The Vigilante's Lover: A Romantic Suspense Thriller (The Vigilantes Book 1) (2 page)

I scan my badge at the library entrance and head back into the stacks.

Rows of musty books line the gray metal shelves. They only reach up to my chest, a way to keep inmates in view. The guard glances my direction, a simple acknowledgment of my position, then turns back to his work.

“You’re late,” a deep voice whispers in my ear.

“I know,” I say without turning. Sam is actually five rows away, but angled such that his voice projector can reach only me.

“
Little Women
,” he says. “Third shelf.”

I reach for the book and rub my thumb along the spine. I can feel the small form of the dart thrower underneath the material.

“Careful where you point that thing,” Sam whispers.

I give him the barest nod, then walk back to the guard. Out of the corner of my eye I see Sam, dressed in the simple navy coveralls of a custodian, reposition himself. A click in my ear tells me he’s rerouted the cameras in the room. I hold the book out to the guard, spine up. He looks at me, a question on his lips, and I press on the cover.
 

The man gives a small grunt of annoyance and reaches up to his neck. His eyes widen in surprise as his fingers brush the small bit of metal embedded in his skin. I can see the alarm in his expression, but it fades as the drug kicks in and he slumps to the side. I grab him before he can hit the floor and ease him down under the desk.

My fingers fly over his uniform. By the time Sam has joined me, I have the guard’s shirt off. Sam already has his own coveralls unfastened, revealing a thin bag. I finish undressing the guard as Sam opens the bag and allows its contents to blossom forth. A pale gray suit. I shuck my prison orange, and Sam peels off his coveralls.

“You never cease to amaze, Sam.” I finger the tailored suit. The fine cloth feels like heaven.

“Thank Colette for that one.” He grabs the guard’s uniform and dresses quickly.

“I’ll be sure to give her my best when I see her.” I pull the suit on with practiced efficiency. The fit is impeccable, and I almost feel normal again. Almost.

“That should be in about five minutes, except someone decided to chitchat with a guard,” Sam grumbles.

“I’ve cut things closer than this in the past. We’ll be fine.”

Sam stuffs the custodian coveralls into the bag as I drop my prison suit on top of the unconscious guard.
 

Now for the unpleasant part. Sam instructs me to tilt my head. My neck flashes with pain as he extracts the tracking chip all inmates have implanted under their skin.

“You still bleed like the rest of us,” Sam says and hands me a first-aid patch.

The cool analgesic calms the wound and stems the flow of blood. I straighten my collar to hide it.

Sam tucks the tracking chip into the guard’s sock and pulls the incriminating dart from his neck. We then carry his body into the stacks.

“You ready for the walk?” Sam asks. “The paperwork isn’t going to match up, so the exit might be tricky.”

“We’ll be all right,” I say. “New man on duty at the gate.” This was one reason I chose today for the break.

Together we walk to the library door, which pops open with the badge on Sam’s stolen uniform. Beyond lies empty hallway.

“I couldn’t cut off the mood system. It’s Vigilante,” Sam says.

I nod in acknowledgment. We head down the hall, attracting attention with every step. There aren’t a lot of sharp suits in prison. Above us, each conduct screen scans us for pulse rate, body temperature, and respiration. We’re heading toward the exit with the identification of a person who isn’t supposed to even arrive for another three months.

This is where things might get hairy.

4: Mia

Three quick short knocks at the door can only be Shirley, a neighbor from down the road. I shove the prison letter under a book on the desk and rush to the front door.

The dang thing always sticks when the weather turns cool. The autumn air teases the flyaway tendrils around my forehead as Shirley gives a little wave on the porch.

“Brought you a potpie,” she says, holding up a small casserole dish.

I step back so she can pass me to head to the kitchen. Shirley is like everyone else in this small town, weathered, friendly, and nosy to a fault. I follow her through the house, glancing at the hidden letter like its naughty contents might announce themselves.

Shirley slides her dish into the oven and sets the temperature to warm. “You can eat it when you like,” she says pleasantly. Her face is pink cheeked, cherubic, and dimpled. Her gray hair is a mass of curls that she keeps up at Patsy’s Beauty Parlor, same as she has since the 1980s. You can see exactly where the little rods line up to produce the waves.

