Page 4

Louhi

I’m bored.

I wonder what day or time it is. There’s no way for me to make markings on the wall or anything either, not that I would. None of that matters.

I’ve begun talking out loud to keep my mind from withering. I don’t answer myself or anything—I’m not nutty —but I recite lyrics to my favorite songs, invent creative insults, and solve mental math equations. Considering my mind is the only weapon I have at my disposal, I need that blade to be sharper than ever.

The next few days—only marked by the tender-eyed soldier boy bringing me my meals—pass uneventfully. Every day is filled with heavy metal music, and if they don’t cut that shit out soon, they’ll manage to ruin my favorite genre, and we can’t have that. I’ve been consistently fed two meals a day and given one cup of water. So far, this is vastly more pleasant than my previous arrangements. Nevertheless, I’m not na?ve enough to think it will stay this civilized.

After being silently denied a loo, I made one in the corner of my cell. Certainly not ideal, but it’s not as though I had other options. I have to assume that’s what the small drain, no bigger than my palm carved into the floor of the corner, was for anyway. I’ve just finished relieving myself—adding to the grotesque smell of this hellhole that I have yet to acclimate to—when a soldier I’ve never seen before appears in front of my cell, sans meal. The music covers any additional noises, so his approach was silent, which only irritates me.

Without giving away my vexation, I wink at him. “Well, hello. Nice of you to join me. I’d offer you tea, but I seem to be having some supply chain issues. Perhaps I should take that up with management.”

His face is covered by a mouthless mask that extends down his neck, but I watch something that looks like amusement cross his exposed frosty green eyes, though it’s gone in a flash. I cock an eyebrow as he pulls keys from his pocket and leans close to the wall next to my cell, just out of sight. I deduce that he’s either using a retinal or fingerprint scanner because I hear a faint click, followed by him sliding the key into the lock and opening my cell.

My eyes track over his body, taking inventory of the assault rifle strapped across his back, the Glock holstered at his hip, and the tactical knives at his waist and his thigh. His assessing gaze combined with the fluidity in which he moves tells me this dude isn’t some theater puppet. He would notice if I slid the knife from the sheath at his thigh, though I’m still tempted to try it. The only thing that stops me is the coldness behind his stare that warns me he would have no problem embedding it in my chest. Reminding myself to behave, I keep my twitchy hands at my sides.

With a politeness I forgot I possessed, I offer him my wrists, and he snaps on the cold iron cuffs. The chain is long and drags on the floor between my legs.

He takes a step backwards and holds the door open for me. I smile at my escort— captor —and chime, “How chivalrous of you.”

“Move,” he orders gruffly, jerking his head toward the other end of the hallway.

I take in my surroundings as we walk, evaluating the number of cells we pass—seven—and the fact that four of them are empty. It seems I’m the only woman, and the way the men in the other cells leer and spit vitriol like poison darts as I pass tells me they haven’t seen the female species in a long time. None of them say anything I haven’t heard before, but what I do notice is the varying ethnicities and accents of the three men jeering. One of them is clearly a Scotsman, another is from a Spanish-speaking place, but since my Spanish is shit, I’m not sure where he’s from specifically. I pass an American next—from somewhere in the northeast, if I had to guess—and the last cell is empty, but the door is open, leading me to believe that it’s usually occupied and its resident is simply absent.

Knowledge is power, Lou. You never know what might be useful. My brother’s advice from years ago slithers into my mind as clearly as if he were here with me.

At the end of the hallway, there are several more masked guards armed to the teeth, and I can’t help but smile broadly at the realization that this is all for me. Fuck, I’ve always been a slag for attention.

I follow the line of the soldiers to the right and down another corridor. I make a final right, then the guard at my back brings me to a stop in front of a substantial metal door that’s standing wide open.

Inside, I’m led to a metal table and made to sit in the accompanying chair. It’s a standard interrogation set-up, and I get comfortable knowing that I’ll probably be here for a while. The guard secures the chain dangling between my bare feet to a bolt in the floor and the shackles between my wrists are secured to the top of the table.

