Page 8 of Enemy of the State

“After what we just saw, I do. The smile she gave us when we sat at that table sent a damn chill down my spine. You think she’ll break?”

“Everyone breaks eventually,” I assert. “The question is, will she break before she dies?”

“How long does she have?”

It’s not unusual for certain prisoners to have a finite amountof time locked in this shithole. Some are here indefinitely, to be abused and punished, for as long as we see fit. Others, like Louhi, are here only long enough to get answers and are subsequently terminated.

“Six months.”

He scrubs a hand down his face. “Fuck.”

It’s not just about getting her to break. It’s about getting the answers we need. Fine, it’s a little bit about getting her to break. I want to see her shatter.

Louhi

After being unceremoniously dumped back in my cell, I spent the next several minutes puking up water into my toilet corner. It’s anything but glamorous.

The second I was alone, I peeled off my wet black prison top and looped it around one of the horizontal bars of my cage door to dry. At least it got a good rinse.Some soap would be preferable next time it gets washed, though.

I don’t think they were prepared to house a woman in this prison, considering I wasn’t privileged enough to get a bra or panties. Not that I have a need for either of those here.

After resting for a while, I decide that I probably need to maintain my stamina if I’m going to be tortured every day. Getting to my feet, I assess my small space and determine that I have just enough room to work out.

I’m partially through my fifth set of push-ups—the metal music providing the perfect workout playlist—when Honey Eyes appears in front of my cell with my “dinner.” I swear it looks less like food with each passing day.

Jumping to my feet, I move over to the barred door. I totally forgot that I didn’t have a shirt on until those honey eyes on the other side of the cage drop to my full chest now glistening with sweat.

I’ve always found modesty to be overrated. I’ve had a “tits out” approach to life for as long as I can remember, and my philosophy hasn’t changed, despite my new living arrangements. Or perhaps he’s simply observing my ink.

“My shirt was a little damp,” I offer by way of explanation.

I don’t hide the way my eyes snake down his warrior’s body and linger at his crotch that appears to be somewhat snug at the moment. I titter lightly, before adding, “I bet you request we have another day at the water park now.”

He huffs behind his tight mask before shoving my food through the slot and sliding a cup of water in behind it.

Resting my forearms against the bars, I ask, “What’s your name?”

“Don’t worry about it.” The liquid timbre of his voice is warm and has a note of friendliness, despite his gruff reply.

“A question for a question, then.”

Widening his stance, he crosses his arms over his chest. He’s not armed with a rifle like all the other soldiers I’ve encountered, but he’s not unarmed either. His Glock practically glows like a beacon at his hip, and the smattering of tactical knives positioned on his body glint in the warm light from the hallway.

“Ladies first,” I tease, waving a hand in the air, my arms still resting casually against the metal bars.

He chuckles, the sound low and somewhat muffled. “Why try to blow up the Federal Reserve?”

Masking my mild annoyance, I smile as I pull my hands back through the bars and examine my black painted fingernails that are starting to grow out. Of course he’d try to ask something serious. “Excitement is so hard to come by these days.”

When he says nothing, I speak again, opting for something innocuous. “My turn. How old are you?”

“Thirty-one. How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.” My birthday is next month—October—but I don’t feel the need to let him know that.

“Where are you from?”

“Here and there, but I suspect you know that.” I wink at him as I say that last part and he lets out a puff of air—not quite an exhale, but not a laugh either.

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