Page 3

Sean

“How are you, honey?” my mom asks, her slightly pixelated face lit up on the screen before me. Her smile is strained, lines of worry lacing her features. A ripple of guilt rolls across my mind, but I force it to evaporate before it can consume me.

“Good, Mom. How are you?” I ask casually, trying to ease her concern. I’m safer than she thinks, but I can’t tell her that. I’m even closer to home than she realizes, but I can’t tell her that either.

“Are you eating enough and drinking your water?” she asks, ignoring my question.

A short titter escapes me, but I confirm. The tension around her amber eyes eases, and she smiles at me through the screen. “Sorry, honey, you know I’m just worried.”

“I know, but I’m okay. I promise.” My military career has been hard on my mom; she tries to hide that fact, though she does a shit job of it sometimes.

“How’s Jace?”

She’s only asking about my best friend to try to match whatever Jace told his mom, and I suppress an eye roll. Our moms became fast friends six years ago and I’m glad they have each other, especially considering the secrecy of our whereabouts and classified jobs. I think they talk to each other more than Jace and I do, and our bunks are directly next to each other in the barracks.

“He’s good too. He’s eating, drinking, and wreaking the usual havoc.”

She smiles, looking sheepish, knowing she’s been caught out, and her face freezes as the connection shorts out for a second. “Have you met any nice girls wherever you are?”

“No, Mom. There’s no girl.”

I’m not celibate, but I’m certainly not dating by any stretch of the imagination. I’m all kinds of fucked up and have absolutely no business subjecting a woman to my madness—at least not on a permanent basis—but I wouldn’t dare share that with my mom. Besides, there aren’t exactly any women where I am. This place is barely suitable for me, much less a woman.

“You should keep an eye out. You never know when the girl of your dreams will fall into your lap. I’m not getting any younger, and I’d love some grandkids.”

“You have grandkids, Mom. Or do Callie’s boys not count?”

She laughs, her amber eyes sparkling on the screen. “You know I love your nephews more than anything, but you could start adding to the collection.”

I give her a tight smile, not willing to crush her dreams. I don’t see myself having kids, but this isn’t the time nor the place to have that conversation. Although, my mom is amazing and would be nothing but supportive if I told her that’s what I wanted.I make a mental note to broach the topic with her in person on my next leave—whenever that is.

Changing the subject, I ask, “How are things at home?”

I listen as she prattles on about my sister, and how she’s considering early retirement. She’s been talking about retiring from her successful advertising career for years, but she’s never actually done it.

My mom is sweeter than a candy store, kindness radiating from her aura like fog floating up from the surface of a forest lake. She deserves a better son than me.

“Digs, Major Thompson wants to see you,” Martinez states, drawing my attention to the doorway. I nod, then turn back to the computer on the desk in front of me. “I’ve got to go, Mom.”

“I understand. Call me again when you can, okay? I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I echo before ending the video call and logging off the computer. I don my mask and stalk down the hallway toward the major’s makeshift office.

Passing the closed door of the gym, I hear Ghost’s “Dance Macabre” blaring, and I know without looking inside that Jace is in there. He’s a rock fan and Ghost is always his first choice. I much prefer metal, enjoying the harder, more extreme musical elements. It also keeps the inmates awake and annoys the living fuck out of them, so no matter how you slice it, I win.

I make a left turn down the hallway that leads me past the entrance to the cages, the first of ten cell blocks, each housing eight cells. As far as I know, we’ve never had more than seventy-three prisoners at one time. We currently only have forty-one, but I get the sense that number will be dropping soon.

“Slow Suicide” by Cultist hammers through the speakers of all ten cell blocks and the barest whisper of a smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. Fuck, I hope these walking pieces of filth are miserable. When I pass Borman, one of my guys, I decide to ask him to shut off the music for a few hours. I like to play with my food before I eat it and I’m getting hungry.

I haven’t always been this way. I was made. Created. Molded like potter’s clay. Reborn into the person I am today, like some kind of demonic phoenix. I used to be relatively normal; a strong man my mother was proud to call her son—a man I was proud of. It wasn’t until the government got their hooks in me that things…changed. My mom doesn’t know about the version of human I am now: the type that craves the hunt and lives for the scent of blood in the water .

