Inside

3

Having been out of prison for less than a week, Virgil hadn’t quit looking over his shoulder, marking the exits in a room, remaining aware of the people around him. He couldn’t stop, not if he wanted to stay alive. As soon as the leadership of The Crew figured out that he’d switched sides, they’d send a couple of foot soldiers to kill him. So he’d started putting a piece of dental floss in motel doors if he planned to return.

Wallace had laughed when he saw him do it. He’d said, “They couldn’t have tracked you all the way up here. Not yet.” That had to be why the government wasn’t in any big hurry to take Laurel into custody. They didn’t understand how quickly The Crew might react, how fast they’d go after anyone connected to Virgil, anyone he loved, if they couldn’t reach him.

Virgil never assumed he’d be safe. If he died, there’d be no one to protect his sister. His service to the department was all he had to trade on her behalf. And right now he was damn glad he’d gone to the trouble of using that floss—because it was gone.

Someone had been in his room.

Maybe the management had sent over a maintenance man to fix a leaky faucet or running toilet. Or a maid had checked to make sure he had his full complement of towels. It could be either of those things—but didn’t have to be.

He considered making Wallace aware that there might be trouble. But the associate director’s TV was already blaring. He didn’t carry a gun and was probably worthless in a fight. And Simeon didn’t want him to know he had a weapon.

Setting his bag of groceries on the ground, he clutched the steak knife he’d stolen from the restaurant in his left hand. Fortunately, he was ambidextrous enough that he often fought with his left just to throw his opponent, who was more often right-handed, off balance. It wasn’t much, especially if he was facing two or three people, but today his experience and prison tactics were all he had.

Fully expecting a bullet to come whizzing out from the interior, he ducked as he threw open the door. But nothing happened. When the door merely shut, he didn’t know what to think. Especially because that floss hadn’t just slipped to the ground; whoever had gone into his room had tracked it inside. In the split second the door had swung wide, he’d spotted it lying on the carpet.

Not only that, the light was on, even though Virgil had turned it off.

He couldn’t imagine a maid would be that sloppy. But a maintenance man? Maybe.

Propping the door open with his groceries so he could get out fast if he had to, he crept inside. If someone was waiting for him, he couldn’t see who. Or where. The chair was tucked under the desk. There was no space under the beds. And only a very skinny man would be able to conceal himself in such a tiny closet. The door of that closet stood open, anyway, from when he’d taken out the ironing board.

Whoever it was had to be in the bathroom.

Pressing his back to the wall so his reflection wouldn’t be visible in the mirror, he listened for movement and heard…nothing. Then, just as he was about to step inside, he caught a slight rustling.

The shower curtain…

His intruder was in the tub.

Peyton’s chest seized the second Virgil threw back the shower curtain and hauled her toward him. She twisted her ankle struggling to stay on her feet despite her high heels, but the scream that built in her throat never escaped. He had her on the carpet outside the bathroom with a knife to her throat so fast she could barely whimper.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” he growled, pinning her beneath him.

Snippets of the many nightmares she’d had since starting work in corrections flashed through her mind as she stared helplessly up at him. He’d just been released from ADX Florence, could be as dangerous as anyone at Pelican Bay. She halfway expected him to slit her throat, but he cursed and threw the knife to one side instead.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” he asked again, only this time, in many ways, it was a different question. There wasn’t an edge of menace in his voice anymore. He was irritated and angry, yes, but she no longer felt that her life was in danger. He got up and backed toward the wall, but once he realized she didn’t have the strength to stand, he came forward again and offered to help her.

Shaking too badly to reach up, Peyton waved him off. She doubted she could put any weight on her ankle even if she could get to her feet. “I was…” She managed to shove herself into a sitting position and almost finished with, I was sure you were going to kill me. That was all she could think, over and over, as if she’d hit her head instead of her shin when he’d dragged her from the tub. But why repeat the obvious?

In an effort to make sure she didn’t, she closed her eyes and kept her mouth shut, too.

“Um, don’t freak out, but…you’ve got a little cut,” he said.

Peyton wiped the moisture from her neck and stared down at the red on her fingertips—blood. “Who are you?” she whispered. “Who are you really?”

He didn’t answer. He went to get a washcloth, then bent down next to her so he could press it against her injury.

The scent of his aftershave filled her nostrils, much stronger now that he was so close. And the beauty of his eyes was even more riveting. “Why are you in Crescent City?” she asked, taking the washcloth so he could let go.

He went into the bathroom and came out holding the letter she’d tried to retrieve.

“If you’ve read my mail, you know.”

Propping herself against the wall for support, she tried to decipher what was going on. “Virgil Skinner? That’s your real name?”

He walked over and pulled the groceries inside so the door could close. “Yes.”