When the soldier leaves, he shuts the door behind him with a bang, and I’m left here alone. There’s no music in this room, and I breathe easily while I take in my surroundings.

The first thing I astutely realize is that I’m being watched. The red light on the camera in the upper left-hand corner of the room blinks at me. I wink in the direction of the silent witness. Smile, little sis, you’re on candy camera , my brother teases me in my head, and I suppress the urge to laugh, the maniacal sound tingling on my tongue.

The second thing I notice is that the room is about five times larger than my living quarters, with three long shelves that line the expansive wall across from me. Tools of varying shapes, sizes, and types are displayed tauntingly. Next to the shelves is a floor-to-ceiling metal cabinet that looks more like a large locker. The doors are closed, so I have to use my imagination as to its contents. Unfortunately for me, I’ve always been too creative for my own good.

To my left, there’s a door leading to God-knows-where. To my right, there’s a metal table with hinges and levers placed strategically throughout, likely meant to transform the tabletop into whatever configuration the wielder has in mind.

I close my eyes for a moment and take a breath, the faint scent of disinfectant reaching me. Additionally, the air in this room is much drier, and I relax into the more temperate, hospitable conditions.

In the next blink, the door swings open violently. I don’t flinch, despite being slightly startled by the abrupt noise. I was prepared to sit here alone for far longer, being made to “sweat it out.”

I stare at the two brawny men consuming the doorway. Casually, as if I don’t have a single care in the world—and in some ways, I don’t—I smirk at them.

My eyes first meet those of my meal-time soldier boy, and I shoot him a playful wink.

He only huffs, but I still appreciate that he found me amusing, even if he won’t admit it. He and his mate are clad in the same dusty, olive-colored mesh masks that are, apparently, standard-issue around here. In the full light of the room, I’m privy to his eyes the color of warm honey. I bet he has a nice smile, too, one that matches those pretty eyes, and I vow to make him pull that mask off and smile for me at some point.

The soldier to the right of Honey Eyes is dressed identically—in tan camo tactical trousers, a tight olive-green t-shirt, and army-issued camel-hued combat boots. They’d be hard to tell apart if it weren’t for this guy’s additional few inches of height and the fact that the skin around his eyes is a paler sandy color. A suntanned glow seems to have kissed his skin, which has me wondering if he got it wherever we are right now. I assumed we were somewhere warm and tropical based on the humidity and damp, moldy air in this place and his suntan confirms that.

When he narrows his gaze under my scrutiny, I notice that his are a silvery greyish-blue shade. The color of a thunderstorm rolling in, the color of the London sky in November, the color of a blade.

Despite wanting to, I can’t seem to look away from this man as if something…otherworldly is forcing my gaze to remain fixed on him.

Like that feeling when you’re pumping gas in the winter or brushing your hair and you know before it even happens that the thick static is going to shock you? That’s what’s happening. I can sense the electrical charge in the air, though I know that if I touch it, it’ll sting.

He and Honey Eyes stalk farther into the room and shut the heavy door behind them, sealing the three of us in here together. A savage smile inches its way across my mouth at my realization that these two boys have no bloody idea who they locked themselves in a room with. Just because I don’t plan on snuffing the light from their eyes today doesn’t mean I couldn’t if I wanted to, even chained to a chair.

Seemingly unphased, the two men drag the chairs back from the table across from me and take their seats.

Remembering what I overheard one of the men say in the transport van, I lean back in my uncomfortable chair, extending my arms before me fully.

I simper, addressing the one with silver eyes. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Digs.”

The masked man cocks his head ever-so-slightly, but his steely eyes give away nothing, though there’s a pregnant pause that hangs over the room before he speaks.

“Since you seem to be familiar with me already, why don’t you introduce yourself?” His voice is low, smoky, with a slight huskiness that sounds as though it comes from his chest, not his throat. Much to my annoyance, the reverberation of his voice is something I feel between my legs, rather than between my ears.

