The Bratva’s Locked Up Love by Jagger Cole

3

Quinn

I’m shakingas the elevator rises up through the complex. Every nerve in my body is jangling… every synapse in my head firing a billion times a second. What just happened is without question the most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to me. A hulking beast of a man—a top prisoner in a prison full of the world’s most dangerous men—just had me alone in a sealed room, pressed to bars, with his hand around my throat.

I should be dead. Dead, or being used as leverage or a human shield as he tries to hard-negotiate his way out of Yellow Creek. And yet, I’m fine. I’m unharmed. Even the hand around my throat wasn’t hard enough to even bruise.

I blush as something hot sizzles in my core. Not hard enough to bruise. Just hard enough to take me from zero to sixty on the arousal scale in about one quarter of a second.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Miss Coolidge?”

I blink out of my embarrassing reverie. My face burns hotly as I quickly remember I’m in an elevator with four other people—guards, bringing me back topside from the prison below.

“What?”

“We’re here, Miss Coolidge,” one of the guards says stiffly.

My brows knit. “Doctor.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Doctor Coolidge,” I mutter.

The grizzled soldier looks like he’s barely stopping his eyes from rolling at me, the girl half his size and at least ten years younger than him.

“C’mon, Quinn.” Sergeant Tom Kempton, my father’s second in command at Yellow Creek, and a man I’ve known for years, is also riding up with us. He gives me a weary look. But I don’t back down.

“It’s Doctor. He said Miss Coolidge. Doctor is fine.”

Tom frowns. I sigh deeply.

“You’re a Sergeant, right Tom?” I stress his first name in front of his subordinates to make a point.

His frown deepens. “Quinn…”

“And did you wake up one day and decide to be called Sergeant, or was it a rank you earned and worked hard for over years and—”

“Okay, okay, we get it,” he grunts. He turns and shoots a hard look at the other three soldiers. “Don’t we.”

They all nod quickly. But Tom narrows his eyes on the guy who called me Miss. The guard clears his throat, withering under Tom’s gaze. His eyes dart to me.

“Doctor Coolidge. We’re here.”

I smile thinly. “Thanks.”

He sighs as he turns to turn a key and punch in a code on the elevator. The doors suddenly open, and I wince as the sunlight blinds me for a second. It’s like this every time I come up. It’s not like the whole prison is a dark, lightless cave. But when you get used to fake lightning for a whole day, or at times a few days in a row, the sunlight can be overwhelming.

I step out along with Tom. We’re in what looks like a mid-sized hanger, maybe big enough for a small plane or something. In fact, it has been used to house small planes that taxi in on the dirt runway that runs through one of the barren fields—black ops missions bringing in especially sensitive inmates.

Through the big open door, the big Tennessee sun shines down even brighter. I squint before Tom suddenly pushes something in my hand—sunglasses.

“Thanks,” I mumble as I slip them on.

He nods. “Sorry for the ‘miss’ shit.” He shrugs. “You know none of them are actively trying to be insulting, Quinn. Hell, I know I’ve slipped up too. I’m just a southern boy is all. ‘Miss’ comes naturally.”

I smile weakly. “I know. Sorry for being a hard-ass about—”

“Don’t be.” He turns and grins at me. “Shit, I’d expect nothing less from Rock’s kid.”

Tom’s my father’s age, and he and my dad go way back to when they were in basic together. They went through SEAL training together too, got hooked up in the same unit, and saw combat together. That’s about the extent of what I know. But now, Tom’s basically my dad’s second in command for operations here at Yellow Creek.

We’re heading over to the farmhouse—the seat of operations—to see my dad after my “ordeal” as Tom’s phrased it. But I know what’s waiting for me, and it’s sure as shit not going to be a big hug and a grateful “I’m so glad you’re okay” from my dad.

I’m about to get my ass chewed out by the Colonel. I know it, and Tom knows it. But we’re not talking about it.

We’re greeted on the front porch by sharp salutes by two uniformed men with guns. Tom nods and then clears his throat. “Head inside and give us a minute, fellas?”

