Unlawful Contact Read Online Free PDF

through the cellblock or the throbbing din of angry fists and feet pounding on steel doors—an attempt to force the guards to silence whoever it was who’d bugged out. His mind was as focused and clear as it would be if he were back in Afghanistan, eyes on tango. He’d realized six years ago that surviving in prison meant keeping both his mind and his body disciplined and fit. He’d already lost his future. He wasn’t about to yield his sanity.
    One hundred thirty-seven. One hundred thirty-eight. One hundred thirty-nine.
    He kept his breathing controlled and even, sweat beading on his chest and forehead, his muscles shaking. He pushed himself past one-forty, maxing out, forcing his body where it didn’t want to go. He grunted through the last several reps, his arms and chest barely able to lift his weight, then sat back against the cold concrete wall, breathing hard.
    What time was it? He had no idea. There was no window in his nine-by-nine cell, no break in the gray concrete wall to let in daylight and show him whether it was morning or night. In the Colorado State Penitentiary, day broke at 5 a.m. when the fluorescent lights came on and ended at 11 p.m. when the lights went out.
    He closed his eyes, imagined the moon rising over the plains, its pale light making yesterday’s snow glow silver, Orion setting over the mountains, his belt of stars gleaming. It had been six long years since Marc had seen the moon, six years since he’d glimpsed the stars, six years since he’d set his eyes on the mountains. It might as well have been an eternity.
    It was strange what he missed. Not just the night sky, but sunrises, rainbows, lightning. Not just fresh fruit and vegetables, but birds singing, the bright colors of flowers, the change of the seasons. Not just sex, but the softness of a woman’s skin, the wild taste of female arousal, the sweetness of a feminine voice.
    His life was a monotony of steel and concrete, recycled air and canned food, isolation and masturbation—sterile, cold, and empty. That’s how it would be until the day he died. No house in the mountains. No wife. No chance to be a father.
    And whose fault is that, dickhead?
    It was his own fault, of course.
    He’d thought the deprivation would get easier, but it hadn’t. It seemed go grow sharper with each passing year, until he was afraid that he, too, would be reduced to shrieking and howling in his cell like some wild thing desperate to get out.
    But that wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t let it happen.
    Megan still needed him. Even from behind bars, he’d been able to help her, trading cigarettes, favors, and secrets to make her life easier both in prison and out, using money from his 401(k) to get her into the best halfway house, working through his attorney to secure little Emily’s future. His life might be fucked up beyond hope, but Megan and Emily still had a chance, and he intended to be there for them as much as a man serving a life sentence could be.
    In the cellblock beyond, the din of stomping feet and pounding fists reached a crescendo. Any moment now the lights would flash on, and guards would march down the hallway to remove the screamer. They’d haul whoever it was down to psych, strap him to the board, and pump him full of sedatives. Then the noise would finally stop, and everyone would be able to get some sleep.
    He heard the checkpoint down the hall click open and clang shut, quick footsteps hurrying down the tile floor. Hard soles. A guard.
    Instantly on his feet, Marc drew himself up against the wall to the right of the door and waited. He wasn’t about to be taken by surprise. His conviction for killing a federal agent hadn’t made him popular with guards, and his status as former DEA had made him an object of hatred among the inmates, particularly the ones he’d put behind bars. He’d already survived more than a few attempts to off him—and worse.
    The footsteps stopped outside his cell, and the tray slot on his