Damn Manco. She was paying him two—correction, four—million dollars. The least he could do was put her in a decent hotel instead of an abandoned one with no electricity or running water. Except for a small blurb stating the manhunt was ongoing, there was nothing. She’d been replaced by a snowstorm that had crippled Denver. At one time, she’d made headline news on a daily basis and no snowstorm would have dared upstage her. Sometimes she longed for that part of her life. It was still a little surreal she had to spend her energy on more crucial pursuits, like staying one step ahead of the authorities and keeping Garcia from killing her. She wrapped her arms around her middle and rocked back and forth. It had all seemed so easy. All she’d had to do was use the complicated snail-mail system Garcia had set up when she first started selling arms to his organization. If the guards at the prison monitored her mail, they’d see nothing but an innocuous letter to an old friend. Never would they suspect they were reading code for a prison escape.
