Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lions were territorial. That was true. But it wasn't why Emily kept landing in the crosshairs of so many dangerous men. For certain, a few definitely felt threatened by her, but she wasn't about to start taking over their territories.

I mean, how absurd. Right? Me, the lion king. More like I'm the lion's next lunch . Her life would likely end right here in this hellhole unless everything played out perfectly—Lita got Emily's story out, the warden ensured her safety, arrests were made, and she was freed.

Who am I kidding? I'll be hunted the rest of my life if I get out of here. She'd made too many enemies, and more were in the works.

The prison's intercom system chimed twice, signaling it was their block's turn to eat.

Immediately, Emily's hands began to shake. By now, word had probably spread to the gangs about her presence.

Knives strolled past her. "You comin'?"

Funny. Knives hadn't spoken one word to her yet. Why now? She's probably getting in line to take me out.

"And miss Spam Tuesday? Never," Emily replied flatly.

Emily followed her cellmate, joining the stream of orange-clad women heading to the cafeteria. Whispers echoed from every direction. Several women walking ahead kept looking over their shoulders.

Yep, word's out about me.

Lita scurried up from behind. "Girl, you sure I'm getting that twenty when I get out?"

She'd be getting much more. There was a million dollars buried in that large plastic bag near Charge's cabin, but if Emily had told her that, Lita wouldn't have believed her and agreed to get Emily's story out.

"Yes. Just don't forget: the money's location will be mailed to your aunt, like we agreed." Emily had already written the letter in Lita's name and placed it in the mail drop a few hours ago. The letter simply asked Lita's Aunt Viola to check in on a "friend" who hadn't been heard from in a while. The friend's address belonged to Charge's cabin. The postscript mentioned to say hi to her favorite owl, nesting in the tree with a big broken branch, i.e., where the money was hidden.

Emily continued, "But you have to get my story out like I asked. And quickly. If my contact doesn't see anything within three days of your release, he won't deposit the money." A lie. The money was already there, but this was a psychological game about timing.

The mail at this place took a week to go out since the staff checked all the letters. That would give Lita a few days to make Emily's story public before the letter arrived at her aunt's. Of course, the letter would come regardless. And the money would be there regardless. Lita just didn't know that.

"Okay, but if you fuck with me," Lita said, "I'll get arrested just to come back and slit your fucking throat."

Spoken like a true thug. Funny how people always said that men were the most cutthroat of genders. In Emily's experience, women could definitely hold their own. And then go the extra mile. Especially when it came to revenge.

"You do what I asked, and you'll get your money," Emily whispered. "By the way, what do you plan to do with it?"

"After I hit the buffet for an entire week and drink enough beer to kill me? I'm gonna open a legal clinic. Yanno, for bitches like me who ain't got no money, no love, no help."

"But you are smart. I've seen those books you read."

"Yeah, well, us bitches have to know shit if we want to make it."

Emily guessed Lita was right. Knowledge was power. "What are you in here for, anyway?"

"I killed my boyfriend."

Emily did a double take as they marched along. "For?"

"He called me a bitch."

That was not a good reason to kill a person.

"I'm just fuckin' with you, girl." Lita laughed. "He stole my money for law school. Took me seven years to get my bachelor's and another five to save for that shit. Had just enough, too, with my financial aid 'n' shit."

That was rough. "Why didn't you turn him in?"

"The asshole tried to kill me. Tied me up and put me in my car. Lit that shit on fire."

Emily's mouth gaped open in horror. "Wow. What a guy. Sounds like he and my ex would've gotten along nicely."

"Yeah, well, he was stupid as fuck. Only put gasoline on the outside. Fire burned out in a minute. I untied myself, tracked him down, and put a gun to his head. I needed that money. I earned that money. Found out he spent it on some other bitch. I blew his head off."

Emily winced.

"Don't be judgin', Hays. People take from you, you take back. So whatchoo in for?"

"Killing my ex."

"He steal from you, too?" Lita asked.

"Worse. He let men pay to hit, rape, and kill a lot of women."

Lita gave her a look. "For real?"

"Yes, but I didn't kill him. Wish I had, but I'm just the lucky person doing time for it." At least, that was the reason for her arrest. Now she was doing time for killing a cop she'd never met and who was likely fictitious—all part of Charge's made-up story to get her into Vanderhorst Supermax. Now she was here in an entirely different prison, waiting to die.

"Well, when I open my clinic, girl, you'll be our first client."

"You'd do that for me?" Emily asked.

"Us bitches have to stick together."

Lita was kinda right. It didn't really matter where a woman came from—good home or bad, rich or poor, educated or not—there were always bad people in this world looking to exploit them. Or worse, make them believe they were powerless victims. Luckily, most of the world wasn't like that, but the predators existed. And they never rest.

"Fuck yeah, bitch." Emily smiled. "But maybe use the law next time instead of putting a bullet in your boyfriend's head? Just sayin'…"

"I'll think about it."

The two entered the cafeteria, and the hair on Emily's arms spiked up. Every face in the room stared with a snarl, and she could hear a pin drop.

