Betrayed by Blood: The Shelton Family Legacy : 1

by L. A. McGinnis

“How will I find this guy? Last count, there are tens of thousands of prisoners in there.”

  Dawson answered, “Henry’s a fixture inside. Everyone knows him. You won’t have a bit of trouble locating him.” She pulled out her phone and thumbed up a picture, flashing me the screen. From the blurry shot I could tell the man had gray hair, but I couldn’t make out his face. Her disposition darkened as she added, “If he’s still alive.”

  “And if he’d dead?” When they traded an even longer look, I knew my question had already been discussed. “What then?”

  “Then you get out in three days. I’ll change your identity and records, make your reputation so high profile they’ll have to release you. PR nightmares are something the government likes to avoid at all costs.” His tone was reassuring, and very much like the childhood Gabriel I knew, as he promised, “We’ll get you out, Andy. I swear.”

  Right now, he reminded me of that cute kid from my past. But there were no guarantees in life, no matter how prettily they were made. That I knew. Rather, I had to make a choice. I’d had my share of jobs in my two years of being a private investigator. But this… this was real PI work. I could make a difference, save a lot of lives, and somehow, that idea took root faster than the fear.

  “This nanotech.” I flexed the narrow piece of plastic. “You’re sure I’ll pass a scan with this on? Even Devilton’s?”

  “Every one of them,” Gabriel assured me, not a shred of doubt in his face.

  I headed for the bathroom, trying to figure out where to put this little bit of plastic where no one would find it. I wasn’t looking forward to being without my abilities, but Gabriel was right. I had to keep them hidden. Worse, I had to trust two people I barely knew, who were far too eager to throw me to the wolves.

  19

  Two hours later, I was back out in the street, ever-vigilant for tattooed assholes with guns to burst from the shadows. There was nothing good about my current situation except I had a full belly, having visited a deli and eaten my fill of corned beef and greasy fries.

  Dawson was lurking nearby in her young man skin costume, while I was still grappling with the concept of life not being as I knew it and waiting to be arrested.

  Lincoln had mentioned skin changers, once or twice, but even he hadn’t added them to my list of monsters to watch out for, and Lincoln’s list had been long. I’d always assumed they were an urban legend, but Dawson had proven me wrong, leaving me to wonder what else I didn’t know about.

  My life had taken a turn for the worse, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure where I’d rounded the corner. When I incinerated the Hyperion? When I took the disc from Derek? Or maybe when I melted steel all over Bennett’s hands. Regardless of which debacle my downfall could be traced back to, here I stood. The scapegoat waiting to be sacrificed for a greater purpose.

  Namely, rescuing Henry What’s-his-face from Devilton.

  I strolled over to a nearby vendor, sniffing the air and catching the pungent scent of hotdogs, relish, and sauerkraut. I wasn’t hungry, but since I’d been cheated out of lunch, I wanted one, just the same.

  The plan was, Gabriel would anonymously call it in, say he recognized me from the warrant, and the nearest beat cops would trot down here and pick me up.

  One thing I knew, nothing was ever that easy. Factoring in the fact this involved me—Miranda McHale, disaster-prone PI?—well, let’s just say shitshow was probably too mild a term to apply for what today had in store for me.

  But I was boosted by Gabriel’s confidence, and Dawson’s new, incredible ability, and for now, the world was my oyster. Until they slapped the suppression cuffs on.

  As if I’d summoned them, two young uniforms approached, then split off, one obviously circling around from behind. Poor kids. If I’d actually been on the run, they would have come up empty. As it was, this bust would further their careers. At least until Gabriel did his magic, and it became a case of mistaken identity. Then they’d probably get demoted.

  Pretending to check my map, I hummed a bit, waiting for the inevitable. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a look of anticipation on Dawson’s face. Oh, she was going to love this, wasn’t she?

  I tucked the map into my back pocket, just as the first uniform stepped in front of me, struggling to out his gun. I gave him a minute to get situated, offering a sympathetic smile. Adulting was so hard. A positioned myself so his body cam had me in full view, recording this debacle for prosperity.

