A Hunted Man (The Men of Halfway House) Read online

  "The only benefit I care for is information. Is that what you have to offer?"

  "May we speak in your office?"

  "Answer my question."

  "In your office," the man responded in a firmer tone.

  "Answer. My. Question."

  "I come to offer something of value," the attorney responded with a negotiating tone.

  "To you."

  "To many," the man quickly corrected with a smirk.

  "My answer is still no. I'll see you in court," Hunter finished before turning to return to his office.

  "Maybe," one of the men said with a wry laugh.

  Hunter continued his trek to his office, his steps not faltering a beat. He had managed to hold off opposing counsel for three months. Now with just under two weeks before trial, they were still soliciting him to plea. He had high hopes to be able to rid the streets of this new drug crisis—even if it was only one pusher at a time. He assumed this meant no one on his side of the table had been bought out. Yet.

  According to the docket, Judge Peter Gonzalez was assigned to the court date. Hunter's father and Peter served together when they were younger. Peter opted to follow the legal field while Hunter's father chose to pursue his love for teaching. They were all friends, but knew how to clearly separate work from personal. He and Peter shared the same sentiments regarding their hometown: they'd clean up the streets, one case at a time.

  He sat at his desk and noticed his assistant still hovering.

  "Was there something else?"

  "Thank you," Jessie continued to fidget. "They wouldn't leave."

  "How long were they out there?"

  "About fifteen minutes."

  Hunter smiled. "You got them to wait that long? I'm impressed."

  Jessie beamed. "I tried."

  "Are those for me?"

  "Oh yes, sorry," he said, handing over the stack of red folders.

  Hunter scowled. "Who sent them over?"

  "Same messenger."

  "Shit." They had already investigated the courier. Squeaky clean history and it was damn near impossible to get any information from the confidential messenger service that employed him. Hunter despised the mysterious 'watch list' as he called it. It seemed someone higher up thought it was a good idea to keep tabs on recently released ex-cons who were likely to be repeat offenders. So much for prison reform. Even though, statistically, the red files were freakishly accurate in their predictions, he hated not knowing where the hell they came from—especially considering the degree of detail included in each case. He found it unsettling. Regardless, he was compelled to review the files for the sake of knowing what the hell was going on.

  Hunter sighed. It was going to take him hours to get through these new cases. In typical red file fashion, each folder was about two inches thick and overflowing with endless chronological case files, mug shots, reports, background checks, and more. Some even included daily logs of surveillance after an inmate's release from prison.

  He looked at his watch. "Damn it."

  "Is there a problem with one of the files?"

  "I think I missed the cookie window."

  Jessie looked at him with a contorted expression.

  "Never mind. I'm taking an early lunch. I'll review some of the cases while I'm out," he said, taking the red files and storing them in his briefcase. "Make sure I don't have anything for this afternoon please. It's going to take me a while to go through these."

  "You got it."

  Hunter grabbed his case and exited the office at a brisk pace. He could stand up to a team of goons and fight an unknown kingpin to the very end, but there was no way he could miss Lucy's homemade cookies. He had to make it to the diner and hope there was still one left with his name on it.

  A man had priorities. Everything else just had to wait.

  * * * *

  Sam pulled his car up to the front of a place that looked like a house sandwiched between large office buildings. He turned the car off and looked over to Cameron. "Ready?"

  "Yeah," he said then shrugged before exiting the car. He looked up at the two story house and wondered why the hell someone would want to have a house in this location. It just looked…odd. Definitely unexpected and, ironically, very welcoming. Well, better than barbed wire and a huge metal gate.

  He walked up the path to the house and assessed the garden, or lack thereof. The landscaping needed some major work. With a bit of flowers, mulch, and a few trees, it would look dramatically different.

  Sam met him at the door with a file in hand. He knocked then rang the doorbell. Jeez, he's pushy with everyone, it seems.