She brushes her hands together. “Starting to feel right like fall out there. You been out today?” Her question is innocent, but I know she’s worried that I haven’t been going anywhere.

“I stopped by the store for some milk this morning,” I say.

She nods and starts moving past me again. “Can’t stay for a chat today. Rowdy got fixed this afternoon and he’s howling like we’ve cut off his…” She pauses. “Well, I guess we did.”

She laughs, a merry tinkling sound. Then she whirls around and places a warm hand on each of my cheeks.

“Beatrice thought the world of you. You figure out what it is you want to do next, and I bet the whole town will be right along to help you do it.”

I nod against her hands. I have no doubt she’s right.

Shirley lets go of my face. “I would feel an awful lot better if you had someone here with you. The Petersons just had a litter of pups. You sure you don’t want one? Half husky. Make a good guard dog.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, although I know having a dog would limit my options. “I might still go back to school.”

“Of course,” Shirley says. “You’re just twenty years old. Lots of life ahead of you.”

A long howl breaks the quiet. “Oh, that Rowdy,” she says. “You’d think we…” She laughs again. “Hopefully he won’t keep you up tonight. We’ll keep him inside except when he does his business.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say.

Shirley leans forward and kisses my cheek. “Our poor little Mia,” she says. “You know you can always call any of us family.”

“Thank you, Shirley,” I say. I’m grateful to her. I really am.

She hurries down the steps. A sudden gust of wind stirs up the leaves and they whirl in a tight cone. Shirley pauses and turns to see if I saw it. “Autumn!” she calls out. “Change is coming!”

She gets in her car and I see Rowdy with his cone of shame. He’s managed to get his head out the window even with the wide white brim. He howls again.

Poor dog. It’s not far to Shirley’s, just across the road and down a piece, but with Rowdy, she didn’t walk it. Her old Buick roars to life, and she waves out the open window as she backs down the long drive.

I’m alone again.

I wander the living room, touching each of Aunt Bea’s treasured silver bells. I’ve lived in this sprawling house most of my life, after my parents died when I was eight, so I know every nook and cranny.

I should make some tea. I move to the kitchen and flip on the gas burner for the kettle. The transfer of ownership of the house to me will go through soon, after the execution of the will. Then I’ll have to decide what to do. Sell it? Rent it? I need to go finish a degree. Do something.

I feel adrift, unmoored, like a boat some sailor accidentally freed by tying a shoddy timber hitch.

The stopper knot thrusts against you, eliciting another impassioned cry.

Oh, those letters won’t let me stop thinking of them.

But they do contain a strange coincidence, which is one reason I kept them.

The knots. I know all the knots.

My parents drilled nautical terms into me as if they were the language of our family. We had a small sailboat that we took out on the lake not far from our home.
 

As they taught me to handle the boat, I got to know every type of knot, hitch, and heaving line.
 

Since reading the prison letters, however, some of the terms have taken on a whole new meaning.

French whipping knot
, for example.

Heat flutters through me again. I wish for some sort of history, a bit of sexual experience to draw upon as the emotions flood me while reading the letters. But a tiny public school followed by a small community college hasn’t afforded me much opportunity.

Besides, most people find me odd, in a Belle from
Beauty and the Beast
way. Studious, sharp nosed, and more likely to stay up all night reading than attending parties.

Not that I am ever invited.

The kettle whistles. I realize I have neglected to fill the tea ball or place it in a mug. Daydreaming, another bad habit, worsened by my solitude.

I spoon some loose tea into the ball and snap it closed. The kitchen is forlorn. I open the stove and pull out Shirley’s potpie. The lovely aroma of chicken calms me, but I’m not hungry.

I put it away in the fridge and wander through the downstairs, both hands wrapped around a warm mug. The cold is coming, but the chill I feel isn’t really about the weather. It’s this sense that I am doomed to wander through my life alone. I can’t even imagine a life duller than the one I have lived so far.

I pause before an image hanging in the hallway. Me. My parents. I am young, maybe six, happy. My father wears a sailing hat, his big grin the only thing visible in its shadow. My mom is beautiful, her hair blowing away from her face, refined and elegant in white shorts and a sweater.

