Wrecked

by Cynthia Eden

  “Plenty of good,” Cash growled back.

  She seemed to consider it. “Fine . . . you have me all wrong, you see.”

  He did?

  “You think it’s all about me being the hunter, stalking, finding these men—these criminals.” She shook her head. “That’s wrong. I’m not finding them. I’m understanding them.”

  “Like . . . profiling them?” Because he’d studied profiling plenty during his time at Quantico.

  “Something like that. But . . .” Her gaze skittered away from him. “I understand the prey that they want. I become that prey.”

  She—what?

  “I look at their victims. I see what the killers see. I become what I need to be in order to lure them in.”

  Bait.

  That soft laughter of hers came again. “You think I don’t understand you, too, Agent Knox?”

  He couldn’t look away from her, but Ana’s gaze wasn’t on him.

  “You think I don’t know why you came all the way to Atlanta in order to get me for this case?”

  “Ana . . .”

  “White knight,” she whispered. “You don’t need to protect me.”

  “You have me wrong.”

  “I don’t think so. I told you. I’m very, very good at reading people. Actually . . .” Her index finger rose to tap against her lip. Or rather, against the scar that slid across her top lip. “Actually, I’m very good at reading monsters.”

  He tensed. Cash knew Ana’s story. It would have been impossible to grow up in Texas and not know about what happened to Ana Young and her twin brother, Asher.

  Her finger paused a moment longer, then fell away from her lip. “I’m surprised the FBI gave you the go-ahead to use me.”

  Use me. Those words made him want to squirm. Guilt was riding him hard. But . . . I’m protecting her, too. I won’t let Bernie get his hands on Ana. “With a situation of this magnitude, my boss was willing to bend his normal rules.”

  “Your boss.” She still wasn’t looking at him. “Darius Vail, right? Isn’t he the executive assistant director for the Criminal, Cyber, Response and Services Branch?”

  “Yes, it’s Vail.”

  “And you’re right below him on the totem pole. The agent in charge of the Criminal Investigative Division.” Now her dark stare cut toward him. “You’ve certainly moved up the ranks at the Bureau quickly, haven’t you?”

  “I’m good at what I do.” Had she been keeping tabs on him? Careful, Ana, you’ll make me think you care.

  “I have no doubt about that.” She shrugged. “Just as I’m very good at what I do.”

  He held her gaze. “Then I suppose we’ll be perfect partners, won’t we?”

  Ana smiled at him. It was a smile that didn’t warm her dark eyes. “I guess we’ll see . . .”

  Wingate Federal Penitentiary.

  Ana stared up at the imposing structure. The high, stone walls . . . the barbed wire that covered the top of those walls. And the armed guards that she could see patrolling in the towers.

  Intimidating.

  “This place is supposed to be escape-proof,” Cash murmured as they climbed out of the rented SUV and started walking toward the gates. “It’s been open for over fifty years, and this is the first escape.”

  “Hardly the press the folks in charge would want.”

  “The warden is pissed,” he added.

  Ana shifted her attention to the gates. She could see a man in a brown suit pacing there, moving with short, angry strides. Guessing that’s the warden.

  “Of course, Warden Phelps is saying the escape didn’t happen at his facility, so he’s not responsible.”

  “A blame game isn’t going to help us find Bernie any faster.” The warden could point his fingers at the transport driver as long as he wanted. “Only thing that matters to me right now . . . does the warden know he’s supposed to stay out of my way?”

  Cash gave a choked laugh. “Um, no, but I’m sure he’ll be understanding that real fast.”

  And the warden rushed toward them. He was a tall, thin man, with red cheeks and light blue eyes. His gaze swept over Ana, and confusion flashed on his face, then he looked over at Cash.

  “Agent Knox.” The warden grabbed Cash’s hand. Pumped it hard. “Do you have news? Have your agents found Tate?”

  His agents. Right. Because Cash was in charge of a whole team of agents. Gabe had been the one to do the research on Cash and send his intel to Ana’s smart phone. It wasn’t as if she’d been keeping up with Cash’s rock star progress at the FBI over the last two years . . . But, yeah, he’d sure jumped to the top of the FBI agent hierarchy fast. His case closure rate was impressive to behold. And the criminals he’d taken down?