  He finally got the gun out of the holster, shouting with a quiver to his voice, “Let me see your hands. Put them up over your head.” I complied, eager to get this part over with. I felt like I was in a bad play, with everyone in the vicinity neck-stretching to get a better look. Cellphones went up in the air, a few with selfie sticks to get a better angle.

  Then he demanded, “Show me your driver’s license.”

  I sighed.

  “I will, but it’s in my front pocket. I’ll have to reach for it. Don’t shoot me, okay?” Giving myself fifty-fifty odds at being gunned down in the street, I reached, in super slo-mo, for my ID card. The brand new one Gabriel had just printed up. I offered it to him, my eyes fixated on that trembling gun barrel.

  Twice in two days, and somehow this situation felt more threatening.

  He blinked for a moment, inspecting the ID, then looked over my shoulder doubtfully. “This says her name is Jessica Edwards. But my DNA scan says Miranda McHale.” Since he didn’t mention my Hyperion magic, Gabriel’s nano-tech must be masking my abilities.

  Behind me, the other officer answered, “DNA scans are never wrong… are they?” I fought back my grin. So far, so good. This was going exactly as Gabriel had predicted.

  “I’m Jessica Edwards. I don’t know who you guys are looking for, but as you can see from my identification, it clearly says I’m Jessica.” Hoisting my hands higher, I nodded to the ID clutched in his hand. “Look at my picture. That’s me.”

  True, the picture had been digitally enhanced. A week on the run hadn’t done me any favors, and I was badly in need of a haircut. Still, the resemblance was uncanny, and hoping the cop’s cam was recording every moment of this, I shook my hair out of my face so they got a clear view.

  “I’m telling you guys, you have the wrong person. I’m just here sightseeing.”

  Doubt clouded the young officer’s face, and he hesitated, then handed my ID to his partner. “Run her through the system again. I want to see what we get.”

  What they would get was Jessica Edwards, midlevel management at a big PR firm, enjoying a Saturday of leisure in the Big Apple. It was a decent, ambiguous cover, and one they’d buy. If not for that pesky DNA scan telling them I was someone else.

  The DNA scans were never wrong. Facial recognition could be fooled, fingerprints would be faked. Almost everything could be hacked, which was why DNA remained king among identification. Since you were scanned everywhere you went, it was easy to trace people’s movements, who they knew, and what everyone was up to.

  Case in point, they’d be able to trace the real me back to Seattle. But Jessica Edwards was from the city—Brooklyn, to be precise—and Gabriel had created an impervious cover for me, complete with social media profiles filled with excited posts about my job and a circle of trendsetting friends.

  Praying Gabriel was every bit as good as he thought he was, I waited patiently for their background check to run, then the second, expected DNA scan. There was a bit of hushed discussion over the second scan, their expressions growing worried. Almost feeling sorry for their conundrum, I raised my tired arms a little bit higher. Make a decision, already.

  “Let’s take her in.” Oh, thank heaven. “Let the lieutenant decide what to do with her.” That’s the right choice, boys. Let the adults figure this out. “Besides, I haven’t had lunch and I’m starving.”

  “There’s a great deli, right down Twenty-second.” I tilted my head in that direction. “I just had a Rueben and fries. They were excellent.”

  “Ivan�
�s Deli?” the first cop asked, his face brightening. “We haven’t eaten there in a long time. A Rueben does sound good.”

  “I’m telling you,” I said conversationally, “it was one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever had.”

  I obediently put my hands behind my back as they cuffed me, too loosely, and herded me to their car.

  Dawson was lounging against a “No Parking” sign as we pulled away, giving me a small salute in the rearview. Step one complete, on to step two.

  Intake was light today, even for New York, and I didn’t even get to sit down, going straight through to the lieutenant. He was a career cop, buzz cut, cold eyes, and a no bullshit approach. “Call says you picked up a most wanted?” He scanned me impersonally. “Doesn’t look like a most wanted. Doesn’t look like much at all.”

  Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence.

  “Miranda McHale. One count of first degree, one attempted, one unregistered.”

  “Unregistered, huh?” The lieutenant’s face lit up. “That’ll make this easy enough.” He pointed to cop one. “You scan her?”

