Guilty by Karen Robards Page B

eyes widening in surprise, Kate saw a face pressed to the grill in the door. It was a man with deeply tanned skin and a shiny bald head, his features faintly distorted by the glass. What was clear, however, was that he was looking at them as he tried without success to open the door.
    "Fuck." Her captor sounded angry. "Open the door."
    This was addressed to her, and she did as he told her. There were dead-bolt locks on each cell door, but the latches were on the outside. Of course. The prisoners needed to be locked in. In all likelihood, there weren't locks on the inside.
    Her stomach knotted as she realized just how close she had come to making a fatal mistake.
    She was just registering with some confusion that the dead bolt didn't seem to be engaged after all when the door was thrust open and the newcomer pushed through it. He was, she saw, a little taller than her captor, maybe five-eleven or so, with an unnaturally muscular, wide-bodied upper torso that told her he was a fan of steroids and he'd had plenty of time to work out—probably in prison. His orange jumpsuit strained at the shoulders and around the sleeves. His biceps bulged. His neck was as thick as a bull's. He had bushy, dark brown eyebrows above smallish brown eyes; a meaty, triangular nose; and a thin-lipped mouth wrapped in a neatly trimmed dark brown mustache and goatee.
    There was a big black pistol in his hand.
    "The hell happened to you? And where's Newton?" Her captor growled, pushing her face-first against the wall as he spoke. As the cell door closed right beside her nose, she got a glimpse inside before it clicked shut. Three men sprawled motionless on the floor. She could see only the legs of two: One was wearing an orange jumpsuit. The other was a blue-uniformed deputy. The third man was another deputy. Unnaturally pale, he lay facedown, dead or unconscious, she couldn't be sure which. He had short, thick black hair and was thin and looked young.
    "Newton's in there, dead. Damned deputy who brought him over from the jail still had a shot left in him. We were on our way out when Newton bought it. I stopped to finish the deputy off, and the damned door jammed." In contrast to her captor's obvious agitation, this guy sounded untroubled. Kate stayed where she had been shoved, cheek and palms pressed against the smooth, cool wall, heart thundering like a herd of wild horses. Now she had two armed murderers to contend with, and nothing even resembling a plan. "Couldn't believe it. Damned door wouldn't open for nothing. I was stuck as a duck." His tone changed. "It went to hell, huh?"
    "Hell, yeah, it went to hell. You think I'd be back in here if it hadn't gone to hell?"
    "Pack and Little Julie?"
    "Dead, both of 'em. Meltzer never showed with the truck, damned unreliable shit. Maybe he couldn't get through. There was po-po everywhere, all around the building, already there when we shot out the window, like they'd been tipped off or something. Little Julie jumped anyway, and they tore him up. Pack bought it in the courtroom. I grabbed her"—Kate could feel them looking at her—"the hot little pro-se-cu-tor"—he drew the word out mockingly—"and ..."
    He broke off as the phone at the end of the hall began to ring.
    The shrill peals made all three of them start and look toward the source.
    "Who's that?" There was an anxious edge to the new guy's voice now.
    "How the fuck should I know? Wait—maybe it's the cops. Maybe they got the helicopter."
    Up until that point, nobody had made a move to answer the phone, which continued to ring imperiously. Now a hand closed around Kate's arm: Orange Jumpsuit swung her away from the wall and shoved her toward the phone.
    "Move your ass," he said to her as she stumbled in her thrice-damned shoes before finding her footing.
    "Helicopter?" the new guy inquired.
    "I gave 'em fifteen minutes to get me a helicopter or I pop her." Orange Jumpsuit sounded proud of himself. "Hey, Miss Prosecutor, what time is it now?