Sapier picks up the makeshift weapon and holds it up to the light. “I’m supposed to gut her with this? It would take me hours.” He tosses it onto the table next to the spare stun guns. “Tell me one of you idiots has arealknife?”
Collins passes the man his KA-BAR. “Take mine, sir.”
The long blade is a hundred times more lethal than the cheap, plastic shiv. Fucking hell.
Somewhere in the distance, a buzzer sounds. Bastian passes Sutton the stun gun, rubs his hands together, then removes his own knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh. “Two minutes until lights out.”
Sutton jabs the twin prongs against my right side, but doesn’t fire. Bastian takes up position on my left.
“I know you killed the two idiots I sent to your house, Reynolds. They were expendable. But Parker…he was a friend. I’m going to make you scream. Maybe even beg before the end. Natasha’s last sight will be me standing over your dead body.”
If I didn’t think I’d need every ounce of strength I have left to survive this, I’d tell him to go fuck himself again. Instead, I flex my fingers and pin my gaze to the door.
West, you had better be as good as you say you are. Natasha’s life—and mine—depend on it.
Natasha
I stare up at the ceiling, waiting for something—anything—to happen. The first buzzer sounded seconds ago, which means lights out can’t be too far off.
Raelynn told me to rest, but like that wasevergoing to happen. Instead, I focused on her other instructions.
The toiletry kit was a goddamn goldmine.
The toothbrush cover popped off to reveal a small metal blade embedded in the cheap, plastic handle, and I stuck the weapon into my bra. Inside the bag of earplugs, I found one of Hidden Agenda’s comms units. Though it’s been utterly silent so far.
I ripped the sanitary napkins to shreds and found a set of lock picks. Those are in my right shoe. The comb converted into the thinnest pair of brass knuckles I’ve ever seen. Possibly too thin to do any actual damage, but I’ll take what I can get. I tucked them into my pocket.
The washcloth wasn’t a washcloth at all, but a tank top that felt like it might be Kevlar. I put it on immediately under the bright orange prison shirt.
I was almost disappointed when the deodorant turned out to be…deodorant. Then again, I didn’t get any after my shower.
Now, stretched out on the bed, I wonder how long it’ll be until they come for me. Bastian must have at least two or three guards on his payroll. Maybe more. Plus the four other members of his squad. Eight? Nine? Hidden Agenda only has five. Plus whoever they pulled in from Boston. But they’d have to get them all inside, and someone would notice a whole lot of people they’d never seen before.
“Lights out!” a man calls. He passes by my cell, glaring at me for a brief second before he continues on his way.
Shit. The man from the plane. The one who gave Doc the shot of insulin. He was easily six-foot-three. Solid. Maybe mid-forties. I’d stupidly thought most of the guards here would be women.
The little device in my ear beeps once, and West’s voice brings tears to my eyes. “We can’t get into the kitchen, the laundry, or the storage areas. Too many eyes we can’t trust. You could be headed for any of them. If we can’t get to you—if shit goes sideways—I promise, we will make these bastards pay.”
“Get Doc out,” I whisper. “And tell him?—”
“Tell him yourself.”
I want to argue. But the bright lights dim, and my heart leaps into my throat. It’s not dark. I don’t think prison iseverdark. But the few occupied cells in this row start to settle.
The woman next to me is brushing her teeth. Someone else flushes a toilet. Down the line, another woman starts to sing softly.
A shadow falls across the end of the bed. The cell door slides open—almost silently.
The man rushes in, pins me to the mattress, and covers my mouth with his hand. His partner stands over me with a Taser. “Make trouble, and I’ll use this.”
Panic threatens to take over. If the man on top of me looks too closely, he’ll see the earbud. If his knee moves even an inch, he’ll feel the brass knuckles in my pocket. The blade between my breasts is sharp against my skin. What if it cuts me and they see the blood?
I manage a weak nod, and the heavy weight lifts. “We’re moving you to a new cell, Inmate Winters,” the second guard says, a little louder than before. “Come with us.”
Forcing a couple of deep breaths, I get to my feet, keeping my hands at my sides.
Muñoz—the one who pinned me down—takes my right arm and pulls me out of the cell. His partner, Romey, wraps his hand around my left bicep, squeezing so hard, tears threaten my eyes.
