Page 9 of Master of Lies

Boer had faked his own death somehow. He’d ostensibly burned to death with all the others. He’d stuffed me into my car, still unconscious, and shoved it off a bridge. Framing me so it looked as if I was the one who killed everyone, and then died by accident, trying to get away from the scene of the crime. Like a blundering asshole.

Some digging had revealed that Adriani’s accountant, Mickey Savelletri, had just been sentenced to four years at Kalaharee. He knew Adriani’s business, and his associates’ business. And my prison info-mining scheme, such as it was, took form.

I genuinely liked Mickey. He was brilliant, but had no ruthlessness to offset it. He was a numbers savant with a photographic memory. Unfortunately for him, his abilities had come to the attention of a crime boss. Mickey had been offered a job doing Adriani’s accounts, and Adriani was not a guy you refused. Not if you wanted to keep your body parts attached.

Mickey wasn’t a criminal, but he’d taken the most recent fall for his boss. Four years in Kalaharee for fraud, but he didn’t dare rat Adriani out. He’d be dead in a day.

Mickey wanted out from under Adriani’s yoke, so freedom was the coin I had offered him. In return, he had dirt he’d collected on Boer. A thumb drive chock full of evidence that Boer had faked his own death, proof that he’d framed me for murder, etc., etc. Account numbers of where he’d stashed his money. Things I could use to find him, nail him down, and eventually, clear my name. And prove to Ethan Masters that I hadn’t sold out Shane Masters.

Mickey had agreed to spill the goods when I got him out, but he wouldn’t give me anything before, and I didn’t blame him. It took months to gain even that much trust.

Current plan: get Mickey out and keep him safe. Retrieve Mickey’s intel, which led me to Boer. Make Boer talk. Then, make Boer pay…screaming.

“It’s on,” I told him. “Tonight.”

Mickey’s eyes widened, darting nervously toward the door. “Wh-what? When?”

“After dinner,” I said. “Supply closet. North wing. Seven fifteen. Don’t be late.”

I left the cell before he could reply and paced the corridors, rehearsing tonight’s plan. My mind raced, and my dick was still buzzing from the sex kitten headcase.

Thinking about her made me want to kick the walls. I didn’t want to feel bad about hurting her feelings. I didn’t want to worry about her driving home in the blizzard, or think about her lips trembling. Her big eyes, full of longing. I had problems to solve. A sad girl trolling for attention did not make the cut.

I wasn’t going to think about that ivory silk thong, hot and slick with her lube.

I was busy, goddamnit. I had no fucks to give.

CHAPTER4

WHEEDON, 50 MILES FROM KALAHAREE SPRINGS CORRECTIONAL FACILITY FOR MEN, LATER THAT EVENING

Red Watson fidgeted in the hard, plain chair. He had an uncomfortable sense he was about to be punished for something, but he didn’t understand what, or why.

He’d done exactly as he was told to do. But the guy in the blank, freaky white mask on the other side of the desk made him so gut-twitchingly nervous, he wanted to dash for the crapper.

Red clenched his ass and mastered the urge. This should be over soon, and he could blast out of there onto the black-ice covering the roads to Kalaharee Springs. Fishtail home to his family, hopefully without ending up in a ditch and freezing to death. This was for them, he repeated to himself. For Maryellen, Kylie, and Krista.

He just had to wait for this strange guy to disappear back under whatever rock he’d crawled out from, and hope he never came back. This guy paid well, and Red prided himself on hustling for his family, but some jobs actually weren’t worth the money.

His stomach growled. He’d been unable to eat at the prison, knowing he had to drive all the way out to Wheedon for this damned meeting once his shift was over. He wiped his face, sticky with a cold, clammy sweat, which not even the crackling fire in the fancy marble hearth could warm.

The man he’d been instructed to call “Mr. Jones” stared at him fixedly through the eyeholes of the mask. The effect made Red shudder, clenching harder.

“James Craig,” Mr. Jones murmured. “So this woman who went by the name of Sandee McGillis came to see a man named James Craig? You’re sure that was the name? It wasn’t Mickey Savalletri?”

“Uh, yes, sir, I’m sure. It was James Craig, not Mickey. That’s what the paperwork said,” Red said. “I checked before I came. I wasn’t in the visiting area today when they talked, but I have security footage of Craig in the yard with Mickey.”

“Hmmph. Show me that footage.”

The masked guy stared intently at the security footage Red had copied and brought with him, which made it a little easier for him to breathe, finally. Jones’s blank, chilly gaze creeped Red out. So did the weird, puffy greenish color of the skin around his eyes. Like the guy was dead under there. Christ, he was psyching himself out.

Jones’s female associate, who’d introduced herself as Ms. Smith, bent over the laptop keyboard. She was a beautiful woman, part Asian, high cheekbones, with a glossy, swinging black bob.

Ms. Smith tapped at the keys. Red was so wound up, he couldn’t even enjoy the amazing shape of her rounded ass, sheathed in the tailored black wool pants.

“There he is,” she murmured, glancing at Mr. Jones, and pointing at the screen. “The tall one, right next to Mickey. Black cap. Turning around now.”

The sound that came out of Mr. Jones made Red jump in his chair. Jones leaned closer to the screen, eyes white-rimmed. “Shit!” he bellowed. “That’s Jed Clearwater!”

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