  “Three times, sir. And again, at the door. DNA confirms it’s her.”

  They handed over my identification to their boss while I waited. According to Dawson and Gabriel, this should be the easy part. A slam-dunk, so to speak. Hopefully without the slamming part. I’d been arrested, booked, and imprisoned before, of course. It was inevitable, in my profession. The difference was, this time I wouldn’t have Lincoln to bail me out.

  “Put her in holding.” The lieutenant dropped my ID, the folded map, and my wallet into a clear evidence bag. The wallet held a few credit cards in Jessica’s name, all with small credit lines. Most of them maxed out. “Then call Hayes, tell him we have a transport.”

  I was dumped into a holding cell and waited, again, for Hayes to show up.

  Hayes was an older version of the lieutenant, a bit softer around the middle and neck, a look of quiet resignation in his eyes. Busted down to transport duty for some infraction, or just because he was too old. Whatever it was, I followed his every direction obediently, a part of me actually looking forward to seeing my destination.

  Devilton was, for most, an urban myth. Truth was… actually, nobody knew the truth. No cameras were allowed inside, no reporters either, not since the ribbon cutting ceremony eight years ago. The prison was a black hole for Elementals, though. You went in and were never seen again. Every mysterious story and theory only added to the grotesque allure of this place, and nobody ever debunked a single one.

  Given the unknowns, I was curious to see the facility with my own eyes. Besides, once I found Henry, Gabriel would feed my new identity, as well as Henry’s, into Devilton’s database. I’d pass by a scanner and that should start my release process. If Henry had half of Dawson’s skill in the skin-changing department, we should walk right out of there.

  Theoretically, of course.

  Hayes was a man of few words and didn’t speak as we took a small transport van out of the city and up the Devil’s Byway, which used to be Route 15, but was requisitioned by the government into their own, personal highway to hell. Traffic was light, a few transport vans like ours and the occasional police car on the three-lane road, which meant the trip was a fast one.

  When the Sheltons donated the land to the government, the gift included a small state park called Devil’s Den. The park had fallen into disrepair, and word was, Sofia Page Shelton bought it from the state of Connecticut for three million dollars. Which was why, despite several other failed re-naming attempts, the facility was still called Devilton.

  “Are we almost there?” I asked Hayes from the backseat, my hands numb from the handcuffs. “I have to pee.” I did, in fact, have to pee, the large soda I’d consumed with lunch catching up to me.

  “Half an hour,” Hayes told me, his gruff tone telling me there’d be no more questions.

  I leaned back in my seat and enjoyed the ride in. It was beautiful scenery, lots of old growth forest and ancient stone walls covered in ivy. Since I’d seen the facility from the side, I was interested to see the front, expecting high fences covered in razor wire and low, cinder block buildings. What I saw instead, was a PR person’s wet dream.

  The front of Devilton was gorgeous. A brick and stone masterpiece, the main building was Old World elegance with a touch of the contemporary, all landscaped to within an inch of its life. The spiral evergreens on either side of the majestic fence were a nice touch, as were the beds of colorful flowers we passed on the way in. One thing was for sure, Sophia Shelton had great taste. Since this place was touted as the pinnacle of modern incarceration, it had to look good, and the entrance was hitting all the right notes—upscale, secure, and grand.

  What I’d seen from the side told an entirely different story.

  “Wow, this looks really nice. I’d heard horror stories, you know,” I commented, leaning forward so I could take everything in. Hayes grunted, then steered the car into the closest spot. “I hope there’s a bathroom close by.”

  There was no bathroom, just a well-appointed intake area, styled to match the sophistication of a fancy New York lobby. Boatloads of dark wood, oil paintings, and flower arrangements. If I didn’t have the cuffs on, I could pretend I was at a nice hotel.

  Hayes steered me through the big oak doors, his hand around my upper arm squeezing tight. “Don’t let appearances fool you, girl. You’ve taken your last breath of free air.”

  With that cryptic, and slightly mean, warning, he handed me off to a guard in all black and left. The new guard hustled me out of the lobby, through a set of doors, then another, finally arriving in Devilton, proper.

