Operation: Midnight Tango (2 page)

“Doc says you need a blood test.”

“I don’t need a blood test.”

Mitchell tapped the clipboard he held. “Got the order right here, partner. Let’s go.”

“What’s the blood test for?” Zack asked, his mind spinning through all the scenarios that could be waiting for him in the infirmary. None of them were good.

“You can ask the doc when you get there. Now move it.”

The instinct to fight was strong, but any attempt to make a stand or run would be futile. He’d learned to choose his battles since arriving at the prison four months ago. Experience told him this wasn’t one he would win. He couldn’t stop remembering all the other inmates who’d gone into the infirmary and come out bloody or burned—or not at all.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. In another hour he was supposed to rendezvous with his contact from MIDNIGHT. Zack had a sinking feeling he wasn’t going to make it. When it came to the prison infirmary, a single hour could mean the difference between life and death.

As they guided him down the corridor, he figured he had about two minutes to come up with a plan. But then, he’d always been able to think fast on his feet.

He only hoped he came up with something fast enough to save his life.

AT FOUR IN THE MORNING, the prison corridors were as dimly lit as an underwater cave. Emily Monroe’s boots echoed off of concrete and steel as she hurried toward the infirmary. Her shift didn’t begin until five, but she’d come in early to do some poking around in the infirmary. She had plenty of questions that needed answering. Like what had happened to the two inmates who’d gone into the prison infirmary and never returned to their cells. Since Dr. Lionel didn’t seem disposed to explaining, she figured she’d just have to get the answers on her own.

At the end of the corridor, she swiped her security card, then punched the four-digit code into the keypad set into the wall. The steel lock snicked, and she shoved the door open.

The prison infirmary was as dark and silent as a tomb. Odd, since the facility was manned twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The utter quiet gave her a prickly sensation on the back of her neck.

Puzzled, she tiptoed to the second door that would take her to the inmate receiving area, the procedure rooms and inmate holding cells. She swiped her card, watched the red light change to green and opened the door. She found the interior as still and dark as the rest of the place. At the very least she’d expected Dr. Lionel’s graveyard-shift assistant to be in her office, working on her computer. Where was everyone?

Growing increasingly apprehensive, Emily rested her hand on the pepper-spray canister clipped to her belt and started down the hall. The soft thud of her
boots kept perfect time with her heart, which was beating far too quickly.

She passed exam room one and flipped on the light. She saw an examination table, stainless-steel counters and a pull-down light. But not a soul in sight.

Emily didn’t scare easily, but in the three years she’d worked as a corrections officer in Idaho’s Bitterroot Super Max Prison she’d learned to trust her instincts. Right now those instincts were telling her something was terribly wrong.

Shoving open the door to exam room two, she turned on the light and spotted the outline of a man beneath a sheet splattered with blood on the examination table. Crossing to the table, she peeled away the sheet. Apprehension zinged through her when she saw the waxy flesh of the prisoner’s face. His blue lips. A thin line of blood had trickled from his nostril and dried black. His eyes were partially open. He was dead.

Queasy with fear, she touched his face. His body was still warm. What was going on here? Where was Dr. Lionel and his assistant? What had happened to this inmate?

She thought again of the other inmates who’d gone into the prison infirmary and vanished. For weeks she’d been asking questions and making inquiries, but no one in a position of authority had given her a straight answer. This morning she’d taken matters into her own hands and come here to have a look around. She hadn’t expected to find a dead body….

Struggling to remain calm, Emily tugged her
radio from its sheath. “This is zero-two-four-niner. I’ve got a code—”

Movement from behind her cut her words short. She spun. The blue steel of a gun flashed. She saw black hair. Dark eyes. An unshaven jaw. A hot jet of adrenaline burned through her. Gripping the radio, she brought it to her mouth. “Code—”

A hand snaked out and ripped the radio from her grasp. In her peripheral vision she saw it sail through the air. She lunged toward the door, but in an instant the man was upon her, his hands encircling her biceps before the radio even hit the floor.