I ignore his request for introductions, simply smiling at him instead. Silence decorates the room like nighttime snowfall. But I wait. This is a game and I play to win.

Eventually, Digs leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ll find that I don’t give many chances for leniency.”

He turns toward his mate when my muteness continues. His honey-eyed partner regards him, something akin to trepidation looming in his gaze, but Digs’s frosty stare turns into one of fierce determination as he simply nods in response to the silent question. I admire resolution like that.

Without hesitation, Honey Eyes gets to his feet and rounds the table, wordlessly unlocking my cuffs. I look up into those golden eyes, trying to discern what’s going through his mind, but his expression is indecipherable, any trace of apprehension gone. Even still, I can tell that he’ll be the more readable of the two men.

With more force than is necessary, he yanks me to my feet and drags me over to the metal table to my right. He easily hauls me up onto the table and begins strapping me down. I don’t bother fighting him. I’ve had enough training to know that I’m going to need to save every molecule of energy I can in preparation for whatever the hell is about to happen to me. My new amber-eyed friend disappears from view as I analyze my new position.

There are straps across my hips and forehead, above and below my breasts, two on each leg and each arm, securing me to the cold table. Suddenly, a motor beneath the table whirs to life and the entire contraption lowers two or three feet. The sound of metal grating against concrete—a piss-poor attempt to intimidate me—echoes through the room just as Digs appears behind the head of the table and stares down at me, his eyes flashing with excitement under the fluorescent bulbs. I wish I could see the accompanying grin on his face, despite the macabre situation. I bet it’d be gorgeous.

Underneath the gruesome excitement in his gaze, there’s a darkness looming there, taunting me, warning me to tread carefully. My brother once told me that everyone shows you who they are; you only have to pay attention and believe what you see. That advice has never led me astray.

My gut tells me to take a deep breath, and I do. It’s a good thing too, because a deluge of water engulfs my face. I sputter and cough, but recover faster than the average water-boarding victim. As I smile up into the face of Digs, his eyes narrow marginally in contemplation.

Honey Eyes stuffs a sopping wet rag in my mouth, then drops a cloth over my face, blinding me, and the table abruptly tilts backward as more water rushes over my head.

I once read that nearly fifty percent of people are afraid of drowning. It’s a good thing I’m not one of them because the way my lungs are panicking at the lack of oxygen would be enough to send anyone with a phobia spiraling toward a permanent dirt nap. Additionally, the cloth over my face seems to add a layer of mild claustrophobia to the already dire situation. I don’t miss the acute pain that oxygen deprivation provides, and I don’t plan on experiencing it ever again.

Latching onto the miniscule amounts of air floating in my lungs, I resist the siren’s dangerous call to take a breath until the spray of water ceases. Absently, I wonder if I’ve offended N?kki , the malevolent Finnish water goddess, because it sure feels like she’s exacting her vengeance. It’s as if she’s squeezing life from my lungs, dragging me out to sea to drown me. If I could talk, I might be tempted to call her name and beg her forgiveness.

Gulping down watery oxygen filtering through the fabric over my face, I fill my seizing lungs as I prepare to hold my breath for longer than what’s good for me .

There’s no escaping this. There’s no swimming to safety.

There’s only endurance.

“Where’s the next attack going to be?” Digs asks, his voice firm, yet melodic.

The cloth gag is removed as they wait, presumably for an answer, but I don’t give them what they want. They replace the rag, rinsing and repeating.

Ten more times, the process is replicated as they make me feel like I’m being suffocated by water, followed by Digs asking the same question, then me meeting his inquiries with silence. This man must have shit for brains if he thinks I’ll tell him anything. Or perhaps everyone else in here is simply weak.

Finally, the cloth over my face is torn away, and I cough around the soaking wet gag still in my mouth. When I’ve regained my composure for the most part, I smile around the muzzle. It’s going to take a lot more than a little water boarding to get anything out of me.

Both sets of eyes gaze down into mine, blazing with determination.

Then, they begin again.