Linda Castillo - Operation - Midnight Tango

“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.”

“I like to be prepared in case I get jumped by some piece-of-scum convict.”

She spotted blood on the underside of his wrist as he tossed the canister into the trash container. Not an abrasion he might have sustained in a scuffle but a clean slice. The kind of incision a doctor would make for a surgical procedure. She wondered if he’d overpowered Dr. Lionel during some kind of minor surgery.

“Where’s Dr. Lionel?” she asked.

“We don’t have time for questions.” He motioned toward the door with the gun. “You’re coming with me. Let’s go.”

“Where are you taking me?”

He was wearing only a pair of prison-issue drawstring pants. No shirt. No shoes. He was built like a distance runner, with long limbs and an abdomen that looked as if it had been carved from stone. His chest was rippled with muscle and covered with a sprinkling of black hair. He was grace and power rolled into a single disturbing package.

Tearing her gaze away, she tossed a covert glance at her fallen radio a few feet away. If she could reach it, all she needed to do was hit her personal alarm button and alert dispatch that she was in trouble….

“Don’t even think about going for that radio,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you, but if you force my hand, I will.”

She met his gaze levelly. “You don’t want to do this.”

“What I don’t want is to become one of Dr. Jekyll’s guinea pigs.”

Dr. Jekyll’s guinea pigs? Emily didn’t know what he meant by that. The guy was obviously delusional. She knew better than to engage him, but if she could talk him down, she stood a better chance of coming out of this unscathed. “You don’t stand a chance of getting out of here. Even if you make it out of the building, the tower guards will be all over you.”

“I’ll take my chances with the guards. They’re a hell of a lot less lethal.” He gestured with the gun toward the door. “Let’s go.”

She led him from the exam room to the interior door, but her hands were shaking so violently she could barely swipe her security card. Once the green light flickered, she tugged open the steel door and took him into the darkened hall. She sensed the presence of the gun as she walked, the almost tangible aura of danger surrounding the man as she took him into the main corridor.

“I need a uniform and coat,” he said.

She started to protest, but he raised the gun and aimed it at her face. “Get them for me,” he said. “Now.”

In his gaze she saw violence and unpredictability and understood that if she didn’t do exactly as he said he would kill her. “The locker room,” she said.

“Take me there—and make it fast.”

They took the corridor at a run with Emily in the lead. She hoped desperately for a fellow corrections officer to appear, but the shift hadn’t yet ended and this particular corridor was deserted.

By the time they reached the locker room, she was breathing hard and sweating—partly from the exertion, partly from fear. The locker room was a narrow tiled room that smelled of dirty socks. One wall was lined with a double row of slate-gray lockers, the other with stainless-steel shelves, matching hooks for towels and coats and gear. A wide doorway opened to the shower room.

“Find me a uniform.”

Emily crossed to one of the lockers. The convict stood behind her while she removed a uniform and shoved it at him. “Take it and go.”

He took the neatly folded shirt and pants, then stepped back and set the gun on the bench. Never taking his eyes from hers, he hooked his thumbs around the waistband of his own pants. “Don’t even think about running,” he said. “I shoot just as well naked as I do clothed.”

Ridiculously embarrassed, she averted her gaze as he stepped out of his pants. Clothing rustled. For a crazy instant she considered making a run for it. But while Emily was fast, she wasn’t fast enough to get through that door without risking a bullet in her back.

She stole a look at him out of the corner of her eye. He’d picked up the gun and was buttoning the shirt with his left hand, holding the gun on her with his right. The shirt was a tad too large but passable. In the darkness of early morning, he would pass as a corrections officer.

“Put on your coat,” he said.

She jolted at the sound of his voice. He was dressed now, right down to the cap and boots. Only he had a gun. A gun he’d vowed to use if she didn’t do exactly as she was told.