They glance at each other.

“That means fucking now, dipshits.”

The two men snap to action and bolt inside the farmhouse. Tom sighs and pulls the University of Texas baseball hat off his shiny, mocha-brown bald head. He turns to look at me, arms folded over his flack jacket.

“Look, I know I wasn’t supposed to—”

“He cares about you, you know,” Tom grunts. He jerks his head towards the door. “Your old man, I mean.”

“Yep,” I mutter dryly. “Got it.”

Tom sighs. “C’mon, Quinn. Guys like us… we’re not always so good at the mushy shit. You know?”

I roll my eyes. The mushy shit. “Mushy shit” like showing up to my record-setting graduations over the years—high school at twelve, college at fourteen, and then medical school at eighteen? Or “mushy shit” like actually being there when my mom wasted away in a hospital room until she didn’t know who she was?

But I don’t have to say any of that out loud. Tom can see it all over my face.

“We’ve all got regrets, kiddo,” he says gently with a thin mouth. “All of us.”

My jaw tightens. I wish I could have a little sympathy for my dad. I do. I know he’s seen things and had to do things that most people never even have nightmares about having to see or do. But I can’t. Maybe a few years ago, I was getting close. But then, dear old dad made me a prisoner of his own disgusting for-profit prison.

I was on everyone’s watch list when I graduated Duke School of Medicine magna cum laude at eighteen years old. I mean I was younger than everyone else in my class by about nine years at minimum. I did my three years of surgical residency at Mass General in Boston. Every surgical program in the country wanted me.

And then my dad shot that down.

Yellow Creek had been operating for about five years at that point. Obviously, back then, I didn’t know all the dark details I do now. All I knew was, my father ran a private security company that had huge US government contracts. Then suddenly, I was getting a call from the CIA that they needed to vet me for security clearances.

The short version is, my dad signed me up as Yellow Creek’s resident surgeon. Sign, stamped, sanctioned by the US Government, and locked in to a five-year contract with an option to extend five more years after.

In one sense, the job is incredible. I get to do what I love—treat wounded people, and I don’t have to put up with a single piece of bureaucratic insurance company bullshit. No hospital administration crap or dramas either. And I get paid a shitload of money from Uncle Sam to do so.

But the downsides kill all the good parts. I work alone. I can’t tell anyone about my job—anyone I know from my day-to-day life, or old friends from med school all think I’m a private physician to some eccentric rich guy. Oh, and I work in a depressing, underground prison for the world’s most dangerous, depraved humans. And on top of all of that, I’m under a non-breakable, non-negotiable contract that forces me to be here for the next four years, minimum.

“Yeah, well, do you have any of your family members or loved ones locked into contracts so they’re forced to be part of your ‘regrets’ every single day for years, Tom?”

He smirks. “I plead the fifth.”

“Can I go get yelled at now?”

He sighs. “Yeah, guess it’s that time, huh?”

“Can’t wait.”

We step inside. The two guards from before snap to attention and then quickly take their posts back outside again. On the inside, the farmhouse is mostly just one big open, extremely modern looking space. It’s not even like they renovated an old farmhouse into this. They literally just built what they needed and then made the outside look like a sixty-year-old house.

Up a flight of stairs, we pause outside of the heavy wooden door to the Colonel’s office. Tom glances at me, clears his throat, and knocks.

“Enter!” My dad’s heavy, deep voice booms from inside.

Tom twists the knob and swings it open, and we both step inside. My dad glances up from his computer screen. His face hardens when he sees us—me especially. But he says nothing. He just turns back to his screen.

“I’m going to have to call you back, Senator.”

Whichever Senator he’s speaking to is in mid-response when my dad ends the call abruptly and swivels towards us. He sighs deeply. The worn lines on his face crease in a frown. He brings a big hand up to stroke his clean-shaven chin and the thick Tom-Selleck-style mustache. With a grunt, he stands to his full height, his arms behind his back military-style.

“Quinn, what in the hell were you thinking?” he growls angrily.

