Chapter 2 #2
I dig into the gravel with the toe of my kitten heel and restrain myself from spewing rocks into the air.
This particular disguise is heinous. My hair, temporarily dyed a mousy brown, is tucked into a scratchy beret.
Small, red-rimmed glasses perch on my nose, coupled with the doudiest combination of an ankle-length skirt, a boxy blouse that should’ve died in the 80’s, and a wool cardigan with a fist-sized brooch of an owl.
If you open my wallet, you’d find an ID that reads Manon Baudelaire.
Finally, when I’m about three seconds from spontaneously combusting under the sun, the chainlink fence in the distance begins to open.
ADX Florence is not-so-lovingly referred to as the “Alcatraz of the Rockies”. It’s where people like the feds put away criminals who are either highly dangerous or at increased risk of escape. Sometimes both. In this particular case, it depends who you ask.
And here I am, dressed like somebody’s grandma, waiting to chauffeur one of their inmates.
I instinctively scan my surroundings for what feels like the fortieth time.
The prison sprawls out for miles, broken up in clusters and surrounded by guard towers and heavy fortification.
They can’t band together if they’re kept separated.
Although, there wouldn’t be anywhere to run in this beige hellscape.
The gate sits open for a few more beats.
Enough for me to wonder if they’re going to make me wait even longer than the three hours I’ve been stationed in their parking lot.
I anticipated some resistance—it’s not everyday that an inmate gets released from this type of prison. In fact, it almost never happens.
Unfortunately for me, everyone staffing this place is too far down the totem pole to be given an explanation. Which means they’ll be determined to make this process as uncomfortable as possible for everyone involved.
Not punishment, right, Raffaele? What a joke.
Double doors swing open at the end of the chainlink alley, the sun glinting off tiny windows forcing me to squint and rub my eyes.
The first thing I hear is laughter. Crunching gravel—multiple footsteps. One man and a woman. Jingling keys swishing at someone’s hip, murmured conversation, another laugh. Flirtation—of course.
A female guard in her forties, dressed in head-to-toe khaki with a tactical belt and a radio on her chest, simpers up at the target. My vision focuses again as they approach. I spot the blush on her face from several yards away.
Straightening, I plaster a smile on. They finally notice my presence at the mouth of the gate.
Graham Baudelaire.
Master art thief, committed bachelor, notorious manipulator. Quite the athlete, too, if his rap sheet is to be believed—with a reputation for always finding a way in where there is none. Even if it means scaling a wall or dropping through the roof. And those are only the known robberies.
I’d be impressed if I didn’t already hate him.
Graham’s wearing a suit, untouched by our pervasively dusty surroundings but rumpled from prison storage.
The collar unbuttoned, his tie hangs undone around his neck, a near-black curl drooping down his forehead as if he planned it that way.
He’s slightly pallid from months with limited sunlight, as if his skin was meant to have a permanent golden warmth.
His jaw is shaven, and when he casts his devil-may-care smile my way, I realize that he’s noticed me noticing.
Except I’m not looking in appreciation. It's my job to notice.
I watch with feigned anticipation as Graham kisses the guard’s knuckles and she nearly keels over with delight. Whatever he whispers in her ear, she presses a hand over her heart and sends him a teary-eyed goodbye before retreating back into the prison.
“Manon!” he calls, sweeping me into a hug and pulling me off my feet. I fight the urge to break his knees as he spins me in a circle. “How I’ve missed you.”
The low rumble in his chest makes me wiggle out of his hold and cover it with a lightning-fast kiss to his cheek. My stomach turns for the whole interaction.
“Get in the car,” I say through gritted teeth.
“How do I know you won’t kill me?”
“You don’t.”
Graham seems to think about it, glancing back at the prison before sending me a half-shrug. “For the record—” he begins once we’re seated inside and I’ve started the engine. “—my sister Manon does not look like a grouchy schoolmarm.”
The ISA doesn’t make stupid mistakes. If he’s trying to goad me, it won’t work. I make a vague noise in the back of my throat and pull the car down the only road leaving ADX Florence, swathed by endless plains of reedy brown grass.
“Why didn’t they disguise you as my girlfriend?”
Casting one last look in the rearview, I rip the beret off and throw it in the backseat, smoothing my hair with one hand. “Not exactly believable,” I reply bluntly.
Graham hums, rolls the window down, and sticks his hand outside. “Give yourself some credit, Agent, you might not be too terrible looking beneath all that wool.”
I ignore the jab and roll the window back up without warning.
“That’s rude,” he says, putting it down again and adjusting the thick silver watch on his wrist. “I haven’t felt the wind on my face in ten months and fourteen days. Have some mercy, Agent.”
Even a deceptively charming English accent can’t save him. There’s something strangely mellifluous about it, as if his childhood in France never fully released its grip.
Keeping my eyes on the road, I raise the window again and turn on the child lock mechanism. Graham scoffs and sits back in his seat. To be fair, he manages to make the mid-level cloth interior look like a luxury.
“You’re a right wet blanket,” he mutters.
I send him a raised eyebrow. “And I bet you look awful in orange.”
Graham’s lips lift into a smirk, eyes twinkling as if my response did anything but discourage him.
I fix my eyes on the road. He’s nothing but a criminal and an active hindrance to my career.
Raffaele might as well have clasped a ball and chain around my ankle and set me on a short plank of a pirate’s ship.
I’ve been shoved off one of those before, too. It’s not as fun as the movies make it look.