Inside

Garcia was about to preside at Chester Wellington’s trial, and the Hells Fury didn’t want that. But I can’t explain exactly how they pulled it off. And proving it? That’ll be even tougher.”

“So you like this idea,” Warden Fischer prompted.

Barely five feet eight inches, an inch taller than Peyton, Frank glanced at Simeon. It was clear he didn’t like the idea, but in deference to the corrections department, he was trying not to reject it out of hand. “I’d rather hire a few more officers who’d work under my command so we could handle this in-house.”

“There’s no money to hire additional staff. You know that.” The warden drummed his yellowed fingernails on the table.

“We could ally ourselves with the Santa Rosa police, set up another task force, like they did for Operation Black Widow,” Frank said.

The warden had begun to chuckle before Frank could even get the words out. “That’s your answer? Operation Black Widow encompassed thirty government agencies, including the FBI. It took nearly three years and was one of the largest, most expensive investigations of a U.S. gang to date. If this state doesn’t have the funds to hire a few more cops, it sure doesn’t have the funds for another Operation Black Widow. You can bet the feds won’t bankroll it. They have too many of their own problems right now.”

Not pleased with this response, Frank sat taller. “What we can’t afford is a misstep. If we screw up, the Hells Fury will gain even more power. I don’t have to tell you they’re growing at an unprecedented rate, on both sides of the fence.”

Wallace jumped in again. “Operation Black Widow succeeded because of an informant. That’s what kicked off the whole thing, and that’s what we’re missing here. Without information—names, dates, places—we have nothing except a new gang that’s quickly taking over Pelican Bay and moving into the streets of Northern California.”

“Maybe we can get someone to flip,” Peyton said. “Someone who’s about to be paroled and wants to enjoy his freedom instead of becoming a foot soldier in some street regiment for the Hells Fury, which will only land him back in prison.”

Relief eased the worry in Rosenburg’s face. “Buzz Criven is due out next month. If we could offer him a deal—”

“Even if you offer him a deal and he accepts it, there’s no guarantee he’d keep up his end.” Warden Fischer pinched his nostrils, pulled and let go—one of his less attractive habits. “You know what’s at stake for him, how those bastards lie.”

“That’s why I’m suggesting we create a mole,” Wallace said.

But at what cost? Peyton wondered. Since when was a human life worth less than the expense of an ordinary investigation? If Simeon Bennett thought he’d be trusted by the Hells Fury just because he was white and appeared to be a fellow inmate, he was sadly mistaken. Gangs didn’t work that way.

“Blood in, blood out. That’s the code gangs live by, at least most of the gangs in Pelican Bay.” She focused exclusively on Simeon. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

Placing his hands on the table, he clasped them in front of him. They had enough knicks and scars to suggest he’d been in more than a few fights, but it was the words love and hate tattooed on his knuckles that caught Peyton’s eye. Obviously he wasn’t a typical cop—technically he wasn’t a cop at all—but that didn’t mean he’d be safe housed with convicted rapists, murderers and gangbangers.

“What, you want to give me some sort of gang quiz?” he asked. “Make sure I know the lingo?”

She straightened the jacket of her suit, a navy blue pinstripe with a pencil skirt she’d bought on her last trip to San Francisco. “You’re saying you’re willing to stab someone to get in? Because if that’s true, I’ll reserve a cell for you this minute.”

He winked at her. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Peyton felt her mouth drop open. “This is who you want to put inside our prison?” she said to Wallace.

“Perfect, isn’t he?” he replied with a grin.

To avoid an angry, knee-jerk reaction, she made a pretense of smoothing her hair, which was, as always, sleekly arranged in a tight knot at her nape—an efficient style that enabled her to feel slightly fashionable, despite working in a world where fashion played no part. “You liked his response?”

As calm, cool and collected as a politician, even when he was under fire, Wallace met her gaze with a level stare. “I think he’s believable. And that’s what we need.”

In an effort to be as clear as possible, she leaned forward. “The point I was trying to make is this: it takes more than words to pass a gang initiation.”

“Simeon and I have already discussed it,” he responded. “We could stage certain…events. It’ll require some cooperation from you, of course, but we can make a stabbing or…whatever else appear real.”

Peyton picked up a pen someone else had left on the table to punctuate her words. “You don’t get it. You can’t choose who you stab. The Hells Fury set the mark.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Wallace looked at Fischer as if to say, Are you going to let her continue to fight us? and Fischer spoke again, but he didn’t rebuke Peyton. He seemed more interested in clarification.

“The department will pay for the investigation?”

Wallace hurried to confirm it. “That’s correct. Why not? It’ll be a bargain compared to what we’ll need just to stop the bleeding if we don’t head off this problem.”

The warden was under constant pressure to trim the operating budget—every warden was, especially with the economic problems facing California. This state had a higher percentage of its population locked up than any other and was struggling to support what it had created. But Peyton didn’t believe saving money justified jeopardizing a man’s life, even if that man was foolhardy enough to get involved in such a dangerous operation. She hoped the fifth person at the table—Joseph Perry, one of the associate wardens below her and the third man who’d ridden over with her to meet Wallace and Bennett—would speak up as she had. If he agreed with her, maybe Fischer would listen.

But she should’ve known better than to count on Perry. When she arched an eyebrow at him, asking for his opinion, he shoved his wire-rimmed glasses higher and remained mum.

“You don’t have anything to say?” she pressed.

With a sniff—he battled constant allergies—he finally spoke in a characteristically nasal voice. “I, ah, I suppose it can work.”

In other words, he didn’t give a damn if it didn’t. It wasn’t his neck on the line.

Peyton turned to the warden. “At least take some time to think this over, sir.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been doing.” Fischer studied Simeon. “You sure you’ve got the balls for this, son?”

One side of his mouth twisted in the semblance of a grin, Bennett rolled up his sleeve to expose a tattoo that looked like a prisoner ID number.

“You’re an ex-con?” Peyton cried.

Bennett didn’t rush to explain. Buttoning his sleeve, he nodded.

“Oh, that’s great.” She leaned back so she could cross her legs. “That really makes me feel I can rely on you.” What inmate tattooed his prison number on his arm? Only a very belligerent one….

He didn’t seem to find her sarcasm warranted. “Considering your reservations, I’m more worried about being able to rely on you.”

Peyton would have offered a retort, but the warden spoke before she could. “Why’d they put you behind bars?”

“Murder one.” His gaze never wavered from her face, even though she wasn’t the one who’d asked the question. He was interested in her reaction. Too stunned to speak, she gaped at him.

Rosenburg’s chair raked the carpet as he shoved himself away from the table. “How long were you in?”

Simeon had read her shock and repugnance; Peyton could tell. His lips maintained that mocking grin, but this time he looked at Frank when he answered. “Nearly six years.”

“What happened to Mr. Bennett was…unfortunate,” Wallace said. “But, thanks to evidence that surfaced well