Yep, there it is. The big warm fuzzy hug and the breathless thankfulness that I’m unharmed. Colonel Rockland Coolidge style.

“Yeah, so, I’m fine, thanks for your concern—”

“Don’t get fucking cute with me,” he snaps. “You disobeyed a direct order! I told you, I don’t want you in those goddamn operating rooms—”

“Well, where the hell am I supposed to treat my patients!?” I throw back angrily. “Jesus Christ! Dad, you lock me into this fucking contract—”

“Watch your goddamn mouth!” he hisses.

Tom clears his throat from behind me. My dad’s eyes snap past me to him.

“Something you want to add, Tom?” He mutters dangerously.

“Permission to speak freely?”

My dad rolls his eyes. “Just fucking say it, Tom.”

“She’s okay, Rock. She handled a real dangerous situation the best she could. The whole place is designed for what happened today to never happen. It’s not on her, she was just—”

“Well, it damn well did happen, and what she was ‘just doing’ was disobeying my goddamn orders.”

“You brought me here to be a doctor,” I snap angrily. “So either let me be a fucking doctor, or let me go do it elsewhere!”

His jaw tightens, and his mouth thins. He glances past me at Tom again. “What exactly the hell happened down there?” He grunts, completely ignoring my last words.

“An inmate was in an altercation in the showers,” I say loudly, ignoring the fact that he’s talking past me. “Three other inmates jumped him. He managed to…”

“Kill them,” Tom grunts.

I nod. “Right. But they did a number on him with some blades before he did. He was locked to his gurney; all the protocols were followed. All doors were locked, cameras in the room were off,” I add with a bitterness. The secrecy and dehumanization of these prisoners—even if they’re monsters—is one of the aspects of this job that makes my skin crawl

“And yet, here we are.” My dad mutters dryly, glaring at me like this is my fault somehow.

“The inmate seems to have slipped free of his cuffs.”

I tremble. The events of half an hour ago come rushing back, sucking the air from my lungs. I tighten my body, replaying the memory of turning around and seeing him just… there. Just looming over me, with those deep, dark, gorgeous eyes nailing me to the bars behind me before he even touched me.

“We’re exploring if it was human carelessness or just his own ability. But even still, he’d lost a lot of blood in the attack. I don’t know how the hell he managed to stand, let alone break out of his cuffs and attack—”

My dad’s head swivels quickly to me. “Wait, you were in the goddamn cage?!” For a second, I see real fear—real worry on his face. But the Colonel quickly masks it back over.

“I was treating a patient,” I grunt. “Yes, I was in the—”

“Did he hurt you?”

I blink in surprise. It’s another rare moment of concern. Twice in the span of thirty seconds feels like almost surreal.

When I don’t know how to even respond, Tom steps froward to glance at me and my father.

“No. When our guys breeched the room, the inmate was just kneeling on the ground with his hands behind his head.” He frowns as he turns to me. “I have that right, don’t I, Quinn?”

I nod. “Yeah,” I lie. “That’s all that happened.

Why I lie is a mystery to me. I mean I’m already in trouble for going in there in the first place. It’s not like telling them about the inmate grabbing me—putting his hand on my throat and pinning me to the bars—is going to get me into more trouble.

But still, I don’t mention it. And I don’t know why.

My dad’s face darkens. “This fucking guy gets stabbed… how many times?”

“Four lacerations, three deep punctures.”

He scowls. “And after that, he breaks out of his goddamn cuffs in the middle of an ultra-secure cell room, all to get on his knees and smile for the fucking cavalry?”

Tom shrugs. “Yeah, seems that way.”

My dad turns to me, and I nod.

“Yep. That’s what happened.”

He scowls and turns back to Tom. “Who is this guy?”

“Inmate five-oh-four-niner.”

My dad stiffens. His face pales just a bit before he seems to catch himself.

“Huh,” he shrugs, like that number didn’t just clearly mean something to him. “Is he back in his cell?”

“We’ve got him in solitary, down in the hole.”

