Page 69 of Dark Rebel's Mystery

Kyra steadied her breath as she ducked behind the narrow supply closet door, trying to gather the nerve to check on Twelve one more time. The corridor outside was mostly quiet now, with only the distant murmur of voices from somewhere near the stairwell. She suspected the so-called doctor and his entourage had moved on to check on the new girls.

This might be her only chance.

She emerged with her mop and bucket and headed toward cell number twelve. Her worst fear was that the woman was no longer there, and the prospect of finding the cell empty twisted Kyra's stomach.

Pressing the mop handle firmly, she shuffled quickly down the corridor. The one benefit of the doctor's visit was that he and his entourage had left many new footprints on the floor she'd previously brought to a shine, giving her a perfect excuse to clean it once more.

Two guards stood further up, engaged in a bored conversation. She kept her head down, eyes on the milky water sloshing in the bucket, and shoulders slumped.

A malfunctioning fluorescent light flickered for a second, like it was warning her, but she ignored it and parked her bucket by the skirting board. Running the mop across a patch of scuffed floor, she slowly slid toward the metal door and its small, barred window. She raised the mop handle, using its length to mask her sideways glance, and peered through the window.

The cell was dim, but enough overhead light revealed the same young woman lying on the bed. She wasn't chained and showed no fresh bruises, at least none that Kyra could see from this angle, but her expression was slack, and her eyes were unfocused.

She looked heavily drugged.

Her arms lay limply at her sides, suggesting that if she was free of restraints, she couldn't fight or try to break free in her current state.

Not that she could break the chains or that door down. Kyra doubted she herself had enough strength to do that.

It was a relief that the woman hadn't been battered, but her drugged state was no less worrisome. What did they intend to do with her?

It was probably a matter of convenience. A compliant subject was easier to handle.

The sound of footsteps echoing behind her got Kyra to quickly move away from the door to concentrate on scrubbing the new footprints left on the floor she'd already cleaned.

The footsteps drew nearer, accompanied by a low hum of that unfamiliar language, and a chill slithered through her.

He was back.

She had hoped the doctor was busy elsewhere and that she could slip away right after confirming Twelve was still inside, but luck wasn't with her today.

She glanced out of the corner of her eye, only to see the dark-coated man getting closer. The commander and the rest of the entourage were with him, probably done inspecting the new prisoners and returning to examine Twelve.

Every nerve in Kyra's body screamed for her to run, but she would never outrun the enhanced soldiers or their bullets. If only one of her abilities was turning invisible, she would have vanished, but all she could do was keep up the ruse and remain crouched with the rag clutched in her hand.

"Let's see our favorite subject." The doctor shifted from that foreign language to accented Farsi.

"Of course, doctor," the commander replied hastily.

Kyra's gut clenched at the thought of what was about to be done to Twelve, but there was nothing she could do to help her.

With any luck, they'd move on, and she could slip back into her hiding place in the supply closet.

But no one moved, and no one said a word either.

"You." A single word that cut through the corridor like a blade.

Her heart stuttered. She prayed he was addressing someone else—maybe the commander—but she felt a change in the air, asthough his attention had landed on her like a hand tightening around her neck.

"I'm talking to you, woman. Look at me."

She was the only woman in that corridor. "Are you addressing me?" she asked in a trembling voice.

"Yes, you. What's your name?"

"Parisa, sir."

"Get up and face me, Parisa."

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