  She had to admire his work. He’d certainly made his mark in the Criminal Investigative Division.

  “He isn’t back into custody yet,” Cash said.

  The warden’s expression immediately turned crestfallen.

  “This is Ana Young.” Cash put his hand at the small of Ana’s back. She made herself not tense, but she still felt that odd current that zipped through her when he was near. “She’s working as a liaison with the FBI. Ana, this is Warden Hayden Phelps.”

  “Warden.” She gave him a brisk nod.

  “Ms. Young.” He said her name quickly, then looked at Cash. “I don’t understand why you’re back here. You’ve already seen his cell. Talked to his cellmate and—”

  “I haven’t done those things,” Ana interjected, keeping her voice smooth. “That’s why we’re here. Sometimes, a second pair of eyes can make all the difference.”

  The warden’s stare came back to her. And his eyes narrowed as he stared at her face. Then his blue eyes were widening—with recognition.

  Ana was used to that shocked stare. When she’d been a teen, she’d gotten it all the time. As soon as folks recognized her—boom. Hello, shock and sadness.

  As she’d aged, she’d stopped getting the stare quite so much. But it still happened. Certain true-crime buffs would always recognize her face or her name.

  Judging by the way the warden was currently staring at her, Phelps definitely recognized her. It stood to reason, though, that a prison warden would know plenty about true crime.

  “It’s you,” he said.

  Right. Me. The girl who got away. The scarred victim. The—

  “Are you his girlfriend?”

  “What?” Ana demanded, the question shocking her.

  “Tate.” Phelps rubbed his chin. “He had all of those sketches of you . . .” He took an aggressive step toward Cash. “Why did you bring his girlfriend to the prison?”

  Cash opened his mouth to reply.

  But Ana stepped in front of him. “Hey, warden, settle down.” She put her hands on her hips. “Let’s get a few things straight. First of all, I’m not anyone’s girlfriend, and I sure as hell am not involved with a piece of shit like Bernie Tate.”

  The warden blinked.

  “Next”—Ana’s voice sharpened—“Agent Knox clearly told you I was working as a liaison with the FBI—so that means I have clearance from him to be here. That clearance means you don’t get to act like a jerk when you talk to me. It means you follow orders, and the current order that Agent Knox and I have is for you to stop wasting our time and let us into the prison. We want to see Bernie’s cell and we want to talk to his cellmate.”

  The warden licked his lips. “She . . . doesn’t know?”

  He was about to piss her off. She was right in front of him and the guy was still talking to Cash.

  But then the warden spun on his heel and hurried back toward the gate. “You’ll both need to leave your weapons at the gate.”

  She hadn’t brought a weapon to this fun little tour. Not like it was her first prison visit. She knew the drill. Before she followed the warden, Ana glanced back at Cash. “There something you need to tell me before we go in?” Because the warden’s words . . . She . . . doesn’t know? were nagging at her.

&nb
sp; Cash hesitated.

  “Aw, Agent Knox,” she murmured. “You’ve been holding back. Hardly the way for our partnership to start.” Then she headed toward the gate and the warden.

  But Cash quickly caught up to her. “Tate may have . . . a fixation on you.”

  She walked through the screening area, making sure to lift up her arms while she was searched.

  Cash got a patdown near her.

  “A fixation, huh?” Ana asked. “So that’s how the warden recognized me.” And not because of my own past. Oddly, she was relieved. She hated for everyone to know about her private hell. Why did her soul have to be bared for the masses? “The guy has a picture of me in his cell?”

  The guards motioned for her to move beyond the security check. Nodding, she headed deeper into the prison. The warden was steps ahead of her.

  “Not just one picture,” Cash said, his voice rumbling behind her.

  They passed the general population area. All of the cells were locked, but the inmates rushed forward when they caught a glimpse of Ana. There were plenty of catcalls, plenty of shouts, plenty of fucking twisted offers.

