From Chapter 3 of Unlawful Contact
“Let’s go, Hunter.” Cormack stepped back from the open cell
door, his voice gruff to disguise any hint of
favoritism. “Move your ass!”
Marc held out his wrists, relieved to see Cormack was
putting him in standard-issue police cuffs instead of a
four-piece. Marc had pleaded male pride, telling Cormack
that the idea of being seen by a pretty woman while wearing
full restraints was humiliating.
“I haven’t been near a chick in six years, man,” he’d
said. “I don’t want to shuffle in there like some fucking
loser.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but you’re classified red, you
know. They can’t do nothing to you they ain’t already done,
but me they can fire.” Cormack had pointed a thumb at his
own chest. “You hurt that lady, and it’s my ass that’ll be
on the line. I got kids to feed.”
It was too bad about the kids, but Marc had people
depending on him, too.
He’d allowed himself to look insulted. “I’d never hurt a
woman. Besides, why would I do anything to her? I need her
help finding Megan.”
Obviously, Cormack had believed him.
Cold steel touched Marc’s skin, the handcuffs closing with
a series of metallic clicks. Then, sandwiched between
Cormack and another guard, he walked down the long hallway
and through the first checkpoint, ignoring the shouted
warnings, obscenities, and threats that followed him.
“You think you the big bitch, don’t you, Hunter?”
“Better watch your back, Hunter! I’m gonna kill you before
I kill my number!”
“Check it out! Hunter’s going to lay some pipe. Is she
pretty?”
Marc felt his pulse pick up as they left the maximum-
security wing. He tried to tell himself it was just the
thought of what he was about to attempt that had his
adrenaline going, but he knew there was more to it than
that. It was also the thought of seeing Sophie again.
What would she think when she saw him? What would she think
of the man he was now? Truth be told, he didn’t want to
know.
It had been twelve years since that night at the Monument,
twelve years since they’d sipped sodas and shared their
dreams, twelve years since she’d made what had probably
been the biggest mistake of her young life and given him
her virginity. He’d always wondered how she felt about it
afterward, whether she’d had regrets. He certainly hadn’t.
Memories of that night had helped him get through boot
camp, sustained him through the freezing cold of
Afghanistan, and brought him back to Colorado when his term
of enlistment was over.
No, he hadn’t forgotten her.
I’m the kid who always gets in trouble, remember?
Not with me you’re not.
That night had changed his life—for a while. He’d gone into
the Army with a different sense of himself, had pushed his
way up through the ranks, becoming a Special Forces sniper
and earning the rank of Sergeant First Class before giving
up the green. He’d parlayed that experience into a post
with the DEA, hoping to put away the kind of scum who’d
sold drugs to his mother and sister. Some part of him
believed he’d overcome his past, that he’d become a man
worthy of a woman like Sophie. But in the end, it hadn’t
mattered. He’d ended up exactly where everyone had known he
would.
Why not shoot for the stars?
Marc had shot—and missed.
Tension drew to a knot in his gut as Cormack led him
through the last checkpoint and into the visitor’s area. He
was lower than a snake’s ass for even thinking of putting
Sophie through this. But she was his only ticket out of
this place, and Megan and Emily needed him. Hopefully, the
fact that Sophie knew him would give her some measure of
trust and keep her from becoming too afraid—or putting up a
fight. Then again, if she reacted too strongly to seeing
him or was friendly, the guards would get suspicious.
And then he’d be fucked.
“You taking it from here, Kramer?” Cormack motioned Marc
through the next gate and stepped aside.
“Yep.” Kramer adjusted his leather belt with its Glock
21 .45 caliber and looked at Marc with obvious
disgust. “Why anyone wants to talk to this piece of shit is
beyond me.”
Some of the tension inside Marc settled. He liked Cormack
and hadn’t been looking forward to roughing him up. But he
had no qualms about kicking Kramer to hell and back. In
fact, he’d probably enjoy it. Kramer was a cold bastard who
got off on breaking inmates’ balls.
