© Copyright 2017 by Randell Mccreary - All rights reserved.
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Table of Contents
Copyright
Title
To Love A Hitman
Sign Up!
Step-Brothers
My Cowboy Cousin
My Final Opponent
My Cousin From Hell
Sold In The West
I Want Her Boyfriend
Sold To The Italians
PARANORMAL & SCI-FI COLLECTION
The Sold Daughter
Taken Hostage
Sold To Be Eaten
Auctioned To The Lord
Promised To The Beast
Sold As Livestock
Abducted and Jailed
I Am To Marry A King
Breeding Abduction
To Love A Hitman
By: Randell Mccreary
Chapter One
It's not easy, working in a prison. It's not always rewarding, and you have to deal with some of the worse things humanity has to offer, but someone has to do it. I'm known as Aidan Blunt. I'm thirty-five, and I've been in this line of work for around twelve years, and just made it to senior correction officer. I help oversee other correction officers, and make sure there is order in our maximum-security prison at all times.
It's been such a time-consuming job, that I've honesty not had the space for a decent personal life. That also includes no girlfriends, nor any intense desires to fuck someone. People tell me that I need to consider settling down at a point, and I suppose they're right. I have an unfortunate habit of letting time run away from me. Always intending to do something, never getting around to it, simply because I keep myself too busy. My father's proud of me, my mother thinks I'm a workaholic and it'll break me down before I'm fifty.
I stand in the guard bathroom, wiping some of the grime from my brown eyes. I open my mouth wide, so that my jaw makes a cracking sound, and wriggle it. I also crack my knuckles and my spine with some good old stretching, and check the lines upon my face. They're no longer leaving like they used to, and they stay there as spider thing lines, only noticeable if you go close up to the mirror, like I do. My uniform is a blue shirt with a protective vest underneath, in case of makeshift shivs. Prisoners can be surprisingly resourceful in all sections, so we have to be cautious. My Glock rests in its sheath, my shoes are scuffed and dirty, and my pants have a patch of dust on them from where I was kneeling earlier to inspect an inmate's room for contraband in section A.
Then, taking a deep breath, I prepare myself to meet our newest inmate, who will be heading straight for section C. I'll check with his police escort what he's in for, explain things to him, and then he'll be packed off.
Most in max are here for hard drugs and murders, and you get all sorts. Some seem reasonable and charming, others are monsters. None are to be trusted, and most proclaim their innocence, even though they've been caught red handed.
I pass into the interview room where the newest prisoner is seated and cuffed, though he's already wailing.
“I didn't do it! Please! This isn't fair! I'm being thrown in for life and I didn't do anything! I shouldn't be here! I –” the prisoner gets slapped in the face by one of the police officers.
“I am sick and tired of you saying the same shit. Shut the fuck up, scum. You were convicted. End of.”
“But I don't understand how! It wasn't me –” he flinches as one of the guards steps in now, raising his hand in a menacing gesture.
“None of that,” I say wearily, checking that the lad has his new uniform bundle, and ordering it to be taken to his cell. “What's the deal with this one, officer?” I ask this quietly, so that the prisoner doesn't hear.
“Convicted of the murder of five people,” the officer replies, before his face twists up into one of disgust. “Killed them in a horrific way. Whole family, including two children. I'll spare you the details, though it's in his case file. My advice – treat this one with caution.”
“Thank you.” I nod, and then sit opposite the boy, who is still crying, though he's doing it quieter. There's a string of snot protruding from his nose. He doesn't look in good shape. He has scruffy black hair, and astonishing green eyes, though they're misted at the moment in self-pity, which is normal for most prisoners. It's also normal for them to maintain that they're innocent, even when they're not.
Hard to imagine that lad, probably in his early twenties, doing something so heinous. I don't see any noticeable gang tattoos anywhere on his arms or neck. “What's your name?” I ask, leaning forward, remaining professional, cool.
The prisoner lets out a hiccup, before wrinkling his nose, and wiping it on his sleeve. The chains clink as he does so. I watch impassively. “I'm Danny. Danny Reese,” he adds, when I don't acknowledge him.
“Okay, Danny Reese. I'm here to explain to you what will be happening to you, where you'll be going, and what rights you'll have.”
The words don't seem to have a calming effect on him. He starts shaking, as if reality is slapping him in the face. Shouldn't have committed that crime, then. “I shouldn't be here. I don't know why they convicted me like that, I already told them that I was cycling to help my mom I'm worried about her, I wasn't allowed to talk to her at all, not even to say goodbye.” He starts sobbing harder, and the police officer, along with two of my prison guards, roll their eyes. They make a motion forward, and I halt them. Danny's clearly not going to calm down. The best thing I can do for him right now is to offer him a glimpse of before.
“Alright. I'll still need to explain to you, but I'll allow you to make a call to your mom. Is that acceptable?”
