject, but dumb enough to present an idea which proves he can be more clueless than I ever thought possible. "I've been thinking about the workload around here…do you think we should bring Shelby in full time?" he asks.

"What?" I ask, finally understanding that in spite of his brilliant mind for strategy, that Sofia is the only emotionally intelligent person in that couple.

"Project-by-project seems a waste of her computer skills. We could use her for a lot more."

I nearly smirk when he says
use her.
He has no idea how badly he used and hurt her during their relationship. He believes her line that she's over the relationship, but I can easily see the remaining devastation. Mason, apparently, only sees what he wants to see in her. Always has. Mason may be a brother to me, but Shelby has become my best friend. Her hurt stings along with my own, and I refuse to let Mason bring her down any further.

"No," I say plainly. "She doesn't need to be here every day."

He shrugs. "Client meeting at nine tomorrow morning."

I nod in acknowledgement he spoke, but I nod also toward the door. If I'm going to get revenge on Evelyn's murdering husband and do this job, I need to focus and be fully prepared.

I've already gathered intelligence on prison schedules, protocols, staff, inmates, prisoner locations, emergency procedures and other tidbits that will help me plan a perfectly-stealth opportunity to end John Bennett's life with my bare hands. I have more to learn and details to plan, but the thought of his death brings a dark smile to may face.

Driving to the jail this afternoon, I prep myself for a smiling interaction with my coworkers in spite of my churning hatred. The man I loathe more than any other rests only a cell block away from me every time I'm there. The knowledge boils under my skin while I offer a friendly wave to a corrections officer as I go toward the secure wing of offices.

I smile at one of the prison nurses in the hallway and shake hands with a clerk as I swipe my keycard into my closet-of-an-office.
Subtle charm
is my play with these people, as is a touch of ass-kissing. Working my way into my position as a prison improvement consultant wasn't too difficult given my past and my contacts, and I work here as plain old Callen Reed. This is my first mission as
me
, and I'll admit to the strangeness of an overt role. I find myself wanting to slip into a different identity, but I appreciate the ability to use my own name against my enemy. Gaining access to every aspect of the jail causes a tar-like form of joy to form in my gut.

One Tuesday afternoon I managed to 'casually' walk past John Bennett's cell. I smile arrogantly at the memory of his face turning nearly purple at the sight of me. As far as he's concerned, I had an affair with his wife, humiliated him in public, and played a major role in his incarceration. Though not all of those points stand true, I am his enemy nonetheless. I couldn't help myself that day…I winked as I walked by. His eyes narrowed in anger, and mine crinkled in amusement.
 

Every time I think of him here, however, I have to force my focus. One deep breath keeps me from giving into the anger. No one at the prison needs to experience anything but casual camaraderie from me if I'm to walk away clean, and I look forward to proving I'm able. Evvie will be avenged and my need to exact justice will be satisfied. I revel in my ability to remain cordial with the staff in defiance of my rage.

"Hi, Missy," I greet the clerk bringing me coffee. She flirts with me in a shy way, but I keep things professional with everyone here. My focus cannot waiver if I'm to succeed, and no woman could cause me to stray.
 

"Hi, Callen," she smiles. "I got the memo about needing more specifics on the library and yard schedules. Carmen said she'd get those to you before you leave today."

"Thank you," I smile. "Did you ask her about the cafeteria rotations?"

"Yeah, the inmates don't rotate shifts, but she put the schedules together anyway. It should be in your inbox."

"Perfect," I smile. "Thank you."
 

I'll need to arrange another walk-through soon. I want Bennett to know my presence here is ongoing. I want to watch the little bastard squirm. My blood thickens hatefully when I think of him, and I study my gathered information again, looking for every possible way to accomplish my goal.

Reading Mason into this mission would help immensely. He's intelligent and experienced in infiltration, not to mention having a personal stake in the project. John Bennett contracted an attack on Mason's love. Between our shared anger, Mason's brute-force forte, and my manipulative skill, we would succeed quickly.

I have a need, however, to see this through on my own. Evvie was
my
responsibility, and therefore is mine to avenge. I will do this on my own, and I will
end
John Bennett.

Today may mark one of my most difficult days at the prison yet, however. For the entire month I've been here, the prison psychologist has been watching me with more interest than allows me comfort. Quinn Porter never smiles at me, really, but always ponders me with keen eyes. From her obvious intelligence and professional curiosity, I know she's not flirting…but rather using her two doctorates to attempt getting a read on me.
 

On some level, I find her behavior amusing. I only allow people to see what I want them to see. If I didn't know better, however, she sees more. I have no idea how much more that may be, and I hope my thoughts represent only paranoia. Still, her analytical brain is working overtime. I'm intrigued, but I need her to back off. I can't risk anyone figuring out what I'm doing.
 

"Mr. Reed," she greets formally as she invites me into her office today to go over her part of the prison function. Her chestnut hair is pulled back into a simple twist, adding to her formal appearance.
 

"Miss Porter," I nod. "But, please, call me Callen."

"Callen, then," she nods, but doesn't reciprocate the offer to use first names. I can see exactly how she keeps control of any room she's in. "I'm curious to see how your inventory is coming along. I hope I can help."

"It's going very well," I return. "And I'm certain you can. The psychological well being of the inmates is important."

"I couldn't agree more," she smiles politely, but then tilts her head and narrow her eyes along with her smile. "So why do I feel like you're blowing smoke up my ass?"

I attempt a natural chuckle, but I'm in shock already. This woman is more observant than I realized. "No idea."

She chuckles with me as she leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. She's staring me down again, still with that amused smile. I'm working hard at nonchalance, which is extremely difficult under her scrutiny. I have years of experience to lean upon, thank goodness, but I'd say she's gifted.
 

My tack with this woman will be to remain in control of my body language, and be appropriately submissive to her accustomed level of power. She is the only woman employed at Stoneridge to have direct interaction with the inmates. A power-play with her will not get me what I need If I approach her carefully, I may gain extensive insight into John Bennett's place in the prison's social and quasi-political hierarchy.

"Let's get started," I begin, knowing she appreciates efficiency.
 

"Great," she nods with a clear expression, pulling a file folder from a stack at her desk and handing it over to me with a pleasant grin. "I took the liberty of outlining each part of my job here, including individual therapy, group sessions, crisis intervention, psychological evaluations, personality inventories and how we use them for cellmate assignments, and a few other occasional needs that arise. I'll give you a few minutes to look over the data."

She smiles at me and pushes her chair away from her desk, essentially giving me a homework assignment and leaving the room. She holds control more strongly than I realized she was capable of, and I tell myself to never underestimate her. Having Quinn Porter as an adversary is ill-advised, so I do as I'm told and scan the papers before me.

Her work is well-organized and addresses most of the questions I prepared before I came. As accreditation purposes go, she holds up her individual department as the most effective I've seen yet. I could simply drop these pages in the middle of my report and save myself the trouble of rewriting them. She's damn good.

With all those points considered, my best play here may be to attempt a partnership with her, relying on her counsel as I conclude my study and compile my findings. Keeping her close at least gives me the opportunity to figure out what she's thinking. If she weighs my actions here every time she sees me, I need in on her assumptions. I need to direct her opinion of me.