CALLEN (Second Chance Novels Book 3) (12 page)

As soon as John Bennett looks up at me, a twisted grin disfigures his face.
 

"Mr. Fells," he drawls. "Or are you Mr. Reed today?"

I don't say a word as I take in every detail of our surroundings from my periphery. Hatred and training fight for control of my actions as I walk toward my target. He doesn't bother to move, but rather stands amused by my presence. I want to see fear in his eyes. If I had unlimited time and a few basic resources, I'd be content to torture this man for a good long time. Unfortunately, the precision necessary to complete my task requires a quick conclusion.
 

With a solid, determined step and a quick flick of my arms, I have him in a
stress position
, which is a clinical way of saying I'm close to ripping the tendons in both shoulders. Wishing I could flay him with my field knife, I can only twist his arms. He groans loudly with the increased pressure, but laughs again.
 

"You want to know who killed my frigid bitch of a wife?" he taunts me.

A red haze washes over my eyes as he laughs again. In pure hatred and barely-controlled rage, I drop his arms and strike his kidney with wrecking-ball force. He buckles quickly, and I flip him to his back with equal speed. His last vision will be my triumphant, corrupt smile as I avenge the woman I love; and I refuse to allow a single word from him to alter my efficiency.
 

"Look close, you jackass," he wheezes out through a demonic grin. His words don't register.

A regaining of focus propels me into final action. I pull a crude shiv from the sleeve-pocket of my coveralls. Bennett, however, shows no fear. I refuse to react to his mocking chuckles or another insult of Evvie. Like the experienced killer I am, I force myself to detach from my boiling emotions. With rapid finesse, I strike him in the chest and abdomen many times over.
 

Strike after angry strike, I expect release to ease my muscles. Every strike tenses them more, and I stab my enemy more than I need to in order to sell the ruse of someone else killing him. Not many people would foster this level of rage, and I force myself to stop. I'm not sure there'd ever be enough wounds in this man's body.
 

Finally, his face betrays pain as a final breath gurgles wetly from his throat.
 

I watch. It's over. I stand and look at his corpse. Too much time passes while I simply look. All I can do is turn and walk away. Blankly I work through my exit strategy, stopping in the utility closet to bleach my hands and scrub my face and hair. With zero thrill I navigate by stealth to the furnace to burn my coveralls. In total desolation, I return through the ceiling of the warden's private bathroom with perfect control. A quick check of security cameras on his computer confirms my ability to return to my desk unnoticed…and…bereft. I return my focus to my exfiltration and to my win.

Justice is served.

Status quo is my focus.

Maintaining my laid back persona after a stealth kill is harder on this mission than it's ever been. Two people stop by my office to bring me paperwork or to simply say hello. One stops to ask about an email. I smile and help each of them with their purpose. My gut drops in panic, however, when Quinn stops in.

"Hi," I smile genially.

"Hi," she says, then pauses with a mild reaction to my greeting. "Everything ok? You seem…I'm not sure what you seem."

"Of course," I reply, maybe a hair too quickly and a micron defensively.
 

Her expression fades from curious to concerned. With a step into my office, she closes the door behind her before she sits across from me. "Come on, Callen."

"I appreciate your concern," I smile with practiced ease. "But I'm fine. My friend, Shelby, is having a rough time. I'm worried about her."

The more truth I use in my lie, the easier to believe. My training supports me while I make my way through this conversation. I'm fairly certain my deliberate nonchalance plays out correctly, but the emotional turmoil over the kill might be fogging my ability to control my reactions.

I realize Quinn is aware of my act, and now I am terrified along with empty. My brain seems unable to process the complexity, and suddenly I wish I were in the Army again. No emotion filters through a mission. Someone else makes decisions. Exit strategies and mission debriefs conclude the kill.
 

Here, I swirl in the aftermath, drowning…all while Quinn regards me with intelligent eyes and experience-based insight. She works with killers every week; she'll recognize the killer in me.
 

"If you're sure," she says, gazing at me half-sideways. "I hope she's ok. Let me know if I can help."

"I will," I nod appreciatively. "Thank you."

"Of course," she nods kindly. "I haven't eaten yet. Do you want to tell me about it over lunch? Maybe I can offer some suggestions."

My mouth gapes open as I try to answer her with appropriate timing. I fail miserably, because I pause long enough to rapidly consider both answers.
 

Yes
, I should have lunch because we nearly always do, and declining will indicate the stress I'm working to deny.
 

No
, I should not have lunch because I'm a goddamn mess, and she'll pick up on every subtle hint of my angst.

"Quinn, I'm sorry," I nearly stutter before I gather myself and smile. "I'm behind on the report on cafeteria efficiency, which means I can't have lunch today. And yes, I see the irony."

She chuckles and offers me a nod of acceptance, followed quickly by another expression confirming she suspects more.
 

Maybe by the time she returns I'll have gotten past this completely unprofessional reaction to my mission. I see her brain working behind those keen eyes and I panic again. I shouldn't have gotten this close, but I don't see how I could have avoided her. Between the accreditation requirements and her insight into the workings of the entire prison, I needed to rely on her counsel. The warden would have questioned my reason not to.

I've been avoiding thinking of Quinn. I don't think I can avoid her any longer. She may be a friend, she may be
more
, but she's a liability for my mission. Damn it. I need to collect myself and keep tabs on what she's thinking, so I take a deep breath to focus my brain. A second deep breath calms my body. A third prepares me to move forward.
 

