We were barely through the door when I shrugged out of my jacket and let it drop to the floor. One by one, I kicked my shoes off, and backed slowly away from Luke as I unbuttoned my pants.
Luke hit a switch that turned on a single, dim lamp, then he removed his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt as he approached me.
By the time we climbed the spiral staircase and reached his bed, his shirt hung open. He stood in front of me, studying me with those intense, moss-green eyes.
Behind him, floor-to-ceiling windows exposed the darkness that extended from Coop’s farmland to my own. The only light in the small barn apartment came from the dim lamp on the first floor and another lamp that glowed warmly beside Luke’s bed.
I stepped to him and ran my fingers along his waist, up his ribcage, and spread them wide across his chest. Pushing his shirt aside, my hands roamed over each curve of his biceps and forearms until I shoved his shirt to the floor.
Luke gripped my hips and lifted so that I could hook my legs around him. I immediately slid my hands into his hair and leaned in to press my lips to his.
He laid me gently on the bed and covered my body with his.
“I’m already starting to forget,” I said breathlessly as he buried his face into the crook of my neck.
He lifted his head, pinning me with a determined gaze. “I’ll help you forget everything on the other side of these walls, Faith, but not this. You’re going to remember this. And in the light of day, we’re going to deal with why we keep ending up here.”
When his mouth took mine this time, it wasn’t slow or gentle. And it wasn’t meant to comfort. No, the way his mouth moved with mine, sucking in my lower lip and tugging with gentle teeth, was meant to ignite. To set a fire deep in the pit of my stomach.
And as he ran his hand down the side of my body, brushing against the side of my breasts and down my rib cage, I shivered from the thrill of it. I couldn’t turn away from him. Not this time. I didn’t want to.
God, I’d missed him. I hadn’t let myself admit to missing anything from the past. I simply didn’t think something that felt this good was meant for me.
And as he took me to peaks I hadn’t thought possible, I knew there was no turning back.
TWENTY-NINE
LUKE
I awoke to Faith’s scantily clothed body tucked in close to my own, our limbs a tangle beneath the thick comforter. Her soft breathing told me she was sleeping peacefully.
I hated to disturb her, but I was supposed to meet Coop in less than an hour.
I shifted slightly, trying to slip out from under the covers without waking her. But as I did, her arm went around me and held tight. “Where are you going?”
I relaxed for a moment and kissed the top of her head. “I have to get up. But you sleep. An agent will be here before I leave and will stay with you today.”
“What time is it? It feels like the middle of the night.”
“Just after seven.”
“What?” Her head popped up and turned toward the windows. “Shit! I have to go.” She moved to climb out of bed, but I circled my arms around her.
“Wait,” I insisted, and threw her back against the pillows and shifted my body on top of hers. I pinned her arms to the bed and lifted my body so that I could stare down at her, memorizing how she looked wearing one of my t-shirts and a pair of her lacy panties. “Where are you rushing off to?”
She blinked up at me. “Why do you want to know?” And just like that, she erected yet another wall between us.
I angled my head and lifted a brow. “Try again,” I said.
Her face relaxed. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Sleeping with me gives you every right to know my every move.”
I leaned down and kissed the side of her neck. She fought against my hold on her wrists and tried, without much effort, to buck me off. I kissed the other side of her neck and then each cheek before I pressed my lips to hers. Then I spoke softly next to her ear. “I only ask where you’re going because I care.” I kissed her again. “When someone cares, and when there’s a killer interested in that person he cares about, one tends to get a tad protective.” Again, I pressed my lips to her neck and moved against her in a way that we both knew where this was headed. “Now, do you want to try again?”
“I’m meeting with Chief McCracken this morning to see if he could use a forensic photographer.”
“Now, was that hard?” I asked as I continued to move against her.
“Luke, I don’t have time…”
“Sure you do,” I said as I swiftly removed her panties and slid into her. “I’ve seen how fast you can get ready.”
And just like that, I took her under again. Last night, she’d wanted to forget all the bad that had happened around us this week, but this morning, I wanted to give her something amazing to remember as she moved about her day.
By noon, Coop and I arrived at the Kentucky State Penitentiary, where we were shown around by Alan Acosta, a corrections officer who had worked the front lines of this particular prison for more than twenty years. Acosta apologized that Warden Parish wasn’t able to meet with us as he was on still on leave following his wife’s murder.
Coop and I had toured correctional facilities before, of course, but we were both new to being assigned to Kentucky full time, so this was our first foray into the Kentucky State Penitentiary.
We toured the mess hall, walked through one of the cell blocks, and ventured into a prison yard. As we walked through the facility, I was struck by a pungent cocktail of odors that screamed of irreparable frustration, fear, and anger. The scents of body odor mixed with strong cleaning supplies and were topped off with the aromas of really bad cafeteria food.