As she’d guessed. “Are you…on parole?”

“Sort of,” he admitted.

Sort of wasn’t enough. “After sixteen years in corrections, I’ve never heard of anyone being ‘sort of’ on parole.”

“I was exonerated in my stepfather’s killing.”

Take another deep breath. “But…they have something else on you.”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“What I did on the inside.”

Oh, hell… “Are we talking murder?”

When he didn’t respond, she knew she’d guessed correctly and the thought of that made her queasy. “I see.”

“No, you don’t.” Bitterness oozed through those three small words, but he didn’t attempt to justify or explain his actions. He acted as if it would be futile to even try, that she wouldn’t believe him no matter what.

He was seasoned, all right.

Pulling the washcloth away, she studied the size of the red streak to determine how badly she’d been cut. Her injury wasn’t life-threatening, but it stung. “How long were you really in?”

He guided the cloth back to her neck. “Fourteen years.”

A lot more than six…. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

Four years younger than she was. “That means you went in when you were…eighteen.”

“Like I told you before.”

“So it wasn’t all lies.”

“Not all of it.”

He’d spent nearly half his life in prison. The tragedy of that didn’t escape her. Neither did the fact that he’d gone in as an innocent young man, wrongly accused, and been shaped into a killer. How was that for proof that the penal system wasn’t working?

Her skirt had bunched up around her thighs. She smoothed it down, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Why did Wallace say you worked for Department 6?”

“He used them on another investigation, and he knew they were mostly retired military with some trained civilians. He figured it would make a believable background. I certainly don’t look like a regular cop.”

“No.” She had to clear her throat to boost the volume of her voice. “But…I still don’t understand. Why all the lies?”

His thigh muscles contracted as he crouched in front of her. He had so much physical strength—but that wasn’t the only thing that made him intimidating. Anger, determination, even resentment, rolled off him like sweat. And, come Tuesday, she was going to be responsible for his safety and the safety of those she put him in contact with….

He was answering her question. Yanking her gaze from his thighs, she struggled to pay closer attention.

“We’re trying to protect the only family I have left.”

“Your mother?”

“I don’t claim her.”

“Then your sister.”

He chucked the envelope onto the desk. “Yes.”

“Why? What do you need to protect her from?”

“From the gang I joined when I was inside. When they realize I’m walking away, they’re going to make sure I pay, and if they can’t get to me, they’ll kill her, maybe even her children.”

“So you’re debriefing.” Debriefing meant disassociating and divulging everything he knew about the gang to which he’d belonged. It also meant agreeing to testify.

“Not exactly. I have nothing to say about The Crew. I’m merely trading my services for a new identity—for myself and my sister.”

“You’re using what you learned about gangs by being a member of one to infiltrate the Hells Fury?” Where he had no loyalties.

“Basically.”

She searched for the knife he’d held to her throat and saw it lying in the corner of the room. “But…Wallace doesn’t trust me? Or Fischer? He felt he couldn’t confide in us?”

“Trust entails a certain amount of…risk. I don’t take risks. Unless I have to,” he added begrudgingly.

“So you insisted on a new identity.”

“That’s right.”

Apparently they cared so much about his request, and felt so beholden to him for endangering his life, they’d slapped together a “résumé” that hadn’t even fooled her. Nice of them… “So what makes you think you can be successful?”

“The Crew isn’t that different than the Hells Fury. I can get in.”

Peyton’s head was starting to hurt as badly as her ankle. It was the stress. And she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Sometimes she just got too busy. “Prison gangs are racially based. Does that mean you’re a supremacist, a racist?”

“I’m a survivalist.” The wryness in his voice told her as much as his words that it’d been a practical decision. Joining a gang often had nothing to do with believing in the ideology. It was about having protection when you needed it, about living to see the next day in a racially charged environment where survival would be nearly impossible without allies. In prison, you either conquered or were conquered.

She knew which side a man like Virgil would choose to be on. He’d conquer or die trying.

He, more than anyone, would know the stakes involved in what they had planned. And yet he was going back inside—as an informant. He couldn’t possibly put himself in a more untenable position.

Then Peyton remembered the letters she’d found in his bag and the suspicion his sister had conveyed about being watched and everything became a little clearer. The Department of Corrections had found a man they could bend to their will because he had someone he hoped to protect. If he managed to gather the information necessary to bring down the Hells Fury, he and his sister would get new identities—for real—which would also give him a clean slate. Apparently they hadn’t charged him for whatever he’d done on the inside. Maybe they couldn’t; maybe they didn’t have the evidence they needed for a conviction. But they were still holding it over his head.

And if he didn’t succeed? What would it matter? He wasn’t a police officer with a family and a community behind him who’d demand action and answers in response to his murder. He was just another gangbanger, and they could prove it. That made him expendable.