“Over here, Hunter.” Kramer led him toward one of the
visitation rooms. “You got thirty minutes. And just in case
you got ideas about putting your hands on that sexy bit of
gash, just remember I’ll be standing right behind you.”
Bit of gash?
Yes, Marc was going to enjoy this. He met Kramer’s gaze,
smiled, the edges of the little shim he held in his mouth
sharp against the inside of his cheek.
I’m counting on it, asshole.
Then through the Plexiglas window, he saw her.
He quit breathing. His step faltered. His mind went blank.
He didn’t notice Kramer opening the door or ordering him
inside or shoving him into a chair, one beefy hand on his
shoulder. He was oblivious to the heavy click of the
locking door, Kramer’s hulking presence behind him, the
weight of the handcuffs on his wrists.
He was aware only of Sophie.
She was even prettier than he remembered—not a teenage
girl, but a woman. Her strawberry-blond hair was still
long, and she wore it up in a style that was both feminine
and sophisticated. Her gentle curves seemed fuller,
softening the professional cut of her navy blue blazer and
skirt. Her face seemed even more delicate, her cheekbones
higher, her lips more lush, her eyes impossibly blue.
Fairy sprite.
He bit back the words and drew in a deep breath to clear
his mind.
A mistake.
Her scent slammed into him, subtle and fresh and so very
female, igniting every drop of excess testosterone in his
blood. How long had it been since he’d smelled anything but
the sweaty bodies of other men? If his hardening cock was
any indication, too goddamn long.
Jesus H. Christ!
He fought to clear his mind, to think, to relax. He needed
to focus, to rein in his hormones, to control his emotions.
Anything else would get him killed.
She seemed to study him, her expression detached, her hands
folded in her lap. She wore on rings—no engagement ring, no
wedding band. She reached to shake his hand. “I’m Sophie
Alton from the Denver Independent. Thanks for agreeing to
meet with me.”
That’s when it hit him.
She didn’t recognize him.
She has no idea who you are, Hunter.
The realization came like a fist to the gut, cutting short
his breath, the force of it taking him completely by
surprise. It had never occurred to him that she might not
remember him. It didn’t seem possible, but he could see in
her eyes that it was true.
He willed himself to speak, took her small hand in his,
tried not to look like a man whose world had just
imploded. “My pleasure.”
Helluva blow to the ego, isn’t it, dumbass?
But it was more than that.
It meant that she would be terrified.
He looked at her sweet face, saw the girl he’d made love to—
and wondered how he was going to bring himself to do this
to her. Then he thought of Megan, alone and running for her
life, Emily in her arms, and he knew he had no choice. He’d
already lost his sister once. He wouldn’t risk losing her
again.
Sophie pulled her hand back, feeling strangely
uncomfortable. There was something about the tone of the
inmate’s voice, something in the way he looked at her…
She set her digital recorder in the middle of the table,
cleared her throat. “Since I can’t have my notebook or pens
here, I need to record our conversation. I hope that’s all
right with you, Mr. Hunter.”
He nodded, his gaze focused entirely on her. “Whatever you
want.”
Marc Hunter wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d known he’d be
tall because his sister was tall. But Megan was also
fragile and out of shape, the result of heroin addiction, a
sedentary life and years of prison food. There was nothing
fragile or out of shape about Marc Hunter.
At least six-foot-three, he was athletic and well built,
his orange prison smock stretched across a broad chest, the
sleeves of his white undershirt rolled up to reveal
powerful, tattooed biceps, the U.S. Army’s eagle and shield
on his right arm and an Celtic band on his left. His brown
hair hung to his shoulders, thick and wavy. A dark beard
covered the lower half of his face, concealing most of his
features, emphasizing the hollows in his cheeks and his
high cheekbones, and giving him a threatening look that was
lessened somewhat by a full mouth. His eyes were a piercing
green that seemed to see beneath her skin.
Even if she hadn’t read his criminal record, Sophie would
have known he was dangerous. He had an air about him—
intimidating, menacing, aggressive.
