Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

With her hands shackled to her waist, Emily was handed over to the marshal and taken to a waiting van inside the prison's transportation yard. Her eager heart raced with anticipation.

God, I hope no one gets hurt. Least of all the marshal. Beside him, there was a driver—something Charge should easily know how to handle without casualties.

Charge has a plan. He always does.

She got into the van, and they cuffed one wrist to a chain connected to a steel loop on the van floor. The marshal took the seat behind her, and they got on their way.

"Which prison are you taking me to?" she asked.

"Florence Federal Penitentiary in Colorado."

"Is it bad?" she asked.

"You'll fit right in."

So lots of murderers . "What's the gang situation?"

"Typical."

"Meaning?" she asked.

"It's where the biggest and brightest go to vacation. What do you think I mean?"

Emily could only imagine the type of women incarcerated there. Thank God I'm not actually going. In a few hours, she'd be free. Well, freer. She still had a price on her head, and Charge would probably want her to lie low for a minute while he took care of things. Of course, she'd tell him to pound sand and then take the million in cash she had accidentally stolen from the Heroin King and buried near the cabin. Afterwards, she'd never look back.

The marshal added, "I'm sure your people will be happy to see you."

"My people?"

"I assume you work for organized crime since you mentioned your boss had you kill a guard."

"Oh. That. Well, they're not my people."

He didn't reply. Likely because he didn't care.

"Thank you again for helping me," she said.

"Did I have a choice?"

He actually had. "Either way, thank you."

The conversation cut off after that, and with each passing minute, Emily became more anxious. Where was Charge?

After two hours, her anxiousness notched up to panic. "How much longer?" Emily asked. "I have to pee."

"Half hour," said the driver.

Dammit. Where was Charge? He hadn't told her the plan, but she'd assumed Charge would intercept the van well before they arrived at the new prison.

Of course, the plan had changed a little in terms of which guard died, but she'd achieved the desired result. Got a transfer. Stayed alive. But where was he? Maybe word hadn't gotten to him about her transfer. Please, please, please show up, Charg e.

Her stomach knotted into a painful twist, and she began to hyperventilate.

"You all right?" asked the marshal as they turned down a long road. The sign said they were only ten miles away now.

"Sure. Just excited to see my new home." Charge. What the fuck! You can't do this to me. But apparently, he could. And now she was really going to a prison filled with people who had ten million reasons to kill her.

***

By the time the van pulled up to the prison's back entrance, Emily was in a full-blown meltdown, trying to come up with ways to get herself out of this and not die in prison. There was the option to bribe a guard again to ensure she was protected, but if they already knew she'd killed one—or two—at her last prison, they wouldn't be so keen to help.

Makes me wonder what happened to Roberts. She'd never come back to claim her bribe money. Seemed odd because it was a ton of cash. Five hundred thousand dollars.

The other option was to land in solitary. Can't be too hard, right? Just attack an inmate or a guard?

Problem was, those weren't long-term solutions. If she was going to be here for weeks, months, or, God forbid, longer, then she'd have to do more than keep her head down.

Dammit, Charge. Where are you? Had he double-crossed her? Killed by the Heroin King or one of his disgruntled clients over losing control of the border? Then, there was the Colombian, one of Charge's biggest clients.

At first, when Emily began working for suite forty-five, Charge wouldn't talk about the various kinds of funding for the group. She'd deduced that some of the money came from your everyday hits, i.e., killing pedos, murderers, and rapists who'd escaped the law. Then there was the secret funding from the local communities' leaders who'd just needed help. But from time to time, Charge would mention "the Colombian." Eventually, she'd learn that the Colombian was Bernardo Castillo, the world's largest cocaine trafficker.

Yes, suite forty-five worked for a narco. Very bad. Except that Bernardo was the lesser of evils among the cartels in that he refused to traffic heroin, fent, children, or women. And he kept most of the violence contained. When the Heroin King began edging in, that was when things got ugly.

Now, Bernardo was completely out, as was suite forty-five. It wasn't a stretch to imagine that Charge was on Bernardo's shit list for the epic fail.

Finally, and most importantly, somehow during that fight for the border, the Heroin King's guys got a hold of Bernardo's daughter. Emily had received the shock of her life when she'd learned that the young woman ended up trafficked to Ed. Twist of fate. Because that was how Emily had crossed paths with Charge, who'd been ordered to find Bernardo's daughter and kill whoever had her: Ed. Charge had been mid-prep for the job, watching Ed's every move, but he never completed the contract. Everything had blown up with Ed's operation before Charge got the chance.

