The Revelation of Eden Pruitt by K.E. Ganshert

Author:K.E. Ganshert [Ganshert, K.E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: K.E. Ganshert Books

22

Cassian stood beneath the lukewarm spray of the shower. A half wall of cement afforded the only privacy he would have from the pair of gun-wielding guards standing watch, one of whom sported a crooked nose and a purple bruise beneath each eye.

Time had turned into an enigma. Since there weren’t any clocks or windows in this hellhole—at least none Cass had access to—he had to measure it in meals and facial hair. His existence had diminished into something very small. There had been no more interrogations. No more sightings of Prudence Dvorak. No more Lady Justice. No more doctor. No more excursions down dark hallways so the guard with the limp could demand answers to questions Cass only partially understood. It was just him and a six by nine cell. This shower area, which he’d been to twice. The camera-lined corridor that stretched between. And a rotation of the same four guards.

Cass stuck his head beneath the stream and dragged his hands down his face. To keep the despair at bay, he’d spent his waking hours doing sit-ups and one-armed push-ups. He kept his thoughts active and intentional. If his mind was a vehicle, he couldn’t be a passenger. He put himself in the driver’s seat, taking every opportunity to observe and calculate and memorize.

He cased his own cell, scrutinizing every square inch, searching for something—anything—that might lend itself to an escape. In the corridors, he counted cameras and doors and steps. He peered down perpendicular hallways, hoping to glimpse where they might lead. He knew the approximate heights, weights, and ages of all four of his guards.

The one with the broken nose was left-handed and had a bum knee. The blonde was a compulsive knuckle cracker. He popped them regularly and often, unless his shift overlapped with the guard who shaved his head. There was no knuckle-cracking when Baldie was around, just the rattle and crunch of the Tums he chewed like candy. Then there was the guard with the freckles, who wore a wedding band and smelled like ladies’ perfume—so far, two different kinds.

Cass ran scenarios through his mind, plotting getaways and escapes, none of them feasible. When that grew tiresome, he turned his attention to the puzzle pieces he and Eden had been gathering before they followed that tunnel and he landed here. Francesca Burnoli led them to Willow Bryson. Willow Bryson led them to the Bryson’s safe. There, they’d found a pamphlet and a photograph of Isabella Bryson’s sister, Lillian Kashif. Lillian led them to her surviving son, Amir. And Amir led them to Washington, DC, where Prudence Dvorak had pressed the blade of her knife against Cleo’s neck.

“Did you come for the asset?”

Cass glanced at the guard with the black eyes.

“Where are they keeping him?” he’d asked.

Was him the asset? If so, then didn’t that mean the guard worked for the Monarch? Cass thought about the raid. The bombs and the gunfire and what happened to Cleo? Now that he knew the government didn’t have Eden, this was the question that would pounce unexpectedly.

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