Dawn Stewardson - Falling For The Enemy

SLOAN PRESSED THE BUTTON on the post, then identified himself to the disembodied voice that responded. When the gate opened, he reluctantly drove into the Poquette Correctional Center compound, really not looking forward to this visit with Billy.

Hayley Morgan had done anything but endear herself to him by not recommending a transfer, so predicting how he’d react to the idea of letting her see her son wasn’t tough.

After parking his Cherokee in a visitor’s space, Sloan climbed out into the gathering morning heat and checked the staff section of the lot for Hayley’s car. One of Billy’s boys had told him it was a silver Taurus and given him the plate number, which made it easy to establish that she was already here. Here and expecting him to stop by after he’d seen Billy.

And if he had to report that Billy had said “No way she can see her kid...” Hell, that was undoubtedly what he would say, regardless of how hard Sloan argued.

Telling himself he’d just have to hope the luck of the Irish was on his side today, and that his powers of persuasion were in top form, he started across the dusty parking lot toward the dirty brick quadrangle that was Poquette.

When he opened the front door, stale air wafted out toward him. Wishing for the tenth time that he didn’t have to be here, he stepped inside and walked the few feet to the metal detector, sticking his keys and loose change on a tray before stepping through.

Once the correctional officer on door duty nodded for him to proceed, he retrieved his things and headed for the reception counter, trying to stop remembering the way Hayley had looked yesterday when he’d told her Billy’s men had snatched Max.

He couldn’t force the image from his mind’s eye, though. Hadn’t been able to, in fact, since he’d woken up this morning. In mere seconds, she’d gone from a picture of calm composure to a portrait of anguish.

Seeing her face grow pale and her dark eyes fill with terror had made him feel lower than an alligator’s belly. He hated being a part of what was happening to her and her son, and if he could, he’d simply deliver the boy back to her.

But that just wasn’t an option.

Exhaling slowly, he reminded himself he was only doing his job. That usually helped.

It didn’t this time, though. Probably, he knew, because Hayley Morgan wasn’t like most of the other women he’d had dealings with while working for Billy.

Actually, unless his memory was failing, she wasn’t like a single one of them. She was intelligent and cultured and...

And dammit, she appealed to him in a way he couldn’t let any woman appeal to him. A way that was physical, yet dangerously more than that.

There was something about her, some substance or inner strength, that had reached out and grabbed him. As upset and frightened as she’d been, as close to dissolving into tears as he’d known she was, she’d pulled herself together and coped with the situation as best she could.

He liked that strength, liked the way... But hell, there was no point in defining what touched him about her. Since she had to figure he was the scum of the earth, thinking about that was nothing except a waste of time.

At the reception counter, he gave his name and identified himself as William Fitzgerald’s lawyer. The correctional officer checked the appointment log, then buzzed the door unlocked. It led to a small room where another C.O. had him empty his pockets.

“What’s that for?” the officer asked as Sloan set his minirecorder on the table.

“I use it to tape conversations with clients.”

The C.O. picked up the recorder and examined it, removing and then reinserting the cassette before checking that the space for the batteries contained nothing it shouldn’t.

As he put the unit back down, Sloan began to breathe more easily again. It hadn’t happened yet, but there was always the risk that one of these guys would notice the extra switch.

“Face the table and place your hands on it,” the C.O. ordered.

When he did, the man treated him to a thorough pat-down—one of the joys of visiting someone in protective custody.

“I’ll call ahead and have the prisoner brought from his cell,” the C.O. said when he’d finished. “Then I’ll get someone to escort you to the visiting room.”

CHAPTER FOUR

BEYOND THE PUBLIC AREA of the Poquette complex, the stale air was heavy with disinfectant. But even an industrial-strength cleaner couldn’t quite mask the smells of urine, vomit, smoke and body odor. By the time the guard escorted Sloan all the way to the small room used for visits with segregated prisoners, he felt as though he hadn’t showered in a month. Billy was already there, waiting with another guard. The man retreated into the hall when Sloan arrived, ostensibly assuring them of privacy by closing the door, but they were easily visible through its chicken wire window. Plus, Sloan suspected prison officials often listened in to what was being said in the room—despite the fact it would contravene prisoners’ rights. That, of course, was the real reason for his tape recorder.

After setting it on the small table between Billy and him, he pushed both the switch that started the cassette recording and the one to activate the bugdetecting gizmo in the. secret compartment.

Billy sat gazing at the unit, a look in his eyes that told Sloan he was smiling to himself. But why wouldn’t he be? He loved beating the establishment. Any aspect of it. And the tiny detector was state-of-the-art. There wasn’t an electronic listening device in existence it couldn’t pick up on, and if it sensed one within a hundred feet its warning light would start blinking.

They waited a few seconds, but the light didn’t come on. Even so, they’d watch their words and speak mostly in whispers—just in case the guard outside the door had supersensitive hearing.

“Mission accomplished,” Sloan said once he was satisfied that nobody was eavesdropping electronically.

“I know. Brendan phoned last night.”

Sloan nodded, not surprised. Most prisoners weren’t allowed unrestricted access to a phone, but Billy had more than enough money to buy whatever privileges the guards were willing to sell.

He also had enough smarts to carry on conversations that, although they’d sound perfectly innocuous to anyone listening in, were actually full of messages and orders. That was what enabled him to be pretty much still running the Irish Mafia.

His son was the heir apparent, and no dummy himself. But at the moment Brendan’s main job was simply to keep Billy informed and relay his orders to the boys.

Leaning across the table, Billy quietly said, “Does our friend have any good ideas?”

He was referring to Hayley, of course. And asking if, since she’d screwed up their plan, she’d suggested an alternative way of getting him outside the prison.

Other ways certainly existed. They all knew that. But someone like her, on the inside, would know which ones were most likely to succeed at this particular prison. And which one she could be the most help with.

“We haven’t really gotten into that yet,” Sloan said. “Our friend wants something first.”

“Oh?” Billy’s expression suggested that nobody had invited her to negotiate.

“Wants...visiting privileges with her son,” he whispered. “An hour or two an evening.”

For a moment, Billy merely stared across the table. Then he sat back and said, “Fat chance.”

Sloan swore under his breath. He’d known that would be the reaction.

“Getting what you want’s going to take time,” he said. “And our friend’s concerned about the...item’s emotional well-being. And...”

He paused when he saw that Billy was already growing impatient. The man didn’t give a damn about why Hayley wanted to see her son. Or about Max’s mental health. Hell, he never really gave a damn about anyone except himself. So the only thing to do was convince him it would be to his benefit to let Hayley have what she wanted.