“You can’t get what you want by informing on The Crew?”

“No. I won’t give up any member of The Crew.”

“You still feel certain…loyalties?”

“I honor my word. It’s that simple.”

“How do you know you won’t find friends—people you won’t want to rat out—in the Hells Fury?”

“Because I don’t need a friend. What I need is a fresh start.”

“So you’re working against the Hells Fury instead as…some kind of compromise?”

“Exactly. From the way they’re growing, and the control they’re exerting, they’re just as big a threat as The Crew. And I haven’t given them my word—on anything. They’re fair game.”

So…he’d be a fraudulent gang member—a “buster”—when it came to the Hells Fury. But that was just as dangerous as snitching on his own gang. Maybe more dangerous because he’d be locked up with the men on whom he was informing and they’d feel very little loyalty to one so new.

Peyton cringed at the memory of what the Hells Fury had done to Edward Garraza, the last brother they’d suspected of turning “traitor.” A corrections officer had found him in the laundry with his toes and fingers cut off and his eyes plucked out.

“That can be hazardous to your health,” she said.

His eyebrows slid up. “Since when did anybody care about that?”

He knew the score. That was partly what bothered her about Virgil Skinner. Keen intelligence showed in his eyes, in his bearing. At a minimum, he was smarter than the average gang member, many of whom had little or no education. He’d likely been swept up by events he couldn’t control, and they’d carried him fourteen years down a path he never would’ve chosen. Which hardly seemed fair. No more so than being forced to make the sacrifice he was now making as a result.

Peyton climbed carefully to her feet. Her ankle hurt, but she hadn’t twisted it so badly that she couldn’t stand. It would be fine in a few days. “Why were you incarcerated in a federal institution?”

“Because I was prosecuted federally.” He grimaced. “Tougher sentencing laws. Otherwise, maybe I would’ve met you sooner, since I’m from L.A.”

The return address on the letter from his sister had indicated Colorado Springs. “But your sister’s in Colorado?”

“That’s right. She left L.A. to be able to visit me on a regular basis.”

“She sounds nice. I hope the government’s putting her in the Witness Protection Program immediately.” Because he was right. If he left The Crew, they’d put out a hit and “torpedo”—send someone to shoot—his loved ones. The fact that they were watching Laurel so overtly meant they were trying to scare her—and keep Virgil mindful of his allegiances and his duty to support them in their criminal activities. Those could include murdering someone, charging taxes for drug deals going down on what they considered their turf or robbing a bank.

“They’re going to move her soon. Now I just need to do my part.”

Which wouldn’t be easy and it might even be impossible. “Blood in, blood out,” she murmured. No wonder he’d reacted the way he had when she’d said that before. He knew the meaning of those words far better than she could’ve imagined.

A bitter smile curved his lips. “Blood in, blood out.”

Peyton felt such sadness for the dreams his sister had expressed in her letter. We’re going to live the most boring, safest lives in the whole world, she’d written, and just the opposite was true.

“Do you think your mother had anything to do with the murder of her husband?”

“I’d bet my life on it.”

That explained why he hadn’t opened her letters. “A pretty unequivocal response. What makes you think—”

“And that’s all I’ll say on the subject,” he interrupted.

Peyton could see why he might not be eager to discuss it. She didn’t need to know any more, anyway. She’d already figured out what she deemed important.

After their little tussle, her hair was too messy to walk outside and risk running into Michelle. Pulling out the elastic, she shook it loose so she could redo it. “You’re not the luckiest man in the world, are you?”

He leaned against the wall and watched her from beneath half-lowered eyelids. “No. But I haven’t done myself any favors, either.”

At least he accepted responsibility for his actions.

“So where do we go from here?” he asked. “Are you planning to march over to Wallace’s room and try to blow up this deal? Because you won’t succeed. The department isn’t going to back off. They have me right where they want me, and they’re going to take full advantage of it.”

The more she complained and raised hell, the less chance Skinner would have of keeping a lid on what he was doing. She felt it was safer to say nothing. For now, anyway.

“No. I’m not even going to tell him I know.” She limped into the bathroom, tossed the bloody cloth in the sink and examined the cut on her neck in the mirror. “Whether or not you tell him is up to you, since you’re the one putting your life on the line. But I want you to understand one thing.”

When he came to the doorway, he blocked it and she instantly felt trapped. “What’s that?”

Her injury was just a nick, nothing serious. “Fischer has put me in charge of this operation, so…you’d better play nice.”

“Which means…?”

“No games. You trust me, tell me everything as soon as you possibly can, and I’ll work to protect you.”

“Why’d Fischer put you in charge?”

Using her fingers to groom her long hair into some semblance of order, she created another knot at her nape. “It’s what he does when he encounters anything too…volatile.”