  A dark-haired man opened the door with a huge smile and a ready hug. "Hey, Sam."

  "Hey, Matt," he said, finally releasing him. "This is Cameron."

  "Hi," he said, extending his hand. "Welcome to Halfway House, I'm Matthew Doner. Come on in."

  Cam entered the halfway house, prison, whatever, and looked around. It was definitely built with the welcoming feel of a home with a living room, kitchen, and a wooden stairwell leading to a second floor. This wasn't a prison, it didn't look like one, and it certainly didn't smell like one. Cam closed his eyes and was instantly flooded with memories of his childhood home. The good ones—when his mom would be there waiting for him when he'd get home from school. He shook his head to dispel the vivid memories.

  "Are you driving back today or tomorrow?" Matthew asked Sam.

  "I'm leaving as soon as I finish here. I've got a few early morning appointments tomorrow."

  "Okay, so let's take care of the formalities first then I'll show you around. Okay?" Matthew asked Cam.

  "Sure, whatever's fine." Honestly, Cam didn't care. He was so tired all he wanted to do was stretch out somewhere and sleep for a few hours. Sitting in that car for the long drive wore away at the little patience he had.

  "Great, let's go to the kitchen and have some coffee while we do the paperwork." Matthew led them out of the hallway into another room.

  Sam sat at the dining room table and Matthew began to prepare a pot of coffee. Cam looked around, the kitchen was very basic but nice-sized with all the necessities—enough for a few people to be in here at once and not worry about rubbing against each other.

  "How many live here?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

  "You're our first guest," Matthew said with a flush of color to his cheeks and a hint of excitement in his eyes.

  "You mean ex-con?"

  "Cam," Sam scolded.

  "Sam, it's fine," Matthew assured him.

  Matthew cocked his head to the side, assessing Cam as he leaned against the kitchen counter. "Actually, you're the second ex-con in this house if you count me. I own this house with my partner, J. You'll meet him later. That makes three of us living here…for now. But you are a guest in our home. This is not a prison, and I hope you don't feel as if it is one."

  He wasn't going to burst the man's bubble and remind him that this was just an extension of prison for now. "So you and…J?"

  "Julian," both Sam and Matthew corrected in unison.

  Cam raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, you and Julian."

  "Yes." Matthew turned and grabbed a few mugs out of the cupboard. "How do you take yours?"

  "Black is fine," Cam responded. He had become accustomed to crappy, bitter black coffee. Coffee in prison tasted horrible but it was always a reliable source of caffeine, warm, and strong as hell. Sugar and other sweets were just too scarce so he hadn't had much of a choice but to forgo his sweet tooth.

  Matthew placed three mugs on the table and grabbed the folder on the counter before sitting. "Sorry about this, but I need to ask you a series of questions and go over a few forms with you. Let's start with a few basics. Can you please confirm your full name?"

  "Cameron Michael Pierce."

  "Do you prefer Cameron or Cam?"

  "Either is fine." He waited as Matthew added some notes to the file. "Which do you prefer? Matthew or Matt?"

&
nbsp; He smiled. "Either is fine."

  "Date of birth?"

  Cam responded to each of the questions. Yes, he was currently twenty-seven years old, and yes, he had a father and a sister. No, they didn't want to see him, and he definitely wasn't interested in seeing them.

  "We need to get you on the Code a Phone program for the aftercare drug monitoring because of the charges on your record."

  "That's fine," Cam said. Random drug tests and bed searches had become part of his life now even though he had never once touched an illegal substance regardless of what his record stated.

  Matt gave him a piece of paper with two numbers. "Here's the phone number you need to call every day and give this five-digit PAX code. The automated system will tell you if you need to go in for testing that day. Can you sign here for me?" Matt handed him another document and a checklist confirming the bits of information they had discussed.

  Cameron stared at the paper. He hadn't actually put his signature on anything since his incarceration. He was a grown man and didn't remember how to sign his name. He clenched his jaw and grabbed the pen. With a few angry strokes, he scribbled his first signature in almost a decade.