I walk from my office directly to Quinn's, and step in to apologize. "I'm sorry, you're right. Lunch would be great, and I'm not sure how to best help Shelby. I'd love your insight if you're willing to go. My treat."

She regards me again carefully, then agrees to go with a smile. "Good. I didn't want to eat alone. Let me get my purse."

I wait for her in the hallway, and as she walks out, the prison alarm sounds and lights begin flashing. By the time the voice of a security officer comes over the loud speaker, nearly everyone is in the hall to find out what's going on. My face matches their confusion, but my gut tightens. The next few minutes are crucial. I can appear no different than anyone else.
 

Lock down. Lock down. Protocol gamma. All inmates return to your cells. Lock down.

A second announcement is made in the office area through our phone system
. Hey everyone,
the chief security officer's voice sounds
. John Bennett from Cellblock D has been found dead, stabbed with a shiv. We are going through full lockdown procedures, and once we've spoken with each of you, we'll be evacuating all non-essential personnel. Please stay in your wing and we'll get you out as quickly as possible. Hang tight while we get all the inmates in their cells.

Quinn's keen eyes shoot directly toward me upon the words
John Bennett
. Shock, disbelief, and undeniable comprehension push from behind her pupils. My God, she knows.

In an effort to hide my guilt,
I offer mild shock along with the other staffers and mild annoyance at the inconvenience. A few people grumble about being stuck, and I shake my head in shared annoyance.
 

"At least we have each other," I joke in my laid-back tenor I use here. Everyone adds to the white noise of the conversation, except one.
 

I don't know how she knows, but she
knows
. And now, as I stand here nonplussed by the situation, she has her guard up completely. Her body language combines with her silence in a frosty stance. Mistrust shadows her face as she stares.
 

I look over to her in an attempt to bring her into the now-gossipy conversation about inmates and who likely killed Bennett, but her jaw is clenched. She causes no drama, but the silent communication between us drowns out the din of the office area.
 

There's no point in faking my demeanor anymore, not where Quinn is concerned. I doubt anyone else notices our stand-off, but the tension between the two of us tightens the entire room.

The office staff is stuck waiting a while for corrections officers to come into the wing. I spend the time in my office, avoiding Quinn, until we're called to gather in the common area. The chief himself addresses us all.
 

"John Bennett was stabbed to death while working at the library. We have a few suspects right now who are being interviewed. Additional police are here for the official investigation, but some of you know these prisoners well, and some of you know the facility well. We'd like to talk with each of you briefly before we send you home. Non-essentials won't come back until contacted. Any questions? …good. We have officers bringing food up from the cafeteria."

With a solemn nod, he exits the room. The office staff shuffles to their desks again, and I purposely brush by Quinn and speak beneath my breath. "Not a word until we talk. Please."

Her eyes flick to mine with too many opinions swirling behind them. She pauses a beat and offers a tiny, single nod. Thank God. I return to my desk, grumbling again about the inconvenience. Quinn, however, moves silently. I sincerely hope she can keep herself together for the interview, and I pray no one will notice the change in her mood as anything more than a reaction to our shared situation.
 

The server and internet access have been shut down, so I can do little other than obsess over my kill. People mill around aimlessly while they wait for food, and everyone, including myself, heads to the break room once snacks are brought up. Quinn remains at her desk.
 

Panic over her reaction occupies most of my brain. The other part sits confused over my dissatisfaction. Bennett deserved to die, and he's dead. I avenged a beautiful woman who was wronged so violently, and her ghost can rest. I should be running my victory lap with a righteous flag draped over my shoulders, but emptiness deflates my chest…and still I must remain in character.
 

I watch Quinn's door from across the common area, observing carefully for any signs indicating her mind set. Her keen insight and intelligence served to make an accurate conclusion about Bennett's death. I can only hope she also realizes the man I am.
 

I may be an assassin, but I'm not a murderer.
Unless I am
. Is vengeance the line of demarkation between the two? If so, I jumped over that line today and landed painfully on the other side.
 

Nearly another two hours pass before I'm called in for an interview.

"Mr. Reed," the officer nods, early signs of exhaustion etching his face. "This shouldn't take long. You work part time here?"

"Yeah," I answer with deliberate casual language. "And I work for the state commission, not directly for the jail."

"Right. And have you had any previous contact with John Bennett?"

"Not since he's been in prison. I saw him at a function once."

Again, I offer enough truth to keep my lies believable.
 

"And here?" the officer asks.
 

"I probably walked by him during my tours of the facility," I say thoughtfully. "But no conversations. I haven't spoken to any of the inmates. I may do a few interviews before I'm done, but nothing yet."

"And do you know anyone who would want to harm him?"

"I watch the news enough to know he made a lot of enemies, but I don't know anything specific."

"Ok," he says with a nod. "That's all we need for now. This is all a formality anyway. We're fairly certain we have our killer already."

"Oh, great," I say. I want to know which patsy will be taking the fall, but I can't be overly interested without being noticed. "I'm assuming I'm included in the non-essential personnel?" I ask with mildly-hopeful smile.

"Yeah, you got your vacation," he smirks. "Thanks for your time. We'll let you know if we need anything else."

I thank him and walk away knowing I nailed the interview, but the rest of the situation remains unstable. My perceived innocence rests in Quinn's hands alone. Two more staffers are interviewed before Quinn is called, and I can barely breathe while she's in the conference room. My outward demeanor, of course, remains the same as the workers around me, but all I can think about is getting out of here and getting Quinn alone for a conversation. She needs to understand.