Runner smiled, the cellphone pressed to his cheek.
"So, Charlie, We gonna get the gang together? It's been a month since my last contract and I've been getting bored."
The reply made Runner's grin widen.
"Send Jude over to play lawyer."
The guard tapped Runner on the shoulder to signal five minutes and Runner turned, sending the man an icy glare.
The man scuttled away like a kicked puppy.
"Of course I passed my LSAT!" Runner hissed into the phone. "When is the last time I failed something?"
The acerbic reply made Runner wince good-naturedly.
"I thought we promised never to mention my fourth trip to Mexico. I never should have taken the first three yet alone took the contract for the fourth!"
The room was silent as Runner listened to the man on the other end of the line.
"Yep. And there is no way you're bringing the issue at the Kazakhstan border up, a deal is a deal. Hey, do you think we can bring Chance in on this one? I don't think the transport for prisoner exchange excuse is going to work again, especially not while I'm under investigation."
Runner smirked as the chatter of angry exclamations echoed from the device as he pulled the phone away from his ear. When the noise died down, he finished the call.
"It's just a murder rap, dude, nothing to worry about. And don't try to feed me that zen crap, I know you're worrying. Make sure to get Jude, Hanson, Cafri, DiNozzo, and the others in on this one. It's a big case, and my keepers already approved the contract. Call you later. I have to go interrogate some coppers- I mean, be interrogated by some coppers."
He hung up without a goodbye, imagining Crews' face. He'd just have to call Charlie back later.
Runner sauntered back to his cell with a grin. The Hermanos were back.
Lompoc Federal Penitentiary
Juliet followed Lassiter down the hallway, wincing at the noise level as every sound echoed into an ear-splitting cacophony.
The blank washed out white walls seemed to press in on her in the growing noise, added to by the piercing whistles of the men behind the barred doorways on either side of her, their eyes watching her every movement, scarred faces registering her holstered weapon. The khaki-colored uniform of the guard escorting them contrasted greatly with the orange jumpsuits of the inmates and the blue jump suit of the janitor with his mop who was washing down the floor up ahead. Juliet frowned, the puddle looked...
It was blood she realized with a start, her mouth suddenly feeling dry.
Hands clanged against bars.
Deep, gravelly voices echoed.
A tattooed face leered at her, teeth bared.
Dark hostile eyes followed her movements, running up and down her body.
She suddenly became very much aware of the fact that she was a woman in a man's prison. It's not like she was a particularly helpless woman either, but she could practically smell the testosterone in the air.
In the same fashion they continued their solemn march past face after face of the kind of men she despised, detested. Killers. Psychopaths. Thieves.
Finally they reached a large set of double doors, on either side of which stood heavily armed guards at attention. Inside, Juliet knew, was the gym in which lower priority inmates could spend their time. She realized that her hands were sweating at the thought of those men outside of their cells, and she clumsily smoothed her skirt with her shaking fingers, wishing she had chosen a less feminine suit...
She jumped when Lassiter placed a hand on her shoulder to steer her towards the slowly opening doors then scowled at herself, angry that she was allowing the volatile atmosphere to get to her.
Without meeting Lassiter's eyes, she pushed on ahead of him, into the gym.
Inside the room there were no windows, everything instead bathed in the yellow-hued brightness of the artificial lights that covered the ceiling. Several inmates occupied the large room, each orange jumpsuit accompanied by two guards.
Some prisoners, reeking of sweat, were lifting weights to the left and others were running on treadmills or stretching on the mats.
As the guard led them in the other direction, Juliet's eyes were drawn to the remaining inmates, those they were heading towards. There were three of them. One was a large African American man, his jumpsuit pulled down to show his wife beater underneath and his well defined shoulder muscles, covered with the occasional tattoo or scar, slick with sweat. He was facing away from them, Working out his fists on a bulky punching bag that had seen better days, his forceful punches swinging the bag back and forth in front of him.