  Ana ignored them all. Replying in any way would have just encouraged the men there, and she wasn’t in the mood for their shit.

  But . . . Cash moved closer to her. She could feel the heat of his body against hers. She looked back and saw that his green eyes were glinting with fury and his jaw was clenched tightly.

  “I could screw you so hard, baby!” one prisoner called out. “You’d be screaming for me to—”

  Cash stopped walking.

  Ana sighed. “Don’t.”

  But he was already turning toward the prisoner.

  Ana grabbed Cash’s arm. “We do not have time for this crap. He doesn’t matter. He’s just a dumbass locked in a cell. We have a job to do.”

  She could feel the rough tension in his body. Cash wanted to attack. Too bad, he didn’t exactly have that luxury. He was the FBI agent. He had to play by the rules.

  “That’s right, asshole,” the prisoner laughed. “Listen to the cunt. You listen—”

  Cash lunged toward the bars. The prisoner let out a yell and jerked back.

  A cold smile curved Cash’s lips. A smile that changed his face. He wasn’t handsome any longer. He was dangerous. Dark. Cruel?

  The prisoner had gone dead silent.

  Everyone had.

  “You think I can’t get your ass tossed into solitary confinement?” Cash curled his fingers around the bars. “You think I can’t make you wish for hell?”

  The prisoner—a too-pale redheaded man with tattoos covering his arms—gave a ragged laugh. “This is hell.”

  “No.” Cash shook his head. “But keep talking to her like that, and I will show you hell.”

  She grabbed his arm again. “Come on, Cash.”

  This time, he let her pull him away. The redhead didn’t say another word. Whispers and rumbles filled the air. But then the warden was leading them down a different corridor, directing them toward a separate area.

  Quieter but . . .

  Ana glanced to the right. There were still plenty of prisoners in this area, but these prisoners were different. Not wild and loud.

  Goose bumps rose on her arms when she met the cold stare of another too-pale inmate. Guess these guys don’t get out too much at all. His gaze was unblinking, and he stood just behind his bars. Watching her.

  He smiled and that smile chilled Ana to her core.

  They passed another cell. A tall man was in this cell. His arms were wrapped around his body and he was rocking back and forth and . . . humming. A low, ghostly hum.

  “These prisoners require more intense supervision,” the warden explained. He pointed to the humming prisoner. “That’s James Duman. You might’ve heard about him. James—”

  “Killed his family and stayed in the house with their remains for a week,” Cash said, cutting through the warden’s words.

  Yes, she did remember that story. At the time, she’d thought the guy had to be insane but James Duman had refused to offer an insanity plea at his trial. He’d just pled guilty, and said that he had to be locked up, tight.

  So he wouldn’t kill again.

  They finally reached the last cell, and when Ana looked into that cell, her breath caught in her throat. Now she understood just what Cash had been holding back and, yes, she could even see why the warden had asked if she was Tate’s girlfriend.

  The guy didn’t have just one picture of her on his wall.

  She was the whole fucking wall. Sketched pictures of her, one right after the other, littered that wall. Some of the sketches were of her whole face. Some were just close-ups of her eyes, of her nose. Of her mouth.

  Of the scar that sliced across her upper lip.

  Warden Phelps cleared his throat. “Prison psychiatrist said it was good for the inmates to . . . express themselves artistically.”

  Ana turned her head and stared at the warden. Just stared.

  His cheeks reddened even more.

  And soft laughter came from deep inside the cell.

  “Man had an obsession,” a low voice called out. “And I can see why.”

  Ana exhaled slowly and turned back toward that voice. She could see the speaker, a man who was lying on the bottom bunk in the cell. As she watched him, he slowly uncurled his body and headed toward her. He was an average-looking fellow, medium height, medium build. Dark brown hair, hazy green eyes. He had the kind of face that wouldn’t stand out in a person’s mind, probably exactly the sort of face that a criminal wanted. Easy to forget.

  “This is Ray Laker,” Phelps said gruffly. “He’s been Tate’s cellmate from day one.”

