“Nothing, just a quick thank-you.”
“For…?”
“Agreeing to waive disciplinary action,” he said. “I’m really not the kind of person that whole thing made me out to be. And I want you to know I’m going to do everything I can to prove it.”
She felt too guilty taking any of the credit for his reprieve, or even letting him believe she’d been in agreement with it. “I’m afraid that wasn’t me, John. That was Fischer. He overrode my recommendation.”
“I see.” The stilted John was back. “Well, however it came down, I’m grateful.”
“You caught a break. Make it count, huh?”
“Thanks for your faith in me,” he said.
The sarcasm in his parting words echoed in her head long after she hung up. There was something about him she didn’t like, although she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what. But maybe she was being too hard on him. He’d tried to be nice to her. And anyone could make a mistake, especially in the heat of the moment.
She just hoped a simple mistake was the extent of it. Because, inside a prison, mistakes like that could cost lives.
Skin’s sister was the spitting image of him. And that only made what Pretty Boy had to do harder. He couldn’t believe he was finally coming face-to-face with her and it had to be under these circumstances. Over the years, he’d imagined their meeting so differently. Since his own family didn’t give a damn about him, Skin had been generous enough to share her letters and pictures. Pretty Boy felt as if he knew her, and he would’ve liked her even if she wasn’t attractive, simply because he admired Skin so much. There’d even been a time when he’d thought maybe, just maybe, they’d wind up together someday. The idea of becoming Virgil’s brother-in-law, of helping take care of Laurel and her children, made him feel useful, as if he belonged.
And now he was going to kill her? It’d only been eighteen months since he and Virgil were cellies in Tucson. Shortly after he was paroled, Virgil was transferred to Florence and talk of his exoneration began to swirl. Pretty Boy remembered how eagerly he’d embraced the possibility because it meant they’d be able to see each other more often. The future had looked bright—until everything reversed itself. Now no amount of wishing would change it back. Skin had betrayed The Crew—betrayed him. He had to believe that or he couldn’t do what had to be done. The others believed it, didn’t they? Duty, loyalty, the oath he’d given demanded he retaliate. And if he didn’t follow through, he’d be the next to die. Or he’d have to go on the run and ramble around America with no friends, no support group, no job—always looking over his shoulder for fear someone from his past would catch up with him.
If only he’d been able to see this coming….
“Oh, boy, look what I found.” Ink squeezed past him to get into the room. “Pretty, ain’t she?”
Laurel shrank into the corner.
“You gonna tell me you haven’t heard from your brother now?” Ink sauntered closer. “He’s obviously up to somethin’ if you’re hangin’ out with a U.S. marshal.”
“Wh-where is the marshal?” she stammered, shaking.
“Where do you think?” Ink responded.
Terrified though she was, she glared up at him with the same stubborn defiance Pretty Boy had seen so often in Skin. “He’s d-dead?”
“Yep.” He dusted off his hands. “Pointblank made sure of that.”
“And the l-loss of a man’s life means n-nothing to you?”
Ink grinned. “Nothing at all. One minute he was creeping out to check on a noise. The next…” He whistled as he drew an imaginary line across his throat.
What little color there was in Laurel’s face drained away. “You’re an animal, you know th-that? You make the p-perfect argument for c-capital punishment.”
Pretty Boy resisted the urge to intercede as Ink yanked out his gun and strode forward. He told himself to let this happen, to get it over with so they could go back to California and he could try to forget. His situation gave him no other choice.
But Ink didn’t fire. He paused, glanced at the beds, then looked in the closet. “Where’re the kids?”
Hugging herself, she drilled him with another malevolent stare and refused to answer. “I said, where are the kids?”
She must’ve gotten them out of the house, because they’d been here at some point. The bedding was rumpled; there were impressions on all three pillows. She definitely hadn’t been sleeping in this room alone. How she’d done it, Pretty Boy didn’t know. The windows didn’t look as if they opened wide enough, but maybe they did.
Good for you. He could only hope Mia and Jake were well away from this house. He couldn’t tolerate seeing Ink kill a couple of kids, especially these kids. He’d watched them grow from babies via Skin’s pictures. Witnessing what Ink did to Laurel would be bad enough.
The veins bulged in Ink’s neck. “Answer me, bitch!”
“If you th-think I’ll tell you anything, y-you’re crazier than I th-thought!” Ducking her head, she covered up with her arms as if she expected that to be the last thing she ever said.
Ink grabbed her by the hair and dragged her up against him, placing the gun to her temple. “Tell me, or I’ll splatter your brains against the wall.”
She was hyperventilating, but she wasn’t pleading for her life. She wouldn’t give Ink the pleasure.
Virgil would be proud….
Ink struck her with the gun. “Tell me!”
“N-never!” she said, and surprised them both by spitting in his face.
“You’re gonna pay for that.”
Before Ink could make good on his threat, Pointblank poked his head into the room. “You’re not done? Come on, ladies, let’s finish up and get the hell out of here, huh?”
“The kids are gone,” Ink complained.
Pointblank had wiped off the blade of his knife, but the marshal’s blood still stained the handle as well as his fingers. The artery he’d cut when they lured the guy outside had spurted like a geyser, spraying Pointblank’s T-shirt and face, too. Now the marshal’s body was being used as a doorstop as the ever-widening puddle of his blood fanned out on the back porch. “So?”
“So Shady said to do them all.”
Pointblank grimaced. “They’re just kids.”