“If your story is true, you’ll be an accessory to so many crimes, you’ll never see Quinn again,” adds Marla.
She doesn’t have to tell me; I tried adding up every count I could think of and their minimum sentences. I could serve a thousand years and still not be up for parole.
“I’m hoping my willing and full cooperation in this investigation could get me an immunity deal,” I say.
Helena snorts. “We can’t promise that.”
Carson nods. “No, we can’t, even if we wanted to.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I reply, without hesitation. “I’m still doing this. I want to save Quinn and pay for my actions. When it’s all over, whatever happens, happens.”
“We appreciate that, Mr. Nolan,” says Marla. “We’re going to look into your claims and start briefing our contact in the FBI. He’s trustworthy and won’t alert Prescott or anyone else about the investigation.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a business card. “Put this number in your phone as someone innocuous, a cousin or something.”
I get out my phone and add the contact, then nod.
“For the purposes of security, you probably won’t hear back from us,” notes Carson. “Even if you’re being completely honest with us, we have to assume otherwise. We also have to worry that you may become compromised between now and any incursion we launch. If this conspiracy goes as deep as you say, the operation to take them down will be complicated. It’ll take a little time to put together. So will getting a judge to sign off on an immunity deal for you. Until then, act natural. Contact us if you have anything to report.”
“Understood,” I say, relaxing as the man next to me gets his gun out of my chest.
“Reed, don’t say anything about this to the prisoners,” Marla adds. “We know too well what they’re going through, and we wish you could offer them some comfort, but we can’t have anyone acting out of the ordinary. One wrong word at the wrong time, and Prescott could move to protect himself in ways we can’t stop.”
“Of course.”
Carson and Marla get up, but Helena stays put. “One last thing, Mr. Nolan,” she says, spinning around her laptop. On it I see a window with a paused video: it’s of me, taken from right here. “You better not be lying to us. If this is a trap, or the investigation gets blown, everything you said will be forwarded to the authorities and the media. You’ve admitted to complicity in too many crimes to count. If this doesn’t work out, your life is over.”
“Yeah,” I say as they all leave, my stomach a lump of ice.
My train home leaves in ninety minutes, so I head back to the bar. I order another drink. I take my time, enjoying it, knowing it could be my last.
Chapter 32
My wake-up call comes in the form of Edwin fixing a strip of duct tape over my mouth. I must have been pretty soundly asleep not to hear my cell door open. The excitement of knowing this could soon all be over kept me up for a while, but then I passed out. I scream into the gag, instantly afraid that something has gone horribly wrong. Why would a guard be coming to get me from my cell in secret?
“Quiet!” he growls, flipping me over to cuff my arms behind my back. I try flailing my fists, but he grabs my wrists and slaps on the cuffs.
“Come on,” Edwin says, pulling me to my feet. He slips a leash onto my collar and yanks it, dragging me out of my cell.
I have no idea what’s going on, or where he’s taking me. Is he looking to violate me, to succeed where Corbin and Jefferson failed? Maybe he thinks my deal with Byron means I can’t afford to start trouble, and he’s in the clear. What if he’s right? What if I fight him now, and Byron calls off the auction? After everything I’ve done to get to this point… I can’t let the plan fail like that, can I? But letting Edwin… it’s too disgusting to even contemplate. I’d rather die.
However, after a seemingly endless walk through the prison, we arrive in the same place he escorted me just yesterday: Byron’s office. My stomach drops and I moan, realizing, maybe my first instinct was right: something’s wrong. I doubt Byron had me brought here to report everything is peachy.
Edwin knocks, then opens the door. What I see inside confirms all my worst fears: Jacqueline is there, stripped to her panties and bound to a chair with zip ties. Byron sits at his desk; behind him stands Reed, arms folded across his chest.
Most distressing of all, though, is Prescott, who’s leaning in to whisper in Jacqueline’s ear when we arrive.
“Good morning, Ms. Harris,” he says as Edwin binds me to an empty seat next to Jacqueline.
I wish I could say something to Reed — I was hoping he would find a way to tell me what happened during the day, or I’d be forced to wait until after work hours. Now, though, I worry I may never find out. Amber’s warning murmurs in my mind once more, but I shake my head, mentally brushing it aside.
“No, it’s not a good morning? We did wake you early, I guess,” Prescott admits. “I have this mug that says ‘Don’t talk to me before coffee.’ It’s so true, you know? Anyway, you’re wondering what’s going on, yes? Byron, why don’t you explain?”
Fucking shit.
Prescott sounds way too chipper. Did Byron screw me over? It can’t be a coincidence that Prescott is here — he ought to be out campaigning.
Nodding, Byron clasps his hands together on his desk. “Yes, of course. Good morning, Quinn. Over the past month, you’ve spent a great deal of time with Reed. We know the two of you have been… intimate. Has he ever told you the story of how he became associated with the Prescott family, or with the Prescott Penitentiary Complex?”
What the fuck does that have to do with anything?