A killer.
She pushed the record button and struggled to compose her
thoughts. “Um… As I’m sure you know, I’ve been following
Megan’s situation since—”
“I’ve read the articles,” he said, adding, “obviously.”
She hadn’t revealed to DOC officials that her interest in
this interview had originated with an anonymous caller sent
by the inmate, sure they’d refuse to grant her request
under those circumstances. She wasn’t going to acknowledge
that fact now, either, not with Lieutenant Kramer
listening. Mr. Hunter might not care whether he aroused
their suspicions, but she did.
“What you might not know is that I care very much for Megan
and Emily and haven’t been able to think of anything else
since they disappeared. I was hoping you might have some
idea why she vanished or where she’s gone.”
His lips curved in a slow smile. “And here I thought you
might be able to tell me.”
Confused, Sophie stared at him. He had contacted her,
hadn’t he? The man who’d called had told her that Marc
Hunter would be able help her with Megan. And yet Hunter
was sitting here saying that he hoped she had information.
It made no sense.
His smile faded, and his expression grew serious. “Megan is
a very troubled young woman, Ms. Alton.”
And you’re a model citizen!
Sophie kept her expression neutral and waited for him to
say more.
“She’s been fighting drug addiction since she was a
teenager, and every time I think she’s made it, she
relapses.”
No news flash there. Sophie had already reported this in
her articles. “Are you saying you think that’s what has
happened this time?”
“That’s what your article led me to believe.” He stretched
out, his muscular leg brushing against hers beneath the
table.
She sat up straighter, tucked her feet beneath her chair,
wondering if the contact had been accidental. The guy had
been in prison for six years, after all. He wouldn’t be the
first inmate she’d interviewed who’d tried to make physical
contact. “I know Megan was in touch with you. Did she say
anything to make you think she’d started using heroin
again?”
“I haven’t had contact with Megan for years. We’re not
allowed to communicate with one another, as I’m sure you
know. What did she say to you?”
Growing annoyed by this purposeless, circular conversation,
Sophie found herself glaring at him. What kind of game was
Marc Hunter playing? She glanced up at Lieutenant Kramer,
who looked like his mind was a thousand miles away, then
back at Hunter. “Is there anything about Megan you’d like
to tell me, Mr. Hunter?”
He started to speak, his words cut off by a coughing fit.
He raised his cuffed hands to cover his mouth, croaked
out, “Can I get… some water?”
Lieutenant Kramer nodded, and Sophie realized he expected
her to get it.
“All right.” Biting back a retort about middle-aged men and
sexism, she stood, crossed the room to the water cooler,
and filled a little paper cone.
Why had Hunter wanted her to come down here? If he had
something to tell her about Megan, why didn’t he just tell
her? He’d known a C.O. would be present during the
interview, that he wouldn’t be able to speak with her
privately.
She carried the water back and held it out for him.
It happened all at once. The splash of cold water against
her wrist as he exploded out of his chair, hands somehow
free, feet flying. Her own scream as Lieutenant Kramer
fell, unconscious or dead, his weapon out and in Hunter’s
hands. Hunter’s iron grip as he grabbed her wrist and
yanked her roughly against the hard wall of his chest.
Their gazes collided, his green eyes as hard as jade and
unreadable.
Light-headed, her body shaking, her pulse frantic, she
gaped up at him, tried to jerk away. Then her splintered
thoughts drew together, formed one word. “N-no!”
“Don’t fight me, Sophie!” He wasn’t even out of breath. “I
don’t you to get hurt.”
From outside in the hall came shouts and the shrill peal of
an alarm.
They knew. The guards knew. They would stop him.
They would protect her.
Stay calm, Alton. Stay calm.
Even as the words entered her mind, she found herself spun
hard about, her back crushed against his ribs, his arm
locked around her shoulders. She heard him rack the slide
on the gun, felt the cold press of steel against her
throat, and then she did understand.
You’re his hostage, Alton. He might kill you. He
might kill
everyone.