Operation: Midnight Tango. Linda Castillo
“Don’t hurt me any more.”
The doctor and the man in the suit exchanged looks. The doctor couldn’t meet his patient’s eyes as he administered the powerful sedative. “Just a little something for the pain,” he said as he slid the needle into the man’s arm.
“Can’t…murder…” The prisoner’s voice trailed as the drug seeped into his system.
The man stared coldly at the sedated prisoner. “You made sure he has no ties?”
The doctor nodded. “Just like the others. No family. No friends. He’s a lifer and hasn’t had a visitor in two years.”
“The Bitterroot Super Max has been fertile ground for patients. Make sure it stays that way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m having another prisoner delivered to you. He should be here within the hour.”
“Another patient? Tonight? But it wasn’t—”
“I want him given the treatment. Full dose. Make sure the outcome is fatal,” he said icily. “Nobody will care if he passes away unexpectedly.”
The doctor felt as if a noose were slowly tightening around his neck. “Yes, sir.”
“Once you’re finished here I want you to take the data you need for the report and destroy everything else. I don’t want anything left behind.”
Understanding all too well what the man meant, the doctor nodded. “I’ll notify the crematorium right away.”
“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the sensitive nature of this project.”
“I don’t need to be reminded.” A man didn’t forget about something that tormented him day and night.
When the man left, the doctor wheeled the prisoner into the testing chamber and tried hard not to brood about what he’d done. He tried even harder not to consider what he had to do next.
Chapter One
Zack Devlin jolted awake to the clanging of steel against steel. He was on his feet in an instant, his every sense honed on the two corrections officers standing outside his cell.
“Stand down, convict.”
Stand down was the term officers used when they were about to enter a cell. It was a safety procedure that called for a convict to lace his fingers, then put his hands behind his head. What were two corrections officers doing in his cell in the wee hours of morning?
Zack assumed the position, his heart racing. “Isn’t it a little early for tea and scones?” he asked.
The first corrections officer was Mitchell. He treated the convicts with a firm hand but never unfairly. The other officer was about as pleasant as a bad case of the flu. He liked to tear down a man’s dignity. Maybe even hurt a man if he got the chance.
Mills’s keys jangled as he unlocked the cell door. “Step back.”
Zack did as he was told, but his nerves were on edge. Both men entered his cell. “If I had known you were coming, I would have tidied the place up.”
“Shut your smart mouth and show me your wrists,” Mills said sharply.
The Bitterroot Super Max Prison was a place of routine. Day after day after day that routine never altered. Two corrections officers coming into his cell at four in the morning and cuffing him was definitely not part of the routine.
“What’s this all about?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“Turn around,” Mills repeated. “Now.”
Knowing he didn’t have a choice, Zack turned and offered his wrists for Mills to snap the nylon restraints into place. The thought that his cover might have been compromised floated through his mind. But he knew that was impossible. The agency had been meticulous in setting up the assignment and his background. There was no way anyone could know.
“Spread your legs.”
Zack wasn’t wearing a shirt. Just a pair of wrinkled drawstring pants that were issued to all the inmates for sleeping. “Not much room to hide a weapon,” he said.
“Just following procedure. Do it.”
Never taking his eyes from Mills, Zack did as he was told. He ground his teeth as Mills’s hands moved swiftly and roughly over him.
“He’s clean.” Mills grasped the restraints and shoved them up and between Zack’s shoulder blades. “You’re going to the infirmary.”
Zack’s heart rolled into a fast staccato. He was all too aware what went on in the prison’s infirmary. What the hell was going on? “I’m not sick.”
“Doc says you need a blood test.”
“I don’t need a blood test.”
Mitchell tapped the clipboard he held. “Got the order right here, partner. Let’s go.”
“What’s the blood test for?” Zack asked, his mind spinning through all the scenarios that could be waiting for him in the infirmary. None of them were good.
“You can ask the doc when you get there. Now move it.”
The instinct to fight was strong, but any attempt to make a stand or run would be futile. He’d learned to choose his battles since arriving at the prison four months ago. Experience told him this wasn’t one he would win. He couldn’t stop remembering all the other inmates who’d gone into the infirmary and come out bloody or burned—or not at all.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. In another hour he was supposed to rendezvous with his contact from MIDNIGHT. Zack had a sinking feeling he wasn’t going to make it. When it came to the prison infirmary, a single hour could mean the difference between life and death.
As they guided him down the corridor, he figured he had about two minutes to come up with a plan. But then, he’d always been able to think fast on his feet.
He only hoped he came up with something fast enough to save his life.
AT FOUR IN THE MORNING, the prison corridors were as dimly lit as an underwater cave. Emily Monroe’s boots echoed off of concrete and steel as she hurried toward the infirmary. Her shift didn’t begin until five, but she’d come in early to do some poking around in the infirmary. She had plenty of questions that needed answering. Like what had happened to the two inmates who’d gone into the prison infirmary and never returned to their cells. Since Dr. Lionel didn’t seem disposed to explaining, she figured she’d just have to get the answers on her own.
At the end of the corridor, she swiped her security card, then punched the four-digit code into the keypad set into the wall. The steel lock snicked, and she shoved the door open.
The prison infirmary was as dark and silent as a tomb. Odd, since the facility was manned twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The utter quiet gave her a prickly sensation on the back of her neck.
Puzzled, she tiptoed to the second door that would take her to the inmate receiving area, the procedure rooms and inmate holding cells. She swiped her card, watched the red light change to green and opened the door. She found the interior as still and dark as the rest of the place. At the very least she’d expected Dr. Lionel’s graveyard-shift assistant to be in her office, working on her computer. Where was everyone?
Growing increasingly apprehensive, Emily rested her hand on the pepper-spray canister clipped to her belt and started down the hall. The soft thud of her boots kept perfect time with her heart, which was beating far too quickly.
She passed exam room one and flipped on the light. She saw an examination table, stainless-steel counters and a pull-down light. But not a soul in sight.
Emily didn’t scare easily, but in the three years she’d worked as a corrections officer in Idaho’s Bitterroot