"Claws are out for you," said Lita. "But I still get my money, right?"

"Stick to the plan no matter what," Emily growled. "Even if I don't make it out of here alive." Chances were slim at this point, but nothing to lose by trying.

Speaking of trying, Emily was about to tell all these women that they were dreaming if they thought they'd ever see the ten-million bounty. They'd only get the electric chair for murder, and the Heroin King would keep his cash. He was a ruthless criminal.

"Where the hell do you think you're going, inmate?" Hunter Collins stepped in front of Emily, staring down with a stern look.

"Going to eat shit food," she replied, "and you?"

From the corner of her eye, she saw Collins slide his stun gun from his belt. Before she could react, he pressed it to her shoulder.

A searing pain ripped through her body as she dropped to the floor.

"She's got a weapon," Collins yelled.

Someone must've hit the alarm because a loud siren went off, and the inmates around her dropped to the floor with their fingers laced behind their heads.

What was he doing? She had this. She had a plan!

Collins hit her again with the stun gun. Her body shook violently before she blacked out.

***

Emily groaned and opened her eyes to a white room with chipped paint, a single sink and toilet, and no window. The door was solid steel, and there was a small camera in the corner, encased in a cage.

She rubbed her pounding head. She'd taken three days of beatings at the supermax, and it didn't compare to the experience of being shocked unconscious. It felt like having a heart attack while being burned alive.

She sat up on the concrete platform that served as her bed. There were claw marks in the white paint on the wall, and the room smelled like bleach.

Oh no. This had to be a kill room. Not that she knew if the prison had an official one, but there was only one reason a room like this would smell so strongly. Collins was making good on his promise to end her since she'd refused his help to get free.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and Collins appeared. "You all right?"

"No." She whooshed out a breath. "And I'm guessing it's about to get worse. Thanks for that electrocution warm-up, though. Shockingly fun."

"This isn't a game, Justine."

"I go by Emily." She swung her feet to the floor, trying to clear her spinning head. Everything felt fuzzy, including the events after the cafeteria. She remembered someone carrying her and the smell of engine grease. "And I know this isn't a game. Look at where I am." Not to mention whom she'd gotten mixed up with.

Collins walked over and sat next to her. "Can I ask you something?"

"No." Was this part of his routine before offing a person? Nice little friendly chat? Hi, I'm Hunter. I'll be killing you today. Do you like cheese? What's your favorite kind of music?

"How did you end up working for Sampson?" he asked. "I've read your file. You seem like a nice normal person—no arrests, no history of violence or drugs, lived in a quiet suburb, hosting barbeques. And then one day, you run and resurface in El Paso, working for suite forty-five."

If he'd read her file, then he had to know about Ed, so the answer to his question was fairly obvious. "Guess I just needed a change of scenery."

"You sure got one."

"Prison was the only vacation I could afford," she said dryly. "And who doesn't like orange?"

He ignored her quip. "I just don't understand why you didn't turn your husband in and then try to rebuild your life. Why go into this business?"

Good question. "Why did you?" Not that she cared.

"Sorry to tell you, but my story is fairly cliché. I enlisted in the military. They trained me to kill, and I was very good at it. After I got out, just made sense to get paid well for my skills. Now your turn."

"How did I get involved with Sampson? One long string of poor choices, and I've been kicking myself ever since, because I'm the kind of person who wants nothing to do with people like you, and even less? Dealing with the people you go after. I want none of it."

"Thank you. This conversation has been very helpful, Emily."

"Lovely. Can you get this over with now? And don't offer me any more help or deals to break out of prison, because I meant what I said about not cooperating with you."

He stood. "But you already have." He dipped his head. "It's been a pleasure meeting you."

She rubbed the side of her kinked neck. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Sorry, Justine. Only doing my job." He left the cell, leaving the door open behind him.

"Sorry about wha…" Her voice faded off as a tall man with dark skin, longish black hair, and hazel eyes appeared in front of her. He wore jeans, a white golf shirt, and expensive-looking tennis shoes—the European kind rich men wore to look rich when being casual.

He smiled warmly. "Justine Hays, it is a pleasure to meet you," he said with a slight Mexican accent.

She stared, feeling like a deer in headlights, unsure of what was happening.

"My name is Elonzo."

"Okay, Elonzo, what's going on?"

"The prison needed an AC unit replaced, so we took the opportunity to transport you inside the old one. Took a few bribes, but it got the job done."

Wait. What? Transported me?

He stepped into the room, leaning his back against the concrete wall, folding his muscled arms over his chest. "And my apologies for the deception, but Collins works for me, not Sampson."

Her face felt hot suddenly, and her stomach churned. There was a dull ache in her arm, too. I don't feel so good . Her eyes glided down to a bandage over the crook of her arm. Had they put something in her veins?

"Yes, that," he said. "We had to drug you. You'll feel nauseous for a few hours, but it was either that or let you die." He clapped. "Taking out those guards at Vanderhorst Supermax. Very brave. I also find it fascinating how you attempted to take down your husband, infiltrated suite forty-five, and won the trust of Sampson." He laughed. "Amazing. All this from a housewife from New Jersey." The charming smile on his handsome face melted away. "Not to mention you stole my money and managed to kill Dearheart while freeing the man who's just been awarded the largest contract to ever be placed on my head."