“Don’t make a sound if you want to live,” he said, his eyes glittering with threat.

Emily broke his hold and jumped back. “Stand down, convict! Do it now!” She tried to sound authoritative, but her voice held a damning quiver of fear.

“Stay calm and don’t fight me.” He started toward her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She didn’t know if it was the gun in his hand or the look in his eyes, but for a single, terrible instant she was frozen with fear. An inmate armed and desperate with absolutely nothing left to lose was every corrections officer’s worst nightmare.

She stepped back, raised her arms to stop him, knowing they wouldn’t. “Get away from me.”

He didn’t stop. “Just do as I say and you won’t get hurt.”

She barely heard the words over the rapid-fire beat of her heart. She looked at the gun in his hand,
measured the distance between them, the distance to the door. She wondered if she could reach her radio on the floor before he shot her in the back.

An instant later her training kicked in. Springing forward, she kicked the gun from his hand. The weapon clattered to the floor. Before he could pick it up, she tried a palm-heel strike to his face, but he blocked it. Spinning, she lashed out with her left foot, landing a kick to his abdomen. Grunting, he reeled backward. She then reached for the canister of pepper spray clipped to her belt. She brought it up while simultaneously diving for her radio. She had to get to that radio!

He moved with the speed of a big, hungry cat taking down its prey. In a single smooth motion he scooped up the gun and spun toward her. With his free hand he slapped the canister of pepper spray from her grasp. The next thing she knew, his hands were on her shoulders, digging into her flesh, and she was being shoved backward into the examination room.

“For a corrections officer, you don’t take orders worth a damn,” he growled.

“Get your hands off me!”

“Calm down and listen.”

A yelp escaped her when her back hit the wall. She was pinned. She tried to use her knee, but he shifted sideways, blocking her attempt to disable him. She squirmed, but his body was as hard and unyielding as a brick wall against hers. “Unless you
want to end up like that man on the table, don’t try that again,” he warned.

His voice was low and dangerous. She detected an accent. Irish maybe. But she was too scared to think too hard about it. His face was only inches from hers. So close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. She stared into eyes the color of dark-roast coffee, saw deadly intent and desperation and realized he wasn’t the kind of man who made idle threats.

“You can’t possibly think you’re going to get away with this,” she said breathlessly.

“That’s exactly what I think.” Every nerve in her body jangled when he shifted away and leveled the gun on her chest. “Get your hands up.”

Emily raised her hands to shoulder level. “I’m not armed.”

“Nothing personal, but I’d rather make that determination myself.” Never taking his eyes from hers, he ran his hands quickly and impersonally over her body, pausing when he discovered the extra canister of pepper spray strapped to her ankle. Damn.

“Guess you forgot about this.”

“I like to be prepared in case I get jumped by some piece-of-scum convict.”

She spotted blood on the underside of his wrist as he tossed the canister into the trash container. Not an abrasion he might have sustained in a scuffle but a clean slice. The kind of incision a doctor would make for a surgical procedure. She wondered if he’d overpowered Dr. Lionel during some kind of minor surgery.

“Where’s Dr. Lionel?” she asked.

“We don’t have time for questions.” He motioned toward the door with the gun. “You’re coming with me. Let’s go.”

“Where are you taking me?”

He was wearing only a pair of prison-issue drawstring pants. No shirt. No shoes. He was built like a distance runner, with long limbs and an abdomen that looked as if it had been carved from stone. His chest was rippled with muscle and covered with a sprinkling of black hair. He was grace and power rolled into a single disturbing package.

Tearing her gaze away, she tossed a covert glance at her fallen radio a few feet away. If she could reach it, all she needed to do was hit her personal alarm button and alert dispatch that she was in trouble….

“Don’t even think about going for that radio,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you, but if you force my hand, I will.”

She met his gaze levelly. “You don’t want to do this.”

“What I don’t want is to become one of Dr. Jekyll’s guinea pigs.”

