Page 2 of Enemy of the State

24 Hours Earlier…

Most citizens choose to believe that the dark, unsavory side of their government doesn’t exist. They stick their heads in the sand and blind themselves. Even those that acknowledge the illicit affairs of their governing body are likely unaware of the depth and width of its depravity. That’s a truth never more evident than within the United States of America.

American citizens seem to live in this bubble-wrapped world where their government is good and triumphs over evil. It’s laughable, really. My situation is proof of that.

I’m being held in an underground prison somewhere in the bowels of Washington, D.C. I haven’t been fed in at least two days, maybe longer, and I’ve only had a few sips of water in the same time frame. I’m thirsty, hungry, knackered, and dirty. I’ve been beaten, degraded, and interrogated in ways that are considered anything but humane.

I was prepared for this, though. I simply need to hang on.

Two soldiers in army uniforms and matching mesh masks stalk into my cell, grip me under the arms, and roughly haul me to my feet. I’ve only seen US Army soldiers since I arrived here a few days ago, but I’m not entirely sure who’s running this show. It could bethe CIA, US Military, FBI, Homeland Security, or someone else entirely. Maybe all of them. Ultimately, it makes no difference; they’re all the same entity, the only distinguishing factor being the configuration of various letters of the alphabet.

I lick my split lip, internally wincing at the tinge of pain. My right eye is still swollen from where I was punched upon arrival. I certainly look my best; there’s no doubt about that. All glammed up, for sure.

“Move,” one of the brutes orders, before muttering under his breath, “British scum.”

I suppose as far as insults go, it could be far worse.

Stumbling forward as a result of the shove he gives to my back, I toss a glare over my shoulder before continuing out of my cell. My wrists are now shackled in front of me with metal cuffs, along with my ankles, restricting my movements significantly.The metal cuts into my wrists harshly, making my skin seep tears of blood, the droplets tracking down my palms and fingers before falling to ground and staining the grey concrete floor crimson. I’m leaving my mark on this place as if it were the washroom stall of the dive bar I visited as a teen where I’d writtenLouhi was here.

The hallway is lined with more masked soldiers, and I smile confidently as I stride past them. It doesn’t matter what they do to me here—or anywhere else, for that matter. This is not how I die. This is not the end of the road.

He’s coming for me.

I’m led down the corridor, then around a corner and subsequent hallway that slopes upward. Eventually, our posse arrives at a loading dock. An armored military vehicle is parked at the rolled-up door, with the double doors of the boot open, and when I slow my steps, I’m shoved forward again. My intuition tells me that I shouldnotget into that vehicle, but it doesn’t appear I have much of a choice. I’m essentially chucked into the floorboard of the waiting transport vehicle’s rear doors before four guards climb in after me.

“Sweet dreams,” the brute from earlier taunts as he plunges a syringe into the soft skin of my neck.

Everything becomes hazy, as if a heavy cloud has descended upon me, but I have just enough clarity left in my heavy head to hear one of the men say, “Maybe Digs will have better luck pulling answers from her than we did.”

My eyes drift closed of their own accord, but a few chuckles reach my ears as one of the men replies, “There’s no ‘maybe’ about that. He has the highest success rate in history.”

The men continue to talk about me and this Digs person, but I’m no longer conscious enough to understand what’s being said as the darkness reaches up its boney hand to drag me under.

Present…

A tall, lean, muscular man dressed in another army uniform appears before my cell, holding a small metal tray with something that Ithinkis supposed to resemble food.

An olive-green mesh mask is pulled over his entire head with holes that reveal his eyes—the shade of which I can’t quite make out. Despite the dim lighting, I can tell that his eyes aren’t cold like the orbs belonging to the guards from earlier. I can’t help but wonder how the fuck this bloke ended up working at whatever this place is. As he moves subtly, I catch a glimpse of the skin around his eyes. It’s a beautiful umber shade, and I consider what the rest of this man looks like. He’s probably hot. And even if he isn’t, I want to pretend he is, because that’s more fun and Ilovefun.

We study each other for a long moment before he wordlessly bends, placing the tray on the floor and sliding it through the designated space between the bars at the bottom of my cage door. He holds my gaze before eventually backing away and disappearing inthe direction he came, his footsteps eaten alive by the music that never seems to shut the fuck up.

Once alone, I glance at the so-called food. I don’t feel hungry, but I’m certain that’s because of the stress and, likely, extreme hunger I’m experiencing. I need to eat this slop. I have no idea when my next meal is coming or what’s in store for me. Crawling over to the tray, I notice there aren’t any utensils, no surprise there.

Scooping what I’m guessing is oatmeal into my mouth with my fingers, I choke it down. Next, I tear off a piece of bread and pop it into my mouth, ignoring its stale taste. What I would give for a flakey, tender piece of halibut right about now, with a crisp, chilled glass of Chablis. Maybe paired with some grilled vegetables and a side salad of spring greens topped with a fresh, light lemon vinaigrette.

Pretending that’s what I’m eating, I tear a chunk off the semi-cold hamburger patty sitting next to the “oatmeal” and nearly hurl it back up when I swallow. Disgusting doesn’t even cover it.Evidently, the torture begins here.

I’m not sure how I manage it, but I finish the entirety of the meal and shove the tray back through the miniscule opening as hard as I can, watching it slide across the floor and come to a stop in the middle of the hallway. It’s harder for them to ignore a tray in the middle of the hallway than it is a tray in my cell. Besides, I don’t want that nasty shit in here. Going against my very nature, but without the courtesy of a napkin, I lick any residue from my hands and fingers and wipe them on my black prison uniform. At least my clothes are black. That’s a silver lining.

I stare at the hallway as a rat scurries out from who-bloody-knows-where and halts at the tray, nibbling on the crumbs. Rats are such fascinating creatures, the ultimate survivalists. I spend the next several minutes watching the rodent feast. Given the humidity and filthy living conditions of this place, I’m not surprised to find rats reside here, too.

The thumping music blasting through the speakers shuts off abruptly, and I sigh, soaking in the peace and quiet for a moment.

Through the bars, I notice I’m at the end of a dead-end hallway. There’s a concrete wall to my left and no cells across from me, just another solid wall. When I get out of here, I’m never going to want to see concrete again.

Halfway up the solid wall across the way, a single shiny black camera stares back at me, and I make a mental note to take advantage of this situation once I get a better lay of the land.

The same man who brought me my dinner reappears sometime later to collect the tray in the center of the hall. He glances at me after retrieving the tray from the floor. I flash him a smile that borders on coquettish and speak for the first time in days, my voice hoarse with disuse.

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