Prisoners of a maximum-security prison relinquished most, if not all, freedoms when they entered their new home for the duration of their sentence. And I imagined many prisoners held onto some semblance of their former life deep within themselves, showing that frustration, fear, and anger any time the feelings they hid within were threatened.
“This way,” Alan said, and he led us along the building that served as a barrier for one side of Yard A at the prison. “This area isn’t typically associated with any particular group of prisoners.”
We stood with our backs to the building so that we could see everything as it happened in the prison yard, currently empty.
Gradually, prisoners entered the yard, one single-file line at a time.
Alan stood so that he could easily turn his back to the inmates when he spoke, but also keep an eye on the activity. Of course, Coop and I had already been briefed, and instructed to watch for any sudden movement in the yard and to keep our voices down. Prisoners were known for their extra-sensitive hearing, and they were always on high alert for any information. And they would definitely take an interest in a couple of feds touring their facility, assuming they figured out who we were.
Five armed guards stood strategically around the yard, and since Coop and I were required to relinquish our sidearms when we entered the prison, the guards on the perimeter went a long way toward easing our anxiety. We didn’t fear the prisoners, necessarily, but we weren’t looking for confrontations today.
Groups of tattooed men wearing various colors of jumpsuits, each color representative of the inmate’s level of risk to the population, casually strode into the yard.
Some men were chosen at random for strip searches. They would immediately drop their uniforms and turn three-hundred-sixty degrees, baring their naked asses before they dressed and moved on. The way they handled themselves—their quick movements, the puffing out of their chests, and the squaring of their shoulders—revealed anger on the surface, barely masking undercurrents of fear and humiliation.
By the time the parade of inmates exiting the prison stopped, small groups formed around the yard. A group of black men played basketball to our right. But not all men in the group played at the same time.
A half-dozen Hispanic men gathered around a picnic table directly
across the yard from where we stood. No one sat with his back to us.
Seven white men did various exercises to our left. While one man did push-ups, another seemed to stand watch. There were steel bars anchored to the ground by concrete that were used for pull-ups and other arm and chest exercises. In addition to avoiding putting their backs to us, inmates seldom turned their backs on each other. And if they did, an ally stood close by.
In all, there were probably five or six distinct groups scattered about.
“How many gangs would you say are present in the yard today?” I asked.
“Five, currently, plus a small group of inmates—mostly newbies—who are holding out and trying not to get involved in prison politics at all. Of course, by not getting involved…”
“They’re getting involved,” I finished for him.
“Exactly.” He glanced toward a couple of white men by the fence. One of the men had a buzz cut and wore blue prison clothes, while the other was dressed in yellow. “Those two are the latest inmates. Arrived just last night.”
A couple of the white men began walking in our direction. “The two coming our way are scouts,” Alan whispered. He stopped talking while the two men meandered by. They didn’t say a word as they continued on a long, winding stroll around the yard.
When they were out of earshot, Alan said, “They’re curious as to why the two of you are here. But they’re also making the rounds to find out what’s being talked about—who’s planning to jump who, who’s selling what. They’ll also pass very closely by the newbies. They might say something to the two new guys, but they might just try to intimidate them for now.”
He turned and made a sweep with his eyes, then moved in closer to us. “I should note: There are likely more than twenty shivs out there right now,” he said.
I couldn’t stop my eyes from widening, not from fear, but from amazement. “How do you know?”
“From past spontaneous searches we’ve done. This is how prison security works for these prisoners. They keep their own law and order by having a constant supply of weapons and phones to contact the outside world.”
“And I guess I don’t have to ask where they hide these weapons,” Coop said.
“Or the phones,” Alan added. “You know how you know what kind of phone an inmate has?” A grin spread across his face and reached his eyes.
Coop gave his head a shake even though we both could probably guess.
“By the size and shape they’ve whittled their bar of soap to.” He laughed.
My butt clinched just considering the prospect. I studied each of the groups, wondering who had what weapon, and how quickly they could access it. “Who’s in charge?” I asked.
“If you watch long enough, you know who’s leading who. When we go back inside, I’ll show you the wall of inmates. We know which inmates belong to which gangs, and for the most part, I can show you the leadership hierarchy. Should we go inside?”
As we prepared to reenter the prison, another group of inmates entered the yard, and I spotted Coy Stocker—our undercover agent. He looked in my and Coop’s direction but wisely stifled any reaction to our presence. Not even the prison guards knew that Agent Stocker was FBI. That knowledge could lead to inadvertent special treatment and put Agent Stocker’s life in even more danger than it already was just being inside a maximum-security prison.
Being careful to avoid looking directly at Stocker, I managed to track his movement out of the corner of my eye to see where he headed once released into the yard. I wasn’t sure if I should be pleased or terrified for him that he walked slowly, but directly, over to a group of white men that, if I had to guess, were members of the Whiskey Mafia.
When he reached the men, a bald man with tattoos up and down both arms and covering his neck and head stopped the pull-ups he’d been doing and high-fived our agent.