My aunt was my mother’s sister. The two of them didn’t look anything alike, and from all accounts, didn’t act the same either. My mother craved adventure, daring, and met my father when she cut off his catamaran in a local regatta.

My aunt was a kind, slow-paced woman who was never very excitable. Apparently, just like me. When my parents died in a sailing accident, just like everybody said was bound to happen with their lifestyle and their personalities, she took me in.

I head back to the living room, taking small sips of tea. I glance out the windows looking over the lawn.

Another day of my life is passing with nothing to show for it.

Maybe I should take another look at the letters. Crazy as it sounds, I think my mother would approve.

5: Jax

Every head turns as Sam and I saunter through the prison as if we own the place. Inmates sneer at my well-turned suit. Guards peer at Sam as though trying to decide if they know him or not.

The central hub is a maze of glass-walled offices. We stride through, Sam one step ahead of me as escort, and make our way to the check-in desk on the far side. The guard stares at a monitor in front of him. From our angle I can just make out some sort of baseball game. The cord from his earbuds snakes down his chest. He pays us no mind.

Sam clears his throat. “You gonna make us stand here all day?”

After a lingering glance at the screen, the guard finally looks up. He gives us a quick onceover, eyes landing on me. “Who’s this?”

“Librarian. Cleaning up our collection,” says Sam.

The guard sighs and keys something on his screen. He’s got some attitude for only having worked here a few days. A list and schedule replaces the baseball game. “Name?”

“Sergio Avanti,” I say.

The guard frowns as he scrolls through the text. I focus on my breathing. Sam huffs and shifts on his feet. Seconds tick by that feel like hours. The guard pauses and stares at his screen. “What the hell?” he asks aloud.

I know he’s not seeing any evidence of our check-in. A trained guard would know something is amiss, but we’re banking on this new hire not wanting to admit he’s confused.

There’s also the matter of the Vigilantes. They control the security here. If we stand by this desk too long, if the guard’s mood sensor goes off or he keys in something suspicious, they could step in. I’ve spotted a couple of them mingling with the staff during my year here. If I am caught, protecting Sam and Colette is my utmost imperative.

The mood sensor overhead shifts from green to yellow. Sam and I are fine. It’s the guard. I consider how best to calm him down.
 

“Says here you weren’t supposed to come till after Christmas,” he says. “Why are you here now?”

“The schedules are always off,” Sam says. “Second time this week I’ve had to escort somebody who doesn’t show up onscreen.”

The guard stares at the monitor another minute. The mood sensor remains yellow. He glances at my suit as if to convince himself I couldn’t possibly be a prisoner. There’s no reason to doubt my position, although we did probably overshoot the mark for a prison library volunteer.

His mood sensor starts edging into red. “You look familiar.” His voice is tight.

Time to bring this down.

“People often mistake me for the actor Bradford Argetti,” I say. Big film star. I look nothing like him.

The guard snorts. “And I look like the King of England.”

“I favor Will Smith,” Sam says. He pats his good-sized belly, as if the actor ever had an extra pound on him.

This makes the guard laugh. The screen cycles down to yellow, then to green.

He taps a few keys and hits a button to open the steel doors. “Call first next time,” he says. “Get the books straight.”

“Will do,” I say and give him a half salute. “Your Highness.”

He laughs again as we pass through to the main lobby.

“Nice save,” Sam whispers. “Colette’s out front in a black Lexus sedan.” As we approach the door, his guard badge goes red. He frowns. “Pick me up at the employee entrance around the corner.” He turns and disappears down a side hall.

I resist the urge to glance at the camera bubbles on the ceiling. I pass by the visitor entrance queue and exit through the wide front doors. The sun blinds me momentarily as I squint in search of Colette. I need not wait long. Within seconds, a sleek black sedan pulls up on a silent electric engine. The passenger door pops open.

“Someone call for a lift?” Colette’s voice calls from inside, her French accent tickling the words.

I slide into the seat. When the door is closed, I let out a sigh. “You have no idea how good this feels,” I say as I sink into the supple leather.