6
No slashes on the wall carving out the endless line of days.
Or rather nights.
No passage of daylight told the time here.
She was merely Guest Seven.
Guest!
Her prison, her cell was below ground. It had a coolly moist atmosphere that didn’t fit with an above-ground sunbaked blockhouse.
Here it was the nights that counted.
Trained to never sleep more than four hours at a time, each night stretched on forever. Hell began when the sliver of light under her cell door went out, plunging the common area into darkness. No more well-muffled sounds slipping in with the light. Silence.
It was the CIA’s luxury prison: for prisoners so high profile that the Americans chose not to try them, because that could go public. Or execute them, which was against their oh-so-cute laws—but too dangero
