Inside

here.”

Wild Eyes swung around as if he’d shoot Clover Tattoo instead, but then he halted. “I’ll get this bastard to talk.”

“You’re about to blow his head off,” Devil responded. “What more can you do?”

“This.” Coming right up into Eddie’s face, he lowered his voice. “Tell us where Virgil Skinner is, or I’ll drag you back to your house and make you watch as I rape and kill whoever I find there. Boys, girls, it don’t matter to me. You understand? No one’ll be spared.

A bead of sweat rolled from Eddie’s temple.

“Is Virgil worth your family, sir?” Wild Eyes whispered.

Tears streamed down Eddie’s cheeks. No. As much as he loved Virgil, he loved his wife and children more. And that was why he finally told them.

17

Rick sat in his car on the shoulder of Interstate 5 near the Sacramento airport. Farmland stretched for miles on either side, but he could see the cityscape in the distance with its handful of high rises. It probably wasn’t safe to remain where he was, not with the Monday morning commuters whizzing past, but he wasn’t in the mood to return home or go to work. He’d gone home after he got off the plane, but fled the house when he and Mercedes got into a fight. From there, he’d driven almost to Redding before turning around. And now this. He’d just received a call from a detective in Colorado who said he’d been assigned to a shooting. The victim of that shooting, a corrections officer from ADX by the name of Eddie Glover, wanted to speak with him.

The conversation hadn’t been easy to understand, which was why Rick had pulled over—so he could concentrate without having to worry about navigating. Glover had been shot in the chest an hour ago. The bullet had punctured his lung, but he’d managed to use his cell phone to call for help. Now he was in a hospital, ready to be sedated for surgery, but he’d refused to let the doctors treat him until he spoke to Rick.

How Glover knew him, Rick couldn’t figure out, until the detective put him on the line. Then Glover had mumbled that someone named Thompson and The Crew had found out Virgil was working for the CDCR.

Why Skinner had confided in Glover, Rick didn’t know. Glover couldn’t say much so he didn’t ask him. It didn’t matter, anyway. What did matter was that the whole operation had been compromised.

What the hell was he going to do? Twisting the rearview mirror so he could look into his own eyes, Rick glared at himself. He’d had such big plans for this investigation, such high expectations.

Hard to believe it was over before it had even begun….

Or was it? Did he have to pull Skinner and turn him back over to the feds?

It wasn’t hard to guess what Peyton would say. She’d never liked the idea of putting Skinner in Pelican Bay, had harped on about the danger from the first. She’d think this latest news was the proverbial last straw. But Rick wasn’t so sure. Just because The Crew realized Virgil was working for the department didn’t mean they knew he was going to Pelican Bay. Rick had asked Glover that exact question several times.

Did you mention Pelican Bay?

A rattle, a gasp and then, “No.”

You’re sure? Mr. Glover, you’re sure?

Another gasp. “Yes.”

A man who’d gone to that much trouble to reach him wouldn’t get the answer to such an important question wrong.

The detective who came on the phone after had explained a bit more fully. He’d said that from the moment he reached Glover, Glover had been trying to tell him that The Crew knew Virgil was doing some informant work in California. He claimed he hadn’t mentioned where, that he’d convinced the men who’d shot him that he didn’t know, which was why they’d pulled the trigger. They were frustrated about not getting more.

The detective also told him that Glover insisted The Crew had a very strong network in California, and that it wouldn’t take them long to track Virgil down, but Rick wasn’t confident of that. Virgil wasn’t using his real name. And there were a lot of prisons in California. It could take The Crew a long time to find their buddy. Perhaps they’d never find him. It wasn’t as if they were well-educated or sophisticated. They were a bunch of two-bit losers who’d rape their own mothers for a six-pack of beer.

So why panic? He didn’t want to give up too soon. There’d been an element of risk involved in this investigation from the beginning, and everyone understood that. As far as Rick was concerned, the level of risk hadn’t changed all that much. Skinner could handle himself. He wouldn’t get hurt. Cons like him, they were survivors.

And if Skinner did get hurt…well, Rick couldn’t say he’d be too upset. Not after Peyton’s call.

I’ve had an inappropriate relationship with him….

Does inappropriate mean what I think it means?

Yes.

Just the thought of the two of them together made him shake his head in disbelief. Where did Virgil get off thinking he could show up with all his tats and prison swagger and jump into bed with the woman Rick had been dreaming about for months? Virgil was a lowlife. Rick couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to overcome Peyton’s resistance. There had to be something about him, something she liked. She’d never shown any interest in Rick.

But she might have. If he wasn’t married…

Leaning back against the headrest, he thought about the promises he’d given his wife to get counseling. After the argument this morning, which had nearly turned to blows, he knew that was never going to work. Not in a million years. It was too late. He didn’t dream about Mercedes anymore. He didn’t think of her at all, at least not when he was away from her. And if they made love? She became Peyton….

Maybe he’d needed a shocking event like this to wake him up and make him realize his marriage was over. If not for Mercedes, he could move on and be with someone who did turn him on, someone like Peyton.

The flash of lights reflecting off his mirror startled him. Sitting up, he checked to see where those lights were coming from and found a black-and-white tucked behind his vehicle. A highway patrolman was running his license plate. A few seconds later, he used a loudspeaker to ask Rick to get out of the car.

Feeling a little self-conscious about his appearance, Rick located his driver’s license and registration and stepped outside. He’d thrown on some sweats when he stormed out of the house and hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. That plus having minimal sleep in the past twenty-four hours, and he knew he looked like hell.

“Why are you here?” the officer demanded.

Had Rick been wearing his suit, ready for the day, he might’ve played on his position within the CDCR. But, as it was, he didn’t want to mention where he worked, so he simply handed over his license. “Drowsy driving kills, right? I was sleepy so I pulled over.”

“You been drinking?”

God, he must look worse than he’d thought. “At nine o’clock on a Monday morning? Do I act like I’m drunk? Do you smell alcohol?”

Apparently his irritation was convincing because the cop didn’t ask for a sobriety test. He angled his head to peer inside the car and, when he didn’t spot anything suspicious, said, “This isn’t a good place to rest, Mr. Wallace. The cars that come past here are going too fast. One swerve and it could all be over.”

So it was safer having him get out of the car to stand on the shoulder?

“I suggest you pull off at the next exit.” He studied Rick’s license. “You only live five or ten minutes away.”

Rick’s proximity to the airport and his comment about being too tired to drive had obviously led the officer to believe he’d been traveling all night. “I didn’t say I was from out of town. I said I was tired. I was resting my eyes for a few seconds, that’s all.”