The other two men were in the boxing ring sparring without face gear or gloves. Their moves were clean and swift, a practiced, deadly sort of dance with a clear leader. The shorter man worked the larger man with ease, his grace belied by the loud smack of each blow he dealt. Pinning and releasing. Pinning and releasing. Like a cat playing with a mouse, The small man played with the other man, his posture relaxed, bored. Each move was anticipated. Each blow precise. When, for a moment, he faced her, beneath the tattoos gracing his features, Juliet swore the man's eyes were closed. Possible or not.
Juliet winced in sympathy as the shorter man with the slim build took out his opponent with a classic boxing strike followed by a strange mixed martial arts move that left his larger opponent groaning on his back.
No one turned as the groans proclaimed the match's end. No one reacted to the unexpected prowess of the smaller fighter.
The victor dusted off his hands and leaned casually against the ropes, facing away from the two detectives. Juliet frowned. There was something oddly familiar about the way the man held himself.
"Maggie." She jumped, almost turning to Carlton.
But the voice wasn't his, but someone equally familiar, someone from a different time.
"Shawn?" She hated the way her voice slipped up an octave. Hated how it seemed all of the eyes in the room were on her except His.
The man still didn't turn around, his back stiff and fists still clenched. "I figured I'd be seeing you eventually, whether you were granted an interview or not."
He fell silent as Carlton and Juliet stared at his back in befuddled shock. Then, he turned around.
After six years of imagining this confrontation, there were dozens of things Juliet could have said at that moment but at the time, all that came out of her mouth was "You have a pineapple tattooed on your face?"
The man smirked, offering no retort, "Lassiter." He nodded at the Head Detective.
"Maggie."
His face was hard as stone. Juliet took in the various scars crisscrossing his face and neck and the pineapple labeled 'Hermanos' on his cheek, the bottom almost hidden by his beard.
For a moment while she studied the changes in him she didn't realize the significance of his words, she missed for a moment his use of her new name. The name she took because her old one made her think of Him. Now 'Maggie' sounded wrong, too. Foreign and dirty coming from those lips.
"How...?" She began, but Shawn cut her off.
"You may not have kept tabs on me, you might not even have posted bail, attended my trial or even visited, you may even deserve the title for most inventive break-up excuse ever, but that does not mean I'm the same. Did you really think I wouldn't keep tabs on you? I don't abandon people." He finished pointedly, his eyes on Lassiter, avoiding Juliet's face. "So," he began again in a falsely chipper tone, " I believe you had some questions, Detectives?"
His eyes bored into Carlton.
He kept grinning like a predator having sighted it's prey.
Carlton twitched.
"No," the voice came from behind Lassiter. "I believe they didn't." Gus said, running a calloused hand over his bald head, muscles still tense and prominent from his time at the punching bag.
Seeing Gus, Juliet took an involuntary step back. She had never before realized how tall the kind-hearted pharmaceutical salesman was. Even Lassiter seemed surprised at his appearance.
Shawn just smiled, his raised eyebrows wrinkling his forehead around the puckered slash that spread downwards, slanting across the bridge of his nose. A black eye seemed suddenly very prominent in a mischievous, impish sort of way that was altogether uncomfortably familiar.
"Ah, Jackal, let the uniforms talk. I can deal with this one. They're the ones who said they needed to interview Runner. Well, here he is." He turned away from Gus to face Lassiter.
"So, Lassie-face, what's been eating you. it's been five whole minutes and you have yet to threaten to shoot me, duct tape my mouth shut, or handcuff my hands behind my back. Of course, now that you've already had the pleasure once of putting me in handcuffs, maybe you're satisfied...? Six years ago between you and Detective O'Hara I can honestly say that you were not the one I imagined putting me in handcuffs, but I was wrong then. A lot of things have changed. I'm one of them... So Lassie, you still into bondage?"
The guard sent the Detective a skeptical glance laced with fear and Lassiter glowered.