I hope to God she never discovers my barmy penchant for torture.

My day-to-day role has become more than just my duty or my assignment—which it is—it’s my goddamn hobby . The government knew what they were doing when I was given this post.

I continue down the corridor until I reach the major’s temporary office. He’s rarely here, and when he’s not, I’m in charge. Knocking, I dutifully wait until I’m ordered to enter.

“You asked to see me, sir?” I ask, removing my mask and taking up my position across from his pitiful desk. He’s a large man, with salt and pepper hair and lines marking his weathered face. He nods as he holds out a manila folder for me to take.

L. KOSKINEN is printed in bold, black ink along the side, and I slide it open and begin to scan the text, not making it much further than the second summary paragraph when the major interrupts me, “Koskinen is waiting for you in Cell Eight.”

Only the worst of the worst criminals are sent here. Those kept at Ex-I are a national security threat, a danger to civilization, or simply too depraved for a maximum-security prison. The low number assigned to L. Koskinen tells me he’s a threat to national security. The higher your number, the less of a security risk you are. Everyone in Cell Block One is a terrorist and has been on at least three watch lists at one time or another.

Prisoners here are usually unknown to society in the first place; so dangerous that the government shields them from public view. But when those criminals are eventually caught, they need a hell to make home for a while, and that’s where I come in. I’m the gatekeeper of this hellhole, at least until I send you on to Lucifer for your next round of fiery damnation.

If you’re here, you’ve already been pronounced dead, forgotten, thrown into the pits. The outside world doesn’t know about this place, therefore offering more freedoms—and the potential for creativity —than a standard prison.We have our own set of rules, our own code, and believe me when I say that the list of rules is very short.

Rule number one: never reveal the existence of Ex-I. Rule number two: never kill a prisoner without orders. That’s it. Everything beyond those two rules is on the table.

“I’ll let you brief yourself later. I’ve got a chopper waiting, so let’s make this quick. We believe Koskinen is the leader of a British terrorist cell. We thwarted their attack on the Federal Reserve, but we need intel on the next target and remaining members of the organization. You have six months. If you don’t get answers by the end of February, Koskinen is to be eliminated. Do you have any questions?”

“No, sir. I’ll get you what you need.”

Sure, I have prisoners still holding out on me—like the behemoth in Cell One—but I rose the ranks faster than a bolt of lightning for a reason, and it’s not because I can squat three times my weight. I get results.

“I know you will. You’re dismissed.”

I turn and start for the door, folder in hand, when the major stops me. “Diggory, keep your wits about you with this one. Koskinen is probably the most dangerous prisoner in this building.”

With that omen, I nod once and stalk out of the room, tugging the mask back on and making a beeline straight for the barracks, where I hope I’ll meet up with Jace. On my way, I stop and ask Borman to bring my new toy to what we refer to as the “playpen.”

As I suspected, I find Jace fresh from a shower, pulling on a shirt, and I toss him the folder. I yank the mask from my head and take some deeper breaths as I give him a moment to briefly skim the text on the first page, which contains more than enough information for us to get started.

When he glances back up, a small smirk quirks the corner of his lips, and I have no doubt that my own face mirrors his. I jerk my head in the direction of the door and leave the barracks with Jace at my side, my mask dangling from my fingertips. Once outside the heavy metal door of the playpen, Jace asks, “How do you want to play this?”

His expression is cloudy now, but his eyes betray just how excited he is to sit down with some fresh meat. He’s almost as unhinged and bloodthirsty as I am.

“I thought we’d start with the sprinklers.”

He arches a dark eyebrow, his eyes widening slightly as he huffs, the sound somewhere between disbelief and humor. “Waterboarding, really?” he clarifies, as he crosses his arms over his broad chest, fisting his mask.

I shrug. “Baptism by fire.”

“Bro, it’s just plain baptism if there’s water involved.” Rolling my eyes, I tug my mask on, obscuring my identity.

A generous dose of excited adrenaline pulses in my veins as I blow into the room like a violent storm, letting the metal door rattle against the concrete wall behind it.