Instead of reacting, I followed Alan through the door and back inside the prison. As I walked, I tried to smother the worry I now felt for our agent, surrounded by vicious wolves that would rip him to shreds if they got even the slightest hint that he was a cop.
Alan led us back the way we came and into his office. Once there, Coop and I admired the large bulletin board that covered an entire wall, visually displaying in great detail the hierarchy of the various gangs contained within the prison’s walls.
“We’ve been tracking gangs, their members, and their principal activities for decades. These are the current members, made up mostly of current inmates at this prison, plus a few who have left this prison in the past year.”
“Left?” Coop asked. “As in released?”
“Released. Transferred. Killed.” Alan spoke matter-of-factly.
“I presume the men at the top are the leaders?” I asked, pointing to the photos pinned to the top of each group.
“Or very influential members,” Alan said. “You see, these organizations are very sophisticated, economically speaking. They’re run almost like businesses in that they’re constantly monitoring the price of the products they need in order to run their operation. The people inside the organization are employees, and everyone has their job to do.”
As I looked over the photos, I spotted one photo I hadn’t expected to see. I walked over and tapped on the photo. “Ethan Gentry was a part of the Whiskey Mafia?” I asked.
“Still is, as far as I know,” Alan said.
“But his conviction was overturned. Wouldn’t he have left Whiskey Mafia behind when he left prison?”
“When it comes to the Whiskey Mafia, once a member, always a member. They’ve got enough reach on the streets to maintain leverage against members on the outside from inside the walls of the prison, making it difficult for those that are cut loose from here to ever leave the gang. It’s like leaving one prison for another. Gentry was the youngest member of the Whiskey Mafia while he was here. Byron Mills took Gentry under his wing and treated him like a son in some ways. He was given the ultimate mark of protection while he was here.”
“Meaning?” I asked.
“He was branded with a skull and crossbones.”
Coop and I traded looks.
“What? Did I say something profound?” Alan asked.
Coop pulled a photograph from his inside jacket pocket and showed it to Alan.
“Holy shit!” Alan said. “That’s a woman’s back. Inside the prison, the branding is typically much smaller, and obviously only done to members.”
“Where do you typically find the branding?” I asked.
Alan gestured with his hand as he spoke. “Sometimes on one side of his chest. Maybe on the upper part of his arm if he doesn’t already have a tattoo there. But the meaning is the same no matter where it is.”
“Protection,” Coop said.
Alan nodded. “Untouchable. Gentry must have done something big for Mills to have awarded him the badge of honor.”
I turned back and stared at Ethan’s picture. “Let’s say someone wanted to end their association with the gang. How does he break free?”
“Short answer: he doesn’t. Typically, when a member tries to quit the gang, he ends up dead. However, I have heard of rare occasions where a gang needs something extremely valuable, and if you can deliver, they’ll allow you to retire from the gang. But it’s usually at a great risk to whoever wants out, and those that try, do it out of desperation. For most, they figure they’re as good as dead anyway.”
“What if someone like Gentry is still a member of the gang? What would his job within the organization be on the outside?”
“Could be anything. We have him up on the board, because we noticed he visited an inmate shortly after he got out and again just a few months ago.”
“Who did he visit?” Coop asked.
“His mentor, Byron Mills.”
“Any idea why?”
“Funny you should ask. We thought it was strange given that Gentry’s conviction was overturned. Everyone thought he would waste no time getting out of Kentucky and get as
far away as he could. You know, start over.”
Yeah, well, he thought he had a reason to stick close, I thought, but kept to myself.
“But you know what he and Mills spoke about?”
“Absolutely, we record all inmate conversations. We were surprised to find out he was looking for John Paul Matisse. A lot of the conversation was spoken in code, but that was the gist of it.”
“Who’s John Paul Matisse?” Coop asked.
“Gentry’s cellmate for more than five years.”
“Is he a member of the Whiskey Mafia?” I asked while studying the wall of photos. “Is he up here?”
“Oh yeah, he’s a member. But no, his photo is not up there. He was released a couple of months before Gentry—more than a year ago—so we took him down from our little wall of fame. From what we could figure out, he and Gentry were quite close, if you know what I mean.”
I jerked my head to look at Alan but didn’t say anything. The look on my face must have said everything.
Alan grinned. “It gets pretty lonely in there for some of these guys. And from what we could figure out, Gentry was branded with the skull and crossbones about the time he and Matisse were put in a cell together. These inmates have a way of getting certain things that they want, especially when the leader of a gang makes the request.” Alan shrugged. “It keeps the peace.”
“Who made the request?”
“Mills would have made the request directly. Though it could never be proven, Matisse was thought to have carried out several takedowns—murders of prisoners giving the Whiskey Mafia trouble. Mills requested that Matisse be placed in a cell with Gentry as a reward to Matisse and as added protection to Gentry in case one of the other gangs decided to retaliate for anything Mills ordered.”
Secret is in the Bones (Paynes Creek Thriller Book 3) Page 21