  Sam signed the necessary forms to complete the transfer then said his good-byes with a promise to visit soon.

  "Let me give you the tour."

  Cam followed Matt out of the kitchen.

  Matt showed him around to the living room, the back porch, and yard. Even though there was a paved parking area that could easily fit several cars, there was enough land in the yard to do something, anything with some color. This place was in serious need of landscaping all around. Cam's hands started to itch. It was driving him insane to see so much dirt. It was like a blank canvas waiting to be painted with splashes of reds and yellows.

  "Something wrong?" Matt asked.

  "Nothing," he responded before returning inside.

  Matt led Cam up the stairs to a sitting area and a hallway of rooms. A huge window greeted them and lit the loft with natural lighting. Down the hall, Cam could see several rooms.

  "This first one on the left is ours. If you need something…knock. We're still painting the other rooms but we've finished yours." Matt walked to the end of the hall.

  The last room on the right was his room.

  "Mine, as in, for now because no one else is here yet?" Cameron could contain his excitement at the prospect of having some privacy. He'd learned the hard way to hide his emotions in prison. Anything other than anger was beaten out of someone. Excitement, happiness, and hope were counterproductive in the sea of hate, fear, and desperation.

  "Yours. We figured our guests would want their privacy," Matt responded with a smile as he opened the door with a sweeping motion and waited for Cam to enter.

  The walls were colored in a pale blue-gray tone and the white ceiling looked even brighter as the afternoon sunlight peeked through the window. A large bed dominated the spacious room. Definitely not the thin pad and barely there pillow he was used to. This bed begged to be slept in. He could easily make out a thick mattress with at least four fluffy pillows under the dark blue comforter. Next to the heavenly bed was a table, small, but large enough for the lamp and alarm clock. At the foot of the bed, to his left, there was a dresser with drawers and the biggest television he had seen in a bedroom, ever. It was larger than the community TV in prison and certainly larger than the small portable thirteen inch he used to have in his room as a kid.

  "You can actually walk in and take a look," Matt encouraged.

  Had he been standing there without moving at all? Cam took a step forward and looked to his right and caught a glimpse of a white porcelain sink. He took a few more steps and saw a full bathroom with a shower. His own bathroom?

  "Mine?" he hesitantly asked, looking over his shoulder, but not directly at Matt. He feared acknowledging this seed of hope that had been planted. His own room and his own bathroom? Cam's only private moments were in solitary confinement.

  A flood of memories blindsided him. He didn't want to remember. He hated being alone, in that hell. He recalled how guards came for him when all was quiet and beat him until he was at the brink of death. The bone-numbing pain he suffered for days, bruised and swollen without medical care since the staff insisted he had done that to himself in hopes of seeking escape. Then, just as he'd begun to feel slightly better, he was transferred—by convenient accident—to the wrong cellblock for just enough time to garner another beating by death row inmates with nothing to lose, craving vengeance on anyone with a pulse. He had learned to fight back, but there was only so much one could do against a crew of many.

  Was he really free of the hell that had tried to suffocate him for almost a third of his life? Was this really his bedroom and his bathroom in what could be the start of something new? Or was this a cruel daydream that would chip away at his defenses and bring him lower than he had been in some time?

  He didn't dare hope this was real.

  "Yours," Matt responded softly. "We know you were in for a while so we weren't sure if you had enough clothes."

  Matt was talking but Cam had a difficult time hearing him over the buzz in his head. He wasn't sure what he expected in this new place, but he certainly didn't anticipate something so radically different. He expected a comparable illusion of a prison, bunk beds, shared bathrooms, everything similar minus the barbed wire and dressed guards. He didn't expect something that would grant the illusion that he had escaped the nightmare. Was he really free? He closed his eyes and tried to steady his heartbeat and channel his panic to clear the internal hum.

  And why is this guy being so damn nice?

