heat-shrink. Double-knotted corners.”
Harlan’s smirk faded behind the mesh. “Shut your mouth.”
”I ran distribution from Sonora to Spokane for fifteen years,” I told him, looking straight into his eyes through the slot. “You didn’t buy that bundle off an inmate. That’s outside supply. Specifically, Marcus Delgado’s wholesale out of Phoenix. Curtis Voss thinks he’s running this facility, but he’s just buying through his cousin on the street, and you’re carrying the bag through the sally port for three grand a month.”
Harlan took half a step back. The metal cover on the slot trembled slightly.
”You’re a convict on a contraband ride,” Harlan spat. “Nobody gives a damn what you think you know.”
He slammed the slot shut.
What Harlan didn’t understand was that men like Voss look only at the room they are standing in. They see four walls, a dinner tray, and a handful of scared kids
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