I shiver. Even I know what the hole is. It’s black hole within a black hole. It’s where they keep people who are a danger to themselves, or who have demonstrated a complete inability to be even remotely near other inmates. It’s so bad that my father and Tom have both made a point of never allowing me to even see it.

I frown. “Who is this guy? The inmate.”

My dad frowns and shrugs nonchalantly. “A scumbag. Like the rest of them.”

“Yeah, but who is he?”

He eyes me coolly for a second. “That’s classified, Quinn. You know that.”

“His chart says he’s Russian mafia.” My brows knit. “It’s just…”

“Yes?” My dad says sharply, with a warning tone.

I shrug. “I mean, he’s a criminal. But I’m just curious what he’s doing in here with guys from Al Qaeda and Aryan Nation dipshits who want to blow up the White House.”

My dad’s eyes narrow at me. His mouth thins. But then he shrugs it off again. “Classified,” he grunts, turning to walk back to his desk. He sinks stiffly into his chair and looks at me again. “Do you have anything else about the incident to add to the report?”

I stare at him. Not a single flicker of gratitude that I’m safe. Not a single word or gesture of affection.

“Nope,” I mutter dryly.

The Colonel nods. “Good. Anything else, Tom?”

Tom shakes his head. “Think that’s about it, Rock.”

“Good. Keep that animal in the hole until further notice. Dismissed.”

My dad turns back to his computer screen. Tom glances at me and gives me a half-smile as he nods his head towards the door. But I frown and turn back to my dad.

“He needs antibiotics.”

His brow creases as he glances back at me. “Excuse me?”

“The inmate. Five-oh-four-niner. He needs antibiotics or he might get an infection.”

My dad shrugs and turns back to his screen. “Sounds like he’s a tough bastard. He’ll be fine.”

I grit my teeth. “That’s inhumane.”

“I said you’re dismissed, Quinn.”

Tom clears his throat from behind me. “C’mon, Quinn,” he mutters under his breath. But I ignore him and glare at my dad.

“Actually, legally speaking, it’s a breach of the Geneva Convention.”

The room goes quiet. And I know why; that’s why I used it. Throwing around the “G-word” at a place like this is like bringing a drug-sniffing dog into a Grateful Dead concert. The vibe instantly changes, and things get cold and serious real fast.

Yellow Creek is “off the record,” which means it gets away with a whole bunch of crap it shouldn’t. But legally speaking, things like the Geneva Convention rules about how to treat enemy combatants applies. The Patriot Act muddied that up pretty good, but it’s still there. You can’t just torture people who are technically prisoners of the government. Even if they don’t exist on paper.

And the Colonel hates being reminded that he has rules to answer to.

Slowly, he raises his eyes to me. He does not look happy.

“Watch it, Quinn,” he hisses thinly.

“I’m just saying—”

“I heard what you said loud and fucking clear,” he growls.

I purse my lips. “He needs follow-up medical attention. I’m not asking for the world, dad. I’m asking to do my goddamn job and duty as a physician. I take the Hippocratic Oath every bit as seriously as you do the SEAL Ethos.”

He glares at me, his mouth thin.

“If I could, Rock,” Tom interjects. “It would be good if he didn’t keel over on us.”

The Colonel chews on that silently.

“Please,” I say quietly. “Look, I just want to be able to do my—”

“Fine.” My dad turns back to his computer screen. “Do what you need to do. But I want that motherfucker locked down the next time you’re even in the same vicinity as him. Understood?”

I nod. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t look away from his screen. “Dismissed.”

It isn’t until I’m in my car, alone, that I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I tremble, gripping the steering wheel tightly as I breathe deeply, filling my lungs. I look up into visor mirror. My hand slips up, and my fingers trace across my throat.

Heat pools in my core. My face burns hotly.

But just as quickly, I shake it away and fumble to start the car. Whatever the hell happened today, I need to get away from it. Not dwell on it. Not simmer on it.

And I shouldn’t be fantasizing about his big hands, gorgeous eyes, and rippling muscles the entire drive back home.