“You got stuck with the assignment no one else wanted.”

“Basically.”

“I feel sorry for you.”

Sarcasm. “I won’t apologize for caring about my job.” Taking another look at the cut on her neck, she dabbed at the fresh blood. “Just know that, for the time being, I’m the only friend you’ve got.”

His gaze slid down her body. Either he’d noticed she was favoring her ankle and wondering if she was seriously hurt, or he was trying to intimidate her by reminding her that she was, after all, no match for his strength. “How friendly do we want to be?”

She rolled her eyes at the suggestiveness in his voice. Then she turned on the faucet and dampened a clean washcloth so she could remove the blood from her suit before it stained. “You nearly slit my throat. That’s hardly an aphrodisiac.”

“You broke into my motel room. There are people who might see that as…somewhat Freudian.”

“Which gives you an excuse to come on to me?”

He lifted his large hands. “Hey, I’m just playing my part, right? Isn’t that what you’d expect from a guy who’s been without a woman for fourteen years?”

She studied him in the mirror. “‘Without a woman’ doesn’t necessarily mean you haven’t been sexually active.”

“I’ve never had sex with a man, if that’s what you’re implying. But you’re not going to bed with me, so what does it matter?”

After hanging the cloth on the towel bar, she turned to face him. “If you knew that already, why’d you ask?” she said, but she could guess easily enough. He wasn’t used to being around a woman, let alone working with one, not since he’d been incarcerated, and this was his way of establishing some boundaries between them. After more than a decade of being forced to adhere to strict rules governing every interaction, he was probably uncomfortable with so much freedom. She understood the psychology, but still found the behavior fascinating.

“I asked so you could quit pretending,” he replied.

“Excuse me? Pretending what?”

“To look at me like a human being. I’m garbage, right? A beautiful woman like you, someone with a normal life and so much…promise, has no interest in gutter trash like me. I’m nothing to you.”

“Fortunately, I don’t know exactly what you’ve done. And I don’t want to know. Since we’ll be working together, I’d rather not let that form the basis of my opinion.”

“Hiding from my history won’t change who and what I am.”

He was the one pointing that out? That said a lot about him, evoked a certain amount of respect, however grudging. “What’s the problem, Simeon? Afraid I’ll expect you to act like an honorable man?”

“Honorable?” He chuckled under his breath. “I’m not worried about that. Just making a few things clear.”

“Well, there’s no need to draw such a solid line between us.”

“Because you’re not likely to forget who and what I am?”

“Because you’re not interested in me in the first place.”

He leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “Why do you say that?”

“You don’t like authority figures.”

Reaching around her, he grabbed the cloth. Then his chest came within an inch of her breasts as he wiped the cut on her neck. She could tell he expected her to flinch. He was trying to prove she wasn’t really willing to treat him like any other man, despite her words.

But she didn’t jerk away, and that seemed to surprise him. Judging by the expression on his face, it also piqued his interest.

“Tell me how I’m not interested in you again?” he murmured.

“Stop testing me. I work with convicts every day. I won’t spook just because you stand close.”

Strong emotion flashed in his eyes as he took hold of her arm. “Maybe you should be more frightened than you are,” he said from between gritted teeth. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

If he wanted to hurt her, he would’ve done it when he held the knife. So why was he dead set on displaying himself in the worst possible light? To make sure she wouldn’t give him a chance to prove he could be so much better?

She wanted to ask, but didn’t. She knew she’d be stupid to tempt him into revealing how terrible he could be. Besides, she preferred to keep her distance. He made her uneasy. But not because she feared him. Just the opposite, in fact. She saw something decent and worthy in him regardless of all he’d been through, all he’d said and done—which was dangerous in its own right. Feeling empathy or anything else for a man caught in this type of no-win situation could only lead to heartbreak.

“Next time you proposition someone, you might show some tenderness,” she said, and stared at his fingers, which were still wrapped tightly around her arm.

“Some women like it rough,” he said, but he let go simply because she’d indicated she wanted him to, and that made her smile. He was what she thought he was—essentially a good man.

“You can’t always play it safe,” she responded.

“Play it safe?” he echoed.

She removed her high heels so she could walk without stressing her ankle and squeezed past him. “Someday you might actually want to feel something that goes beyond the physical.”

He didn’t follow her. “That won’t be any day soon.”

Considering what he had to face in the coming weeks, that day might never come. But she didn’t see any reason to state the obvious. “Get some sleep,” she said, but then she spotted the groceries and remembered that he’d used them to prop open the door.

Hesitating, she turned back. “How’d you figure out I was here before you even entered the room?”

“I pay attention to detail,” he said, and this time when his gaze dropped to her legs, she got the impression he wanted her to know he was enjoying the view.