After the Dodge pulled to a stop, the old woman killed the engine and reached for her passenger seat. When she turned back around, she was holding a little sandwich that she nibbled on while gazing out her windshield.
There was one more number Paige wanted to dial, but she wasn’t going to do so while standing still. Her nerves were jangling so badly that she thought it might feel better to run all the way back to Chicago. She backed out of her spot, headed for the interstate, and began tapping out her next call.
Prophet wasn’t answering his phone. Screening his calls was one of several precautions the bounty hunter was taking after escaping Denver the night the SWAT teams took Cole away. Deciding against leaving a message, she hung up.
Her car was barely up to full speed when her phone rang with Prophet’s caller ID notification lighting up her screen. “Walter,” she said without wasting time on a greeting, “when was the last time you saw those Gypsies?”
“Number one,” Prophet replied, “they don’t like it when we call them Gypsies. It’s insulting, but only when it comes from an outsider. Maybe a racist thing. I kind of lose track, but the proper name is Amriany, and that’s what they like to hear. They carry a lot of guns, so you might wanna keep that in mind.”
“Yeah, yeah. Have you seen them lately?”
“Number two,” Prophet continued calmly, “I haven’t seen them since Denver.”
“Can you get ahold of them?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“I’m in a jam. Rico and I went after the Nymar communication hub in Toronto. We got some leads, but Kawosa turned him against me.”
Suddenly, Paige felt like her stomach had imploded. If Kawosa had somehow tracked the bounty hunter down, she could very well be making the same mistake where Prophet was concerned. If he’d already taken Rico’s side, he could call the big man and send him to her. Unfortunately, it was too late to worry about all that. She needed to trust someone, and if Walter wasn’t trustworthy, things were even worse than she’d imagined. “I need help, Prophet, and I don’t know who else to turn to. You said the Amriany had serious funding and transportation. Is there any way you could convince them to get me to Denver? It’ll take too long for me to drive, and I’m not about to surrender my weapons to make it through an airport security check.”
“Don’t you know any other pilots? What about the guy who smuggled Cole out of Canada after Gerald and Brad were killed?”
That man was a Skinner, and she hadn’t spoken to him more than a handful of times in her life. Considering what had happened with Rico and the fact that Kawosa could be turning any number of the others against her, going outside the Skinners made the most sense. “He’s not available,” she said. “It’s got to be the Amriany.”
Prophet sighed heavily. “I can make some calls. Even if I can get them to pick you up, I can’t guarantee they’ll just drop you off wherever you want.”
“Thanks, Walter. Tell them I don’t expect a free ride, but I’ve got to get away from here. Tell them—”
“I’ll think of something,” he cut in. “Just let me get to calling before you talk me out of it.”
Chapter Seven
Cole sat with his back against the side wall of his cell. He was close enough to the bars to reach out and scrape his fingers against them without having to extend his arm more than an inch or two from his body. The grating of his thumbnail against the iron was a sound that reached all the way down to the base of his skull to twang his nerves like banjo strings. After a few hours he barely even heard it anymore.
The guards filed in like a marching band. Instead of tubas and drums, however, they carried shotguns and riot shields. When he got a look at that, he jumped to his feet.
The guard who stepped forward was one of those who had been watching him since he woke up on that hospital bed. “You know the drill,” he said. “Stand back.”
“What drill?”
“To visit another section of the prison. It’s the same every time.”
“I’ve barely been out of this room,” Cole said.
When the guard approached, he looked into the cell to find nothing but bloodstains on the floor, a rumpled bed, the squat cylindrical toilet, and a wadded napkin stained with sour gravy that was the only remnant from lunch. “Turn around, get on your knees, clasp your hands behind your back and stick them between the bars.”
Cole did as he was ordered. Once his hands were extended between the bars, he felt a pair of lightweight cuffs cinched around his wrists. Unlike the cuffs that had been used so far, these were lighter and scraped uncomfortably against his skin. Twisting his hands within the restraints, he could feel the warm flow of blood start.
“Don’t fidget so much,” the guard said. “You’ll only hurt yourself. Now get on your hands and knees.”
No matter how badly he wanted to get outside his cell, Cole hated crawling for the privilege. He assumed the position, clenched his fists and planned three different ways to defend himself from an attack that might be launched when he was vulnerable. The most threatening thing he heard was the brushing of fingers against a wall followed by the creak of hinges.
“Crawl through,” the guard said. “Backward. That’s your only warning. Try to come through any other way and I’ll cave your head in.”
Cole found the opening by tapping his feet against the bars and backed through as quickly as possible. Once he was outside, he choked back the desire to jump to his feet, and instead asked, “Can I get up now?”
“Slowly.”
The guard gripped the short length of steel links between Cole’s wrists and stood behind him. When Cole tried to move in a way the guard didn’t like, he felt the sting of the sharpened cuffs against his wrists.
“Are these cuffs standard issue?”
“No,” the guard replied. “We don’t answer to anyone when it comes to how we do things. Kind of like you guys, huh?” To make his point, the guard pulled up on the cuffs to send a jolt of pain all the way up through Cole’s arms. “You want me to tighten them, just keep on talking.”
Cole looked over to the cell where Lambert was held. The skinny man held up one arm to show him a wrist that had a thick scar encircling his entire wrist. The look in his eyes was a friendly reminder to do what he was told before the guard made good on his threat. When Cole looked at the cells he passed on his way to the elevator, he expected that his head would be shoved down, as it had been upon his arrival. But the guards didn’t seem interested in averting his eyes, so he took the opportunity to catch a fleeting glimpse of a collection of specimens from what might have been in a Skinner’s field guide.
Half Breeds paced in two of the cells on one side of the corridor, while a Nymar in a straitjacket sat on the toilet in another. The cell directly beside Cole’s was inhabited by a tall man wearing a standard-issue jumpsuit. He filled out the garment with a solid, muscular build. Unlike the bodybuilders one would expect to find in a prison, this one’s skin was pale yellow, segmented by rings that sectioned his flesh into narrow strips, and covered in bumps that resembled chunks of gravel embedded beneath his flesh. He crossed his arms, flexed the gill flaps along the bridge of his nose, his translucent lids blinking open to reveal solid yellow eyes.
The elevator doors slid open and Cole was shoved inside, to find Waylon already waiting with clipboard in hand.
“Evening, boss,” Cole said in an accent he’d lifted straight out of
After the doors slid shut, Waylon replied, “It’s afternoon.”
“Really? What day?”
“Two, since you were brought here.”
“Is that all?”
Waylon nodded while scribbling a few notes onto his clipboard. “Maybe.”
“Do I get my phone call yet?”
“No.” Punctuating his note with a loud tap that would have snapped the tip off of a lesser writing implement, Waylon pressed the button at the end of his steel gray pen and dropped it into the breast pocket of a crisp, dark blue shirt. “A woman has been making inquiries at the Canon City facility about you. Is she your partner?”