Oh shit. Oh shit. "You're the Heroin King." He was much younger than she'd thought, in his late thirties.

"Such a mundane name for a complex man like myself with ventures all around the world, but the business needs clear roles, and I play the man to fear. Mucho gusto ."

Oh, she was afraid all right. Because behind the handsome face and beautiful eyes was a very vicious man, the kind they made miniseries about. "Where am I?"

He scratched the side of his clean-shaved chin. "My home. One of them."

No. She swallowed down a lump. This was a kill room. His kill room.

"I bet you're wondering what happens next," he said.

He probably planned to gut her like a fish. That or he hoped to use her as a bargaining chip with Charge, the assassin he'd just referred to.

"If you think anyone," she said, "including the man who's been given the contract to take you out, cares about me, you're very mistaken."

"I believe you. Did you know that Roberts was one of many prison employees on my payroll?"

Roberts works for the Heroin King? She shook her head no.

He went on, "Comes in handy having a network inside the system, given my line of work. Selling illegal products leads to many arrests and opens up the potential for disloyalty. We track our people closely. We weed out rats quickly."

So they watched their drug dealers even in prison. Not heavy-handed at all.

He continued, "Of course, Vanderhorst is not frequented by cartel members, but as luck just happened to have it, Roberts had been transferred there a few months ago. By the way, she was going to free you, something Sampson did not want."

He was implying that Charge wanted her to stay in prison, so he'd ordered her to kill Roberts. She found that hard to believe. "I think you meant to say that Roberts planned to kill me. For you."

He smiled. "I had a standing order that you were not to be touched. At least, not by any of my people, who, by the way, were told that if anything should happen to you before I could manage your release, they would be held responsible."

But this didn't make sense. She'd almost died in there. "Is Warden Mitchel one of yours?"

"No. But once Roberts figured out who you were and let us know you'd been located, I did take measures to step in. We almost had you freed—was supposed to be at that party the warden booked you for, but Sampson intervened, and you were moved."

They'd been planning to crash Charge's fake sex party. Emily's head spun. Was this man telling the truth?

"You wanted to make sure I wasn't harmed? Pfft. You put a ten-million-dollar price on my head." And for good reason. She'd worked for his enemies and stolen his money.

"True. But with the head attached to the body. Alive."

"Why?" She wasn't buying it.

He smirked down at the floor. "I am afraid you have not earned my trust yet, just like I have not earned yours. Until that happens, my motives are not up for discussion."

Trust? He was the Heroin King. The fucking Heroin King. The last man anyone should trust.

He went on, "Despite what you believe, Justine, I am not an unreasonable man. All I ask is for a little time to get to know each other and establish trust."

"I don't understand."

"Trust. You know, the thing where you promise not to hurt me, and I promise not to hurt you."

She stared at him, her heart pumping away. "H-how do you think I could hurt you ?" She was unarmed and being held in a kill room in his home.

"It hurts when people take my money," he said slowly, his voice filled with irritation. "Not because I can't make more of it, but because it makes me look weak. Do you know how hard I've worked to get where I am?"

She shook her head.

"My entire life. And do you know what I hate most?"

People who steal your cash? "No," she replied.

"People who make me look weak, because then I'm forced to prove I'm not. Law of the jungle and all that." He shook his head. "But I do not enjoy killing. Not at all. I enjoy money."

"So you want your money back. Is that what this is about?"

"That damage is already done and paid for in lives. Long-forgotten history."

Meaning, he'd executed the men who'd left his money sitting in the back of an SUV, which she stole. "Then what do you want?"

His hazel eyes glittered. "One week of your time."

What the hell did that mean? A week of fun? A week of torture? A week of deep reflection on how she'd landed in a place worse than prison? "And after one week, what happens?"

"I'll send my man around in an hour. He'll take you upstairs to a private suite. You are to bathe, pick out a dress from the closet, and make yourself presentable for tonight. I am having a party, and some very important people would like to meet you."

"Me? Why?"

"Do not embarrass me with any rash behavior."

So, in other words, he wasn't going to tell her anything. He wanted her to go along with whatever he said until he was ready to reveal his reasons. This situation was beyond anything she'd ever been up against.

He turned to leave.

"Wait. I want to know what happens after the week is up, or no deal." She wasn't playing along if he planned to put a bullet in her head no matter what she did. Might as well put her out of her misery now.

He looked over his shoulder. "If you don't trust me by the end, I will give you your freedom."

This sounded like the biggest setup, told by the most corrupt, deadliest man on the continent.

"And if I fail to win your trust?" she asked.

"I wouldn't recommend it. See you tonight." He closed the door behind him.

Fuck. She pressed her hands to her throbbing head. This was insanity, but if going along with it bought her time to get out of here, then she had to take it. She had to play the obedient woman to an evil man for a third time in her life. God, so help me, this will be the last time.