  Ray smiled at her.

  “Put your hands through the bars, Ray,” Phelps barked. Ray complied and the guard who’d been leading their little march through the prison hurriedly stepped up and cuffed Ray Laker’s hands, effectively pinning him in place next to the bars.

  “Let them in,” Phelps directed the guard. The young guard bustled forward and pulled out his key ring. A few moments later, the cell door creaked open. Ana walked into the cell first, making sure to take her time and not tense her body. She headed toward the back wall—and all of the images of herself.

  Cash marched to her side. “I . . . didn’t want to worry you on the way here.” His voice was low, probably meant just for her ears.

  Ana laughed. “Liar.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “You were afraid if you told me about all of this . . .” Ana waved toward the wall. “I wouldn’t help you.” Now she turned to fully face him. “What did you think? That I’d be afraid?”

  “Yes.” Again, his voice was low.

  “This doesn’t scare me. It pisses me off.” Bernie had been in this cell, and he’d been staring at her image all this time? Her words were tough and fierce, but inside . . . deep inside . . .

  Cash stepped closer to her. “It’s okay to be afraid.”

  “Screw off, Agent Knox.” She turned on her heel. “And don’t keep any more secrets from me.” She stalked toward the cuffed man. “So your cellmate . . . he wanted to make me pay, huh?”

  It stood to reason that was the case, considering that in a few of the images . . . her eyes had been scratched out.

  Ray sagged against the bars, but his head turned in her direction. “You’re Ana.”

  She tapped her foot on the cell floor.

  “Had to listen to him rage about you plenty of nights. You tricked him. Lied to him. Made him think you were weak . . .” Ray laughed. “Got to say, it sure is a pleasure to meet you. I hated that asshole Tate. Everyone else here acted like he was the big bad, but I knew he was nothing but a piece of shit. And to think . . . someone as small as you took him down . . .” More laughter.

  Ana’s hands fisted at her sides. “Yes, meeting me is a pleasure. A real thrill.” Her head cocked to the side. “Know what else would be a thrill? If you were responsible for bringing that jerk back to jail.
”

  Ray’s eyes turned to slits.

  She hadn’t been lying to Cash earlier. She really did understand monsters. She sized up Ray and knew exactly what he wanted. Power. Control. “Tate bossed your ass around the entire time you were here. Now he’s gone, and I know you don’t want him to be living the high life on the outside. You want him dragged back here, then tossed into solitary confinement. After this escape crap, you know the guards will give him hell every single day. Won’t you enjoy watching that? His hell, where you’re in charge?”

  Ray swallowed. He didn’t speak, but then again, he didn’t have to say a word. His gleaming eyes told Ana that she was right.

  The warden just watched them. The guard shifted nervously from foot to foot, and Cash . . . he was still by the wall of her images.

  “No visitors came to see Tate,” Ana said. Cash had told her that during the plane ride there. “And I’m sure the FBI is already going through all his mail, but what I want to know right now is . . . did Tate ever mention anyone to you? Anyone out there that he considered to be a friend?”

  Ray shook his head. “Bastard had no friends.”

  When you were a psychopath, it was hard to have lasting friendships. She huffed out a hard breath. “Was he excited a few days before the escape? Did his behavior change?”

  Ray’s gaze cut toward the warden. “Wouldn’t know about that . . .”

  Okay, that answer was a yes. “When did he get excited? When did he know he was getting out of here?”

  Now Ray eased back from the bars, as much as he could ease back, anyway. His gaze slid toward the wall of images. I should probably call it the Wall of Ana.

  But he didn’t speak.

  “In prison,” Ana said, considering things, “you don’t want to be a snitch.”

  Ray’s lips were closed tightly. The prisoners in the other cells would be able to hear this conversation. The warden should have tried to give them more privacy but . . .

  Sometimes, it isn’t about what you say.

  She’d read Ray right, Ana knew she had. The guy hated Tate and wanted him to suffer, but Ray also didn’t want word to spread that he’d been the one to turn on his cellmate.

  So he was telling her what had happened, without words.