He wipes his sleeve again. He looks like an absolute wreck, with heavy bags under his eyes. I suspect he's quite the handsome one, if he didn't give way to endless sobbing. It disturbs my officers, they expect people to be macho and hard. The boy's tears dry up a little bit with this promise. I dismiss the guards and police officer, and when we're cleared, I hand him my cellphone, instead of taking him to the prison phones.
He seems to know his mother's number, thanks me, and dials. When it's through, he holds a conversation.
“Yeah, mom, I'm here, and it's like before – no one listens. No, I don't know. Maybe not. Yeah, they do visits, right?”
“Yes,” I reply, regarding the boy. His mannerisms are normal, but you can be surprised from the types of people who murder.
“Yeah, yeah, don't forget to take your meds every day mom, and if you're running low, go to the pharmacy yourself. Please. Yes, I know, but you have the money mom. I said I was gonna get the house, but maybe you can get it instead. No, you're fine, you can do it.” Danny glances at me. I see he's on the verge of tears again, before he says love you and ends the call. “Thank you,” he says, handing the phone back.
“House?” I say. He can't be older than twenty-five. Not many people that age who can afford one. I begin skimming his file absently, seeing the key points of his conviction.
“Yeah,” Danny says, his green eyes blinking slowly. “I was in the process of looking for houses, so I could be nearer to work. I was considering... that house, and having my mom move in with me, and something for my sister when she comes back from Bulgaria.”
That house. He wanted the house where the five people had been murdered. I try not to look obvious that the files are affecting me, and simply snap them shut. However, the sympathy
I was feeling for him now dwindles to calm. No sympathy for murderers. That's what they all do here. They try to work an angle and sell you up on it.
I tell him that he'll be placed in section C which is close to solitary confinement, he'll have meals delivered through a slot in the door, he'll be allowed out to exercise for an hour each day, but mostly, he'll be stuck there for the first three months. In which case, he might move to B, and with continued good behaviour to A, which has the most leniency for prisoners, at least in terms of the things they're allowed to do. I tell him he can make requests for books and such, and we're obliged to assist with any reasonable requests, especially if family outside helps to pay via commission.
Danny nods, though he's still teary eyed, but no longer keeps proclaiming his innocence. When he's led to his cell, I examine his file again. He was within the timeframe. His fingerprints were in the house. He was seen casing the place within the timeframe of murder.
Doesn't exactly look great. They didn't recover the murder weapons, but they certainly had witnesses maintaining they saw him pass a few times. I stare into the photo that's pinned here with him, looking into those green eyes. How haunting an expression.
I honestly wouldn't have pegged him for a killer, even though I know looks are deceiving. The evidence looks too good against him, though. Plus, he can't be from a wealthy neighborhood, so he has no business looking up a house in a wealthier suburb where five people lived in it. He’s clearly cased the place. Things were taken as well, so it looks like it would have been a robbery, but the way the people were killed... it looked more premeditated. An odd case. More like a murder disguised as one.
He's just another prisoner to me. A fish. Nothing more, nothing less. Still, it's not often I'll get a crime this different. People always have similar motivations. Rarely do you get something like this.
My shift ends at one in the morning. I'll be in twelve hours later, starting my next shift. I do the rounds, checking on the prisoners in each wing, who should now be sleeping in their cells. I pause outside Danny's. I hear a noise, and open the slot to see what's happening. Inside the little room, it's dark, but I hear the talking again. Suspicious, I squint to the slice of room revealed, and see a faint shape in the bed. He's moving restlessly in the bed, and he looks as if he's sobbing.
“Mother, no. Please!” He chokes out the words.
A nightmare. He's having a nightmare. I consider going in to wake him up, but decide at the last moment to leave it. Not my place to do so. Anyway, how can someone so cruel have such vivid nightmares? The thought stays with me as I finish my shift and arrive home to my meager apartment, where I pull out a pot noodle to eat, along with vitamin supplements.
People who do horrific crimes of the sort I glanced at in Danny's file don't tend to show remorse. Most psychopaths and serial killers lack it. They certainly don't have nightmares, either. Except perhaps if they're mentally disturbed. I don't really know why, but the thought stays with me. Even when I finish my terrible meal, and settle into bed, my mind is on the strange, green eyed man with the raven dark hair, and the puffy face, crying out that he's innocent. Something's not quite right with this.
Just a shame such “innocence” and trusting those who proclaim it tends to end with a knife to the back.
Chapter Two
Although I'm meant to be in again at one in the afternoon, I arrive a little earlier. I like to be up to speed in what's going on, and it's boring being at my apartment, anyway. I rarely have time for games, and I haven't bought myself a new book in a while. I have been considering one of those kindles, but I don't think I'll give myself the time to do so.
