Page 6 of Enemy of the State

“Since you seem to be familiar with me already, why don’t you introduce yourself?” His voice is low, smoky, with a slight huskinessthat 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 thefluorescent 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 offendedNäkki, 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 takea lotmore 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.

Sean

This girl is a species entirely of her own. My unfortunate victims are usually begging for mercy and oxygen long before now, but Jace and I have been waterboarding her for more than two hours and she has yet to say one word since she name-dropped me, my damn nickname swathed in that charming English lilt.

I don’t know how she learned that piece of information, which only makes more work for me. I’ll have to question all the men in my unit to find out who opened their big, fat fucking mouth when they all know how I feel about passing out my name.

Not every inmate breaks through torture alone, which is why this place is designed for the prisoners’ extreme discomfort, prodding them to the edge of sanity. From the lack of beds in the cells to the stale, shitty food and absence of sunlight.

It goes beyond that, though. If they have long hair and seem attached to it, I produce the razor. If they’re concerned about their hygiene, they’re forced to go months between bathing opportunities. If someone hates spiders, I’ll lock them in a box with only a colony of Tarantulas for company. I pride myself on exploiting their weaknesses, digging into their souls and carving out their deepest fears and turning it against them for maximum discomfort.

That’s why I don’t share my name. If the other guards want to do that, that’s their prerogative, but Jace and I prefer to keep the inmates at arm’s length. Names are powerful, private even, and when you share that, you share an intimacy, whether intentional or not.

Besides, a win, however small, could keep a prisoner going for a month, negating weeks, months, or years of hard work I spent wearing them down.

“Who is your second-in-command?” I ask, as Jace opens another deluge over her face. I shifted the line of questioning, but that hasn’t made any difference.

Again, my question is met with only sputters and silence.

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