Page 9

Sean

Mining for the truth is what I love most about this job. Truth always prevails. Anyone can tell a lie—and most do—but truth is the ultimate hunter, always sniffing out and stalking his next target to take down. Truth is never the victim, never the prey—forever the predator.

That’s what I’m thinking about as I grab Louhi’s file folder and thumb through it on the rooftop as the sun descends below the horizon, painting the sky in a fiery color palette of burnished marigolds, bright yellows, and blazing reds. The automatic lights switch on as the light fades, flooding the rooftop in additional light.

I haven’t read her file in depth yet—yeah, okay, I know I should’ve read it before now—but I like my subjects to open up to me first. I want to learn their personalities and see what makes them tick for myself. The in-person version always tells me more about someone than the on-paper explanation. That’s true in every facet of life, though, not just this in this fucked-up torture prison environment.

As I flip through the contents of this folder, I get the notion that I really should’ve dug into her background before now. At just twenty-nine—I unknowingly treated her to a birthday gift of fire—this woman has already seen and done some shit .

Based on her reaction to the waterboarding I subjected her to the first time we met, I knew she had training. She was prepared.

In fact, she’s seemed unfazed by almost everything I’ve done, except for my daring to harm the scorpion, which is still baffling to me. I’ve facilitated an inmate’s execution via that yellow fattail before, so imagine my shock when I found myself maneuvering the scorpion back into the box. I never intended to burn the scorpion, but she didn’t know that. Her brave, bold reaction to the pain she wrongly assumed I’d inflict on the scorpion only served to confuse me further.

I have no clue how she persuaded me to put the critter back in the box. Maybe it was the panic behind her words, or perhaps it was the way she literally begged me to hurt her instead. I’ll be honest, I love it when a woman begs—preferably on her knees or on all fours, imploring me to finally fuck her—but I’ve never once been tempted by the pleas of an inmate. Not when they scream or cry, pleading with me to stop.

However, my cock has been warning me about this particular inmate for the last month. I haven’t heeded those alarm bells, and now I’m worried I might pay the price.

Turning the page, I read down until I’ve got a better sense of the mysterious Finnish woman camped out in one of my cells. She’s got a slew of crimes under her belt. To name a few : terrorism, murder, espionage, kidnapping, arson, destruction of government property via explosive device, cyber-crimes, and possession of biological weapons. Damn, Lou, what haven’t you done?

Some of her crimes date back twelve years, which would mean that she’s been a criminal longer than she’s been a legal adult, which isn’t all that surprising to me. What is somewhat unexpected is that she doesn’t look anything like the leader of an international terrorist group. She looks like a woman you’d see on the cover of a magazine and think to yourself, goddamn, she’s fucking hot. Even as dirty as she is right now, she’s still a smokeshow. She’s definitely got the looks to be a model with her light olive skin, high and defined cheekbones, straight teeth, slightly tilted almond-shaped dark eyes, hair blacker than the color of my assault rifle on the ground beside me, and those luscious, ample lips.

Damn, those perfect vermillion lips. They look so incredible every time they part to spew sass. Admittedly, they’d look better wrapped around my cock as I fuck her pretty face so hard she has tears clearing pathways through the filth covering her face. Down, boy, I mentally reprimand my wanting dick, trying to get a grip on myself.

I know next to nothing about Finns, but I know enough to know that Louhi doesn’t look like what I assumed was typical of Finnish people, so I flip through the next few pages, scanning for more information on her background. All I find is a small paragraph informing me that she lived in Joensuu, Finland, with her Finnish father, Anton, British mother, Isla, and brother, Mercer, until she was eleven and her parents died in a car wreck. Her brother, who was eight years older than her, became Louhi’s guardian and moved them both to the UK, where she lived until seven years ago. At that point, she moved to Boston, where she lived until she became my responsibility in this hellhole.

Unfortunately, this dossier doesn’t provide much intelligence on her personal life, except for the tidbit about her having a brother. I wonder if I’ll be able to use him to exploit information from her. I make a note to ask Jace about getting our hands on his file, assuming he has one.

Shutting the folder, I light a cigarette in an attempt to clear my head and stare up at the night sky, now sprinkled with bright stars, but I only find myself comparing the glossy shade of the inky night to the lustrous darkness of Louhi.

“I fold,” Stuco mutters from beside me, gently laying his cards on the folding table before leaning back in his chair. He always folds. I don’t even know why he plays.

Death, taxes, and bi-weekly poker games: the only sure things around here. With not much alternative for hobbies, the twelve of us sit around the table, shooting the shit and gambling away our salaries. The other two dozen men stationed here are on duty, which is why these stupid games are bi-weekly, so everyone gets a turn to lose their money.

“What’s the deal with Koskinen?” Borman asks, failing to mask his dubious expression.

“What do you mean?” Jace parries.

“She giving you anything yet?”

“Only screams,” I lie, my poker face securely fastened. She might not be screaming for me yet, but she will. One way or another, I’m determined to hear the delicious sound of her agony.

Borman snorts derisively, and I arch an eyebrow at his boldness. “Don’t believe me? Ask Marshall,” I tell him as I nod in the direction of my best friend.

Wisely choosing not to ask Jace to confirm my statement, he informs me. “Major Thompson is coming by tomorrow, and I’m sure he’ll want some answers.”

I grind my molars. Max fucking Borman has been an irritating menace since he was assigned here last year. His green eyes fix on me as he runs a hand through his shorn auburn hair.

“Okay,” I reply, holding his gaze, not even blinking. He always withers, just like Stuco next to him, folding under the pressure. As I suspect, he looks down at his cards.

Thompson’s arrival is less than ideal, but somewhat expected. I don’t doubt he thinks that I’ll have some information for him. Although, everyone—including myself—has underestimated the vixen in Cell Eight.

I don’t deign to know what would happen to me—or Jace—if we’re unsuccessful in extracting information from Louhi, but I can’t imagine that it’d be good. At best, it’d be worse than a simple dishonorable discharge. At worst, I’d find myself at the bottom of the Pacific. It’s advantageous not to let it get it to that point.

After the game, I crawl into bed, grateful to finally get some sleep tonight. Sleep has always been one of my favorite things to do, though I don’t get much of it. I love it. The peaceful world of slumber and dreams. My wicked shadows don’t touch me here.

I’ve just shut my eyes when Jace whispers from the cot to my right, his voice so quiet that it barely reaches me. “Are you actually prepared for Thompson’s visit tomorrow?”

I grumble an affirmative. I’m not even close to being prepared to tell him I have nothing, but no one needs to know that, even if Jace likely smells my bullshit.