I have to introduce Danny to the other guards too, but again, he seems to be in that state of tearful denial. The general impression I'm getting from all the talk from my guards is that they're pissed off with Danny. I understand them on a level, but the lad seems truly terrified. He was crying for his mom last night. I recall the conversation he had, telling her to take her meds. She likely has a condition that's exacerbated by
lack of meds. Perhaps diabetes or depression. Gary and Tyrone both have an instant hate for Danny as well, and they're the officers assigned to his wing, though all officers end up patrolling all the wings in the end.
“Most fish know to stop blubbing in the end, cos they know they're guilty. This one though, he killed five people, got caught red handed, nearly, and he still has the gall to act like he's innocent. Turns my stomach in, it does.” Tyrone rubs a hand over his dark-skinned face. “Might need to put him in proper solitary.”
“Not yet,” I say. “He still seems young. It's his first time in prison and he's here for life. He's just in denial about that.”
“Hmph.” Tyrone shakes his wide face. “If you say so, sir.”
I nod. Obviously we're all aware now of our new, constantly crying charge. Seeing his wretched face when I present him his meal inside the cell almost makes me feel sorry for him. I say almost, because I know he's here because he deserves it. Even if it's a little odd how he behaves.
I can't help but notice, either, over the next few days, that he keeps having nightmares. Every single night, without fail. That's not normal. I start to wonder if there's something mentally wrong with him. And I start to notice him flinching back, his expression growing hostile whenever I come in to serve food, take part in a count, or just check he's alive and hasn't resorted to something drastic. We average maybe one, two suicides a year, and I think he might be a risk case if he keeps acting like this, and the guards continue to treat him with that apathy.
If he dies, people will simply declare that he clearly couldn't live with the guilt. But with a crime like this, he shouldn't have guilt in the first place. He shouldn't have nightmares.
On the fifth day, when I serve him food, mostly because I have nothing better to do, and everything is quiet, he requests if he's allowed to have some books.
I say of course. We don't mind letting prisoners read. He looks a lot better from when I first saw him five days ago, a puffy faced, wailing man who couldn't comprehend that he was in jail.
He's actually quite handsome. It surprises me. He's starting to grow some stubble now, shading his face pleasantly, but those green eyes continue to stick out in his face like gemstones. He has a smooth, oval jawline, and when I approach him, I notice he has long eyelashes as well. He seems to back away from me slightly when he does. I recognize it as a sign of physical intimidation. Maybe he got beaten up a lot growing up. The ones abused always have that instinct to make their bodies as small as possible, as if cringing makes them a less visible target. Often, though, the opposite happens, as some people see the cringing as a sign that their victory is sure, so they can abuse without fear of retaliation.
Shame, really, that he ended up here. Might have been quite the lothario.
“What books are you looking for? Do you have the titles?”
Danny squints at me suspiciously, then shrugs. It makes him look rebellious. “Law books. Any kind of law books.”
I blink. “Why do you want law books?” I already suspect why, but I'm asking him anyway.
Danny completely shuts down at my question. He folds his arms and acts as if spikes have erupted all over his shoulders. “What do you care? Why should it bother you if I want them?”
“Why are you acting so... aggressive?” I decide to apply the little psychology training I've received. “You've practically shrunk into the corner of the bed.
“You're a guard. You hate me.”
“Not me,” I say. “I'm the one who let you call your mother, remember?” I purse my lips when I see him glance to the side. It's far too soon for him to be like this. I observe his behaviour, notice how when he moves, he seems to oddly enough favor his left arm. He straightens up in a bid to look less like a cornered rat, and I catch a tiny grimace. “Take off your shirt.”
Danny gapes at me incredulously. “What?”
“Take off your shirt, inmate. I won't say it again.”
He reluctantly does. The moment he takes it off, I'm exposed to his naked chest. A strange jolt goes through me. Then my eyes fix on an odd bruise, purple-yellow on the muscle of his shoulder. I step right up to him. “Stand up and turn around, please.”
He obeys again. When I look at his back, my heart sinks. There's some fresh bruises there, including an ugly, blood spotted one upon his right shoulder, around the blade. There's also a contusion by his left, back ribcage. I touch it, checking for fractures, but thankfully, his ribs are still intact. Danny lets a little hiss out of his mouth. For some reason, staring at his muscled back, despite the fact that I find the bruises reprehensible, I also find his back... pleasing to the eye. What fine muscles, what a beautiful shape he has. It makes my stomach coil in confusion, unsure what to make of this observation.
“Who did this?” I demand. “These are fresh.”
“None of your business,” Danny snaps, though he doesn't put his shirt back on. Leaving me to continue staring at those muscles. They're more slender than mine, yet are pronounced to the point where I think he must have a job doing heavy lifting or exercises regularly.
To Love A Hitman Page 1
