Emily didn’t scare easily, but in the three years she’d worked as a corrections officer in Idaho’s Bitterroot Super Max Prison she’d learned to trust her instincts. Right now those instincts were telling her something was terribly wrong.
Shoving open the door to exam room two, she turned on the light and spotted the outline of a man beneath a sheet splattered with blood on the examination table. Crossing to the table, she peeled away the sheet. Apprehension zinged through her when she saw the waxy flesh of the prisoner’s face. His blue lips. A thin line of blood had trickled from his nostril and dried black. His eyes were partially open. He was dead.
Queasy with fear, she touched his face. His body was still warm. What was going on here? Where was Dr. Lionel and his assistant? What had happened to this inmate?
She thought again of the other inmates who’d gone into the prison infirmary and vanished. For weeks she’d been asking questions and making inquiries, but no one in a position of authority had given her a straight answer. This morning she’d taken matters into her own hands and come here to have a look around. She hadn’t expected to find a dead body….
Struggling to remain calm, Emily tugged her radio from its sheath. “This is zero-two-four-niner. I’ve got a code—”
Movement from behind her cut her words short. She spun. The blue steel of a gun flashed. She saw black hair. Dark eyes. An unshaven jaw. A hot jet of adrenaline burned through her. Gripping the radio, she brought it to her mouth. “Code—”
A hand snaked out and ripped the radio from her grasp. In her peripheral vision she saw it sail through the air. She lunged toward the door, but in an instant the man was upon her, his hands encircling her biceps before the radio even hit the floor.
“Don’t make a sound if you want to live,” he said, his eyes glittering with threat.
Emily broke his hold and jumped back. “Stand down, convict! Do it now!” She tried to sound authoritative, but her voice held a damning quiver of fear.
“Stay calm and don’t fight me.” He started toward her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
She didn’t know if it was the gun in his hand or the look in his eyes, but for a single, terrible instant she was frozen with fear. An inmate armed and desperate with absolutely nothing left to lose was every corrections officer’s worst nightmare.
She stepped back, raised her arms to stop him, knowing they wouldn’t. “Get away from me.”
He didn’t stop. “Just do as I say and you won’t get hurt.”
She barely heard the words over the rapid-fire beat of her heart. She looked at the gun in his hand, measured the distance between them, the distance to the door. She wondered if she could reach her radio on the floor before he shot her in the back.
An instant later her training kicked in. Springing forward, she kicked the gun from his hand. The weapon clattered to the floor. Before he could pick it up, she tried a palm-heel strike to his face, but he blocked it. Spinning, she lashed out with her left foot, landing a kick to his abdomen. Grunting, he reeled backward. She then reached for the canister of pepper spray clipped to her belt. She brought it up while simultaneously diving for her radio. She had to get to that radio!
He moved with the speed of a big, hungry cat taking down its prey. In a single smooth motion he scooped up the gun and spun toward her. With his free hand he slapped the canister of pepper spray from her grasp. The next thing she knew, his hands were on her shoulders, digging into her flesh, and she was being shoved backward into the examination room.
“For a corrections officer, you don’t take orders worth a damn,” he growled.
“Get your hands off me!”
“Calm down and listen.”
A yelp escaped her when her back hit the wall. She was pinned. She tried to use her knee, but he shifted sideways, blocking her attempt to disable him. She squirmed, but his body was as hard and unyielding as a brick wall against hers. “Unless you want to end up like that man on the table, don’t try that again,” he warned.
His voice was low and dangerous. She detected an accent. Irish maybe. But she was too scared to think too hard about it. His face was only inches from hers. So close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. She stared into eyes the color of dark-roast coffee, saw deadly intent and desperation and realized he wasn’t the kind of man who made idle threats.
“You can’t possibly think you’re going to get away with this,” she said breathlessly.
“That’s exactly what I think.” Every nerve in her body jangled when he shifted away and leveled the gun on her chest. “Get your hands up.”
Emily raised her hands to shoulder level. “I’m not armed.”
“Nothing personal, but I’d rather make that determination myself.” Never taking his eyes from hers, he ran his hands quickly and impersonally over her body, pausing when he discovered the extra canister of pepper spray strapped to her ankle. Damn.
“Guess you forgot about this.”