  "They're from second-hand stores and a few things from Walmart. Nothing glamorous but Sam gave us your approximate sizes so we're hoping they fit," he said, pointing to the various shirts and jeans in the closet.

  Clothes? In my closet? Breathe in, breathe out.

  "We set you up with some towels and some basics in the bathroom. The only thing you don't have here is a phone, but we've got a few outlets if you want to charge your cell."

  Silence.

  "Cam?"

  Fuck, I need to respond. What the hell was he talking about? Oh yeah. "I don't have a cell," Cam forced out.

  "Well, we'll work on getting you one, even if it's just basic so you've got one."

  "I don't need one." Breathe in, breathe out.

  "Just in case there's someone you want to call."

  "There's no one," he snapped. Fucking breathe in, breathe out.

  Matt's scrutinizing gaze burned into him. Cam just looked down, his vision pegged to the floor. Breathe in, breathe out.

  "I'll let you get settled in. Job placement, coordinating counseling, orientation, and all that can start tomorrow. Julian should be home any minute but you guys can meet at dinner around six. Do you have any questions?"

  Cam shook his head.

  "If you need anything, I'll be downstairs."

  Cam nodded. Breathe in, breathe out.

  Matt hesitated at the door. Cameron willed the dark-haired man to leave the room before he lost it.

  When he heard the click of the door moments later, he reached out to grab the bathroom doorframe for support. He pressed his head against the cool wall. Shit. His heart was beating too damn fast and his head was pounding so hard it seemed as if it were going to explode. He tried to walk over to the sink, but his feet were heavy, as if he wore anvils for shoes. He splashed some cold water on his face, hoping it would snap him back to the here and now.

  It wasn't working.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  His hands began to shake and his legs became weak.

  His room, his bathroom, his closet…

  Focus. Breathe in, breathe out.

  Cam looked over to the window and the rays of light shining through were like a beacon calling to him. No, this wasn't a dream, dammit. He was free. Free of the bars, the solitary confinement, and the torture. Cameron needed to convince himself this was
real, that it wasn't hope bitch-slapping him and teasing him to the brink of insanity. He tried with every fiber of his being to walk to that window; he needed to see the sunlight for himself and feel the heat on his skin. Two steps and he was unsteady, dizziness set in and his vision faded to black before he fell.

  "Cameron?"

  In the middle of the darkness and the hum, he could have sworn he distinctly heard his name. He wasn't sure since he didn't recognize the voice, but whoever it was sounded pissed.

  "Cameron. Wake the fuck up!" the insistent, growly voice demanded.

  Cam tried, but his eyelids didn't want to cooperate. His chest hurt, breathing was just too damn difficult. He gasped for air. Something cold pressed against his face. With every ounce of energy he had left, he tried again. Finally, a sliver of light seeped into the blackness.

  "That's it. Open your eyes. Wake the hell up or I'm going to beat the shit out of you."

  This, he could deal with. How ironic. Someone being nice, not so much.

  He pushed himself and was able to open his eyes a little more. Everything was a blur, indistinctive, all the colors faded into each other but one…green. He saw crystal clear green eyes staring back at him.

  "What's going to settle you?"

  He needed to know this was real—that he was outside of the prison—but how the hell could he communicate with this insistent, growly, son of a bitch with the death glare when he couldn't even take a breath? He could hear the pounding of his heart amplified in his ears. He was lifted, moved again then held still. He heard a noise then suddenly hot air blew across his face.

  "Open your eyes."

  Cameron was running on autopilot. He was good at following instructions, most of the time. He willed his eyes to open and immediately shut them again when a flood of bright lights left him blinded with flashes of sun spots in the darkness.

  "Take a deep breath," the pain in the ass said again. Cameron's arms were yanked upward and held, forcing his airway to open and take a breath. He began to cough as the hot air filled his lungs.

  "Now open your eyes, Cameron," the voice insisted.