I'd bet my million dollars that Bernardo the Colombian isn't going to let that fly. It wasn't like the guy was a kind and forgiving narco just because he wasn't as greedy or ruthless as the Heroin King, a monster.

The thought made her realize just how much danger they were both in. If the Heroin King had a contract out on her, this prison would be the perfect place to take her out. As for Charge, the only reason for him not showing today was death.

Emily's stomach lurched. The thought of Charge being dead twisted her heart. But why? She should be furious with him for getting her into this mess. Then there were the lies, the dangerous situations he'd put her in again and again, and…

How he saved me. She wasn't simply referring to the times he'd come to her rescue either. She'd been at the lowest point in her life when she met him, still mentally trapped inside a world painted by Ed. In that world, she'd been scared all the time.

Charge had changed that, and not through his words. He simply wouldn't accept her excuses or fear, which were products of being brainwashed by Ed. To be clear, Charge didn't show her who she was, he made her show herself. She'd had to face men with guns chasing her, getting left behind after a hit in Juarez, and being kidnapped by the cartel. She'd had to act as muscle for a loan shark to earn the money needed to pay a ransom, and she'd also faced off with car thieves who'd kidnapped Olivia.

Now, I guess I can add surviving a supermax to that list. The point was, Charge never patted her on her head and told her nicely to just do her best. He said, "Go fucking do it. Take care of business. Or else." Sometimes, the "or else" came from the very violent criminals pursuing her, but it didn't matter. Again and again, she'd faced terrifying, life-or-death situations, and she'd stepped up. At least if she died in this place, she would go out knowing one thing: She was a lion.

The van pulled inside the prison yard and parked. Emily's blood pressure shot up, her head pounding. This was happening. She was about to enter a regular prison. Where the inmates mingled and didn't live in solitary. It would probably be overcrowded, filled with every gang imaginable, and not enough staff. Aka her worst nightmare.

No, no. They'll put me in the high-risk section. She'd just killed two prison guards. Well, technically one, but they didn't care.

"End of the line, Hays," said the marshal.

"Did you have to put it like that?" Because she fully intended on surviving this place.

A man in a beige correctional officer's uniform slid open the side door. He had deep frown lines, a beer gut, and huge arms. He looked like the type of man who cracked skulls during the day and drank away his stress at night.

"Justine Hays. Welcome to Florence Penitentiary," he said.

Emily watched him unlock the chain connecting her to the floor of the van.

"Thank you," she replied grimly.

"We're told by Warden Mitchel that you're a very special guest." He pointed for her to step out.

So he did know about the dead guards. Probably knew she was doing time for killing a cop, too. "It was self-defense."

"Sure it was." He chuckled. "Out you go, inmate. We'll get you settled into a nice big cell with gen pop."

Gen pop? That was the lowest level of security in a prison, meaning hundreds of prisoners would have access to her cell, her shower time, and, more frighteningly, her.

"But I'm dangerous. Do you really want me mixing with the other inmates?" Emily said, hoping to sway him.

"Who do you think is going to teach you some manners?"

Emily doubted he was referring to crossing her legs or using a napkin. Prison manners likely meant learning whom to kiss up to so you didn't get stabbed. Maybe it meant giving out sexual favors to the guards for food or killing other inmates in order to prove allegiance to a group. Who knew? Honestly, she was going off what she'd seen in movies. Whichever the case, she doubted the guards were going to play nice if they already knew she'd killed one of their own.

Emily looked behind her at the marshal, who didn't seem one bit interested in this conversation. Probably because he hadn't appreciated her veiled threats earlier. Now, she was someone else's problem.

Fuck. Emily climbed out of the van. "Any chance I'll get to speak to a lawyer?"

"For what?" the guard asked.

"You know, for what Warden Mitchel told you. I assume I'll be tried for it."

"Not sure what you mean." He gave her a sinister, knowing look.

Oh God. They're going to handle things here . Personally. She never imagined being put in prison, and certainly not one as bad as the supermax. But this place just might be the worst of all. Inmates and guards trying to put my head on a stake.

You've survived worse, Emily. You'll survive here, too. But why did it feel like this next chapter would be a test of everything she'd learned to survive?

Probably because it would be.