Wrong Block (Miles Sterling #9)

PROLOGUE

Christopher Hughes kept his breathing steady as he walked beside the corrections officer, his tool belt heavy against his hips.

The weight of it was reassuring. Everything he needed was right there, inches from his fingertips, hidden among the wrenches, wire strippers, and voltage testers that any electrician would carry on a routine maintenance call.

In other words, it was the perfect disguise.

The guard beside him was a broad-shouldered man named Wexler who had been chatting since they left the main security checkpoint.

Hughes had caught his name from the badge clipped to his chest. Wexler seemed happy to have someone to talk to who wasn't a convicted felon.

The man was actually a bit too chatty for his own good.

"You believe this heat?" Wexler said. "My AC unit at home crapped out last week. Wife's been giving me hell about it. Like it’s too much trouble for her to call a repairman…"

"That's rough," Hughes said. He kept his tone casual and sympathetic. Just a working man commiserating with another working man. "You check the capacitor? Nine times out of ten, that's what kills a residential unit."

"I wouldn't know a capacitor from a carburetor," Wexler said with a laugh. "I'll have to call someone."

"Smart move. It’ll save you some headache in the long run."

They turned a corner and passed through another secured doorway.

Wexler swiped his keycard and punched in a code, and the heavy door clicked open.

The corridor beyond was narrower than the ones they had come through, lined with exposed concrete on both sides.

Caged light fixtures were bolted overhead at regular intervals, casting a hard, flat light that left no shadows.

The floor was bare concrete, cracked in places and patched with dark sealant.

A pair of thick conduit pipes ran along the right wall, bundled together with metal straps and disappearing through a hole cut in the concrete about halfway down.

This was the utility section of the facility, the guts of the building, where the infrastructure that kept everything running was accessible for maintenance.

Hughes had studied the prison's blueprints for weeks before submitting his work order.

He knew every corridor, every junction box, every panel, and every conduit run in this section of the building.

For such a high-security and complex building, this part of it all was deceptively simple.

"It's just up here on the right," Wexler said, gesturing ahead. "The panel that's been tripping. Started about a week ago. Keeps knocking out the lights in C-Block's east wing."

"Probably a bad breaker," Hughes said. "Maybe a loose connection. Shouldn't take long."

They stopped in front of a large electrical panel mounted on the wall.

It was a commercial-grade distribution box, maybe four feet tall and two feet wide, set into a shallow alcove carved from the concrete.

The metal housing was painted gray, but rust had eaten through the finish in several places along the bottom edge.

A padlock secured the front cover, and yellow warning stickers indicated the voltage rating and the date of the last inspection, which had been more than fourteen months ago.

Below the panel, a bundle of cables emerged from the bottom of the housing and ran down the wall into a metal trough bolted to the floor.

Above it, a thick main conduit fed into the top of the box from the ceiling, branching off from the larger conduit run that supplied this section of the building.

Hughes set his tool bag on the floor and pulled out a ring of keys.

He had obtained the correct key for this model of panel through channels that Wexler would never need to know about.

He unlocked the padlock and swung the cover open, revealing rows of circuit breakers arranged in neat columns.

Each one was labeled in faded marker, corresponding to different zones within C-Block.

"Do your thing," Wexler said. He leaned against the opposite wall and crossed his arms, settling in for what he clearly expected to be a boring wait. "Hey, did you watch the game last night? The Dodgers got their asses handed to them."

"I caught the highlights," Hughes said, even though he hadn't watched a single inning.

In fact, he hated baseball. He pulled a voltage tester from his belt and began methodically checking each breaker, pressing the tester against the terminals and reading the display.

His movements were deliberate and careful, exactly what a competent electrician would do during a routine inspection.

Nothing to raise suspicion. Nothing that looked out of place.

While his right hand worked the voltage tester, his left hand drifted to the back of his tool belt.

His fingers found the hidden compartment he had sewn into the leather himself, a pocket within a pocket that sat flush against his lower back.

Inside was a small package wrapped in wax paper, no larger than a deck of playing cards.

It contained a good amount of white phosphorus. He’d packed enough of it to generate temperatures exceeding four thousand degrees Fahrenheit when exposed to air.

Hughes kept his eyes on the circuit breakers as his left hand carefully extracted the package.

He could feel the familiar tingle in his fingers even through his utility gloves, a phantom sensation born from experience.

The burn scars on both hands, thick and ropey, covering his palms and the webbing between his fingers, were hidden beneath those gloves.

He wore them every day without exception.

People assumed it was just good safety practice.

Nobody had ever asked to see what was underneath.

His left hand slid the package into the narrow gap between the back of the panel housing and the concrete wall.

The space was tight but sufficient. He pressed the package firmly into position, making sure it was seated securely and would not shift or fall.

The wax paper would protect the phosphorus from accidental exposure until it was time for it to do its work.

His pulse quickened and he allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction.

His face remained composed, nothing more than mild concentration as he continued testing breakers with his right hand.

But inside, the excitement was building in a way that made his skin feel electric.

Months of planning had led to this moment.

Getting the maintenance contract. Forging the credentials.

Learning the prison's routines and security protocols.

Building a cover identity so thorough that even a background check had come back clean.

He’d gone through it all for the privilege of standing in this corridor, planting a small package of white phosphorus just twenty-five feet from the cell block where Gabriel Kane spent twenty-three hours of every day.

Hughes tested the last breaker and nodded to himself. He replaced the voltage tester in his belt and closed the panel cover, snapping the padlock back into place.

"All done," he said, turning to face Wexler.

"Found your problem. One of the breakers in the third row was loose in its seat. I reset it and tightened the bus connection. Should hold, but if it trips again, put in another work order and I'll come back to replace the whole unit. I don’t think it will come to that, but it’s always best to be prepared. "

Wexler pushed himself off the wall. "That's it? Fifteen minutes?"

"Sometimes the simple fixes are the best ones."

Wexler shrugged and gestured back down the corridor. "All right, then. Let me walk you out."

Hughes picked up his tool bag and fell into step beside the guard. He kept his expression neutral as they retraced their route through the secured doors and checkpoints. Wexler resumed his commentary about the Dodgers' pitching rotation, and Hughes offered the occasional nod or murmur of agreement.

But his thoughts were elsewhere, far from baseball and broken air conditioners. The package was planted. The first piece was in position. Everything that came next would flow from this single, quiet act of preparation.

The job was done.

But the fun was only starting.