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Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

The flashlight is somehow still working, sending a beam across the floor ten feet from my right. Within its golden grip, it holds a black gun.

I dive for it.

As my hand grasps the butt, a large shoe presses down on my fingers. And I feel the other shoe moving toward my face.

And then the lights go out.

:12

“Henry.”

I open my eyes.

“Henry.”

The Director is standing over me, his face brightened by the flashlight close by. Blood is smeared on what little hair he has left on his head.

“Who did you tell?”

“No one.” As I say the words, I realize I am lying on a table.

“Don’t lie to me. Your mother told you where it is.” A damp rag is placed over my eyes, nose, and mouth. “Who else knows?”

“About this place? Just me,” I sputter, but the water is already being poured over my face.

It doesn’t seem like it would be that terrifying. To have a towel over your face and water poured over it, but it is. You feel like you’re drowning. That you can’t get air. That each breath will be your last.

The water stops.

The rag comes off.

I am gasping for air.

The flashlight is cascading off the back wall, sending light up and into the corners of the bunker. I bat the water out of my eyes and squint upward.

Another round of water. A long minute of terror.

“Who did you tell about the other black site?”

“Other black site? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please.” I’m begging. I don’t want another round of water. I’ll do anything to never have to endure that again. “These were the only coordinates she gave me. I swear. Please, you have to believe me.”

“You know what? Those are the exact words your mother’s last prisoner said to her. Kept repeating them, over and over again. You have to believe me,” he mocks. “I’ll admit, he wasn’t more than a kid, maybe fifteen, but his brother blew up nine people. Your mother knew this kid knew where his brother and his crew were making these bombs. And she was going to get the intel out of him come hell or high water.”

My right arm is pulled upward. There is a snap. Left arm. Snap. The table beneath me is kicked away and all one hundred and fifty pounds of me is suspended by my wrists.

My wrists scream for the three seconds it takes me to find my feet.

“Five days. Five days of this and the kid still wouldn’t crack. I remember telling her that the kid didn’t know, but she wouldn’t listen. She kept at it. Pulled the kid’s fingernails, electrocuted the shit out of him. Sleep deprivation, and of course, something you know about very well, sleep amplification.”

“What are you saying?” I blurt.