Dr. Jekyll’s guinea pigs? Emily didn’t know what he meant by that. The guy was obviously delusional. She knew better than to engage him, but if she could talk him down, she stood a better chance of coming out of this unscathed. “You don’t stand a chance of getting out of here. Even if you make it out of the building, the tower guards will be all over you.”

“I’ll take my chances with the guards. They’re a
hell of a lot less lethal.” He gestured with the gun toward the door. “Let’s go.”

She led him from the exam room to the interior door, but her hands were shaking so violently she could barely swipe her security card. Once the green light flickered, she tugged open the steel door and took him into the darkened hall. She sensed the presence of the gun as she walked, the almost tangible aura of danger surrounding the man as she took him into the main corridor.

“I need a uniform and coat,” he said.

She started to protest, but he raised the gun and aimed it at her face. “Get them for me,” he said. “Now.”

In his gaze she saw violence and unpredictability and understood that if she didn’t do exactly as he said he would kill her. “The locker room,” she said.

“Take me there—and make it fast.”

They took the corridor at a run with Emily in the lead. She hoped desperately for a fellow corrections officer to appear, but the shift hadn’t yet ended and this particular corridor was deserted.

By the time they reached the locker room, she was breathing hard and sweating—partly from the exertion, partly from fear. The locker room was a narrow tiled room that smelled of dirty socks. One wall was lined with a double row of slate-gray lockers, the other with stainless-steel shelves, matching hooks for towels and coats and gear. A wide doorway opened to the shower room.

“Find me a uniform.”

Emily crossed to one of the lockers. The convict stood behind her while she removed a uniform and shoved it at him. “Take it and go.”

He took the neatly folded shirt and pants, then stepped back and set the gun on the bench. Never taking his eyes from hers, he hooked his thumbs around the waistband of his own pants. “Don’t even think about running,” he said. “I shoot just as well naked as I do clothed.”

Ridiculously embarrassed, she averted her gaze as he stepped out of his pants. Clothing rustled. For a crazy instant she considered making a run for it. But while Emily was fast, she wasn’t fast enough to get through that door without risking a bullet in her back.

She stole a look at him out of the corner of her eye. He’d picked up the gun and was buttoning the shirt with his left hand, holding the gun on her with his right. The shirt was a tad too large but passable. In the darkness of early morning, he would pass as a corrections officer.

“Put on your coat,” he said.

She jolted at the sound of his voice. He was dressed now, right down to the cap and boots. Only he had a gun. A gun he’d vowed to use if she didn’t do exactly as she was told.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

“Put it on,” he snapped.

Emily didn’t want to go with him. She sure as hell didn’t want to help him escape. It went against everything she believed in, everything she’d been
trained for. Worse, it triggered memories of what her father had done, and she’d sworn she would never disgrace herself the way Adam Monroe had.

She watched as he began searching through the coats hanging on the racks. Her eyes flicked past him to the alarm panel set into the wall near the door. Panic-button panels were located throughout the prison and available for officers to use in the case of an emergency or crisis—such as the one she was facing now. If she could reach it…

Emily stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was standing midway between him and the alarm. If she moved quickly, she could slam her fist down on the button before he could stop her. Within minutes a dozen corrections officers would descend, and this man would have no choice but to surrender.

Crossing him was dicey. There was the very real possibility that he would kill her. After all, the federal government didn’t put nice guys in the Bitterroot Super Max. This prison was reserved for the most violent, dangerous prisoners.

Her vision tunneled on the protruding red button. Her pulse skittering wildly, she sidled closer, one inch at a time. With four feet to go, she launched herself at the alarm.

An instant before her fist made contact with the button, viselike arms wrapped around her waist. “Code
three!
” she screamed and rammed her elbow into his gut.

A hand over her mouth cut off her words, then he
pulled her away from the alarm and swung her around. Emily used every ounce of strength and every self-defense tactic she’d learned over the last three years. But he was incredibly strong and overpowered her with an ease that amazed her.

The next thing she knew, her back connected with the lockers. The breath left her lungs in a rush of air that was part growl, part scream. “Get your hands off me!”