  This side was what I expected. Steel and concrete, faintly smelling of disinfectant and bleach. From then on, things became a blur. I was uncuffed, stripped, handed a bright yellow jumpsuit, which I yanked on, all under the supervision of the stone-faced guard, then ushered down a long narrow hallway where the windows were reinforced with a grid of heavy wire.

  Shoved through a series of bleak rooms, more hallways, until finally I stood at the center of an equally bleak, spartan space, the walls lined with numbered bunkbeds.

  “This is the new prisoner barracks. All of these”—the guard indicated a row of freshly made-up bunks with his nightstick—“are open. Pick one and don’t change spots. We do a headcount every morning and night. If you aren’t in the right place twice a day, you go straight into gen pop.”

  Well, at least I knew how to fast track my entry into the general population. Thank you, sullen guard number one.

  So far, things had gone to plan. Gabriel’s plan, that was.

  My plan was to be in Cleveland by now, starting my brand-new life. But instead, I was stuck with Gabriel’s horseshit plan. He’d owe me at the end of this, if everything went right. My Gabriel-improved, brand new life had better include a fabulous beach view from my fabulous beach house.

  I peed, my bladder thanking me, then settled into the thin mattress on bunk fifty-eight, praying it had been sprayed for lice. To relax, I replayed the beach views at my totally fab beach house in my head, then spent the next five hours fast asleep, probably snoring with drool coming out of my mouth. Whatever. Life wasn’t a fashion show.

  I woke to a hard punch to my arm. “Get the fuck out of my bed, bitch.”

  “Sorry.” I could have done with another hour of sleep, but I’d take what I could get. Plus, I expected this, and it would work perfectly for getting me out here and into gen pop so I could start looking for Henry. “The guard told me this bed was mine,” I explained sheepishly. “But I guess I can sleep anywhere.”

  “Bet you ass, you can.” The girl was younger than I was, with a mop of bleach-blond hair and angry eyes. This would have been me, if I hadn’t met Lincoln, I realized with a start. Her arms were covered in scars, and she had a yellowing bruise beneath one eye. She’d had a tough life, and I didn’t want to add to it.

  “Like I said…” I raised my hands. “I’ll f
ind another bed.” I figured I’d be sleeping in a corner on the floor that night, and I figured right. A couple hours later the guard kicked my foot, hard enough to torque my ankle, and I climbed to my feet in the dark.

  “Thought I told you not to trade beds?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t have a choice.” I waited obediently for my reprimand. Instead, I got the slow, up-and-down inspection of a predator. Watching his hands close into fists, I suddenly knew where blondie had gotten her black eye. Shit, my kingdom for a hint of my magic to fend this asshole off.

  Since my back was already to the wall, I didn’t have anywhere to retreat. It was fight or submit. Since submitting really wasn’t my thing, and I’d twisted the balls off of bigger guys than this, I figured my chances were pretty good until he pulled out his nightstick. Standard issue packed a punch of about 25,000 volts.

  This one was not standard issue.

  With a sadistic grin, the guard depressed the button and jabbed the end into my chest.

  The feel of electricity ricocheting through my body and exiting through my feet is something I never want to repeat. Kind of a cross between getting your teeth drilled without Novocain and having your fingernails ripped off. At the same time.

  I collapsed immediately and, somewhere through the pain, felt my head slam against the concrete wall on the way down. Dimly, I felt tugging at my waistband, then a whoosh of cold as my nether regions were exposed. My shirt was yanked up, revealing my breasts. Trying to move my hands was a no-go, they simply flopped around like dead fish.

  “You have a great body, from what little I saw in the shower room. Be quiet and this will go easy for you. Yell, and you get another jolt.”

  Fuck. This cannot be happening to me.

  The tugging stopped, and the world around me became a mix of shadows and light and movement. Shouting—voices, maybe—penetrated the ringing in my ears, and I rolled on my side and feebly curled myself into a ball, not caring who saw my ass.

  A few moments passed, then a hand turned me onto my back. Pulled my sweats up over my privates and my shirt down over my breasts.