Page 2 of Dark Soul

He wasn’t looking to redeem himself.

He just needed to keep his head down and—

“Come on, Dark. You might have all day, but I don’t,” the guard said impatiently.

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Smith.”

“I don’t know a Mr. Smith.”

The hole in the door clacked open, letting in more light than Dark had seen in the last few days. He squinted, letting his eyes get used to it.

The guard gave a long-suffering sigh. “What do you want me to do about that, Dark? I’m not your personal assistant. Give me your hands.”

Knowing he wasn’t going to get any more information from the guard, and not really blaming him for his lack of interest in the matter, Dark stuck his hands through, waiting for the cold steel to wrap around them.

And then he was out of the cell, and walking down a long corridor. Prisons were made of long corridors, each one beginning and ending in identical-looking doors, and maybe that’s what made people go crazy when they’d been inside long enough, that feeling of moving without moving.

He followed the two-inch yellow line painted on the floor, careful to stay on the line. Stepping off was a violation of the rules.

One of many rules.

The guard didn’t say anything, nor did Dark expect him to. Whoever this Mr. Smith was, he clearly held some clout, since one of the first things that happened to inmates in solitary confinement was that their visitor privileges were revoked.

That was no hardship for him, since he didn’t get visitors. His sister had tried to visit when he’d first arrived, but he’d refused to see her. He didn’t want to give her the idea that this is what she would be doing with her weekends for the next twenty or so years.

The guard led him into a private visiting room—that was interesting, since those were usually reserved for lawyer visits, and Dark was pretty sure his lawyer wouldn’t be coming to see him. He hadn’t had much use for a lawyer. He’d admitted to his crime and, as a result, his sentencing had been swift.

No sense in wasting time and taxpayer money.

The room was bare except for the table and three chairs in the middle, the walls the same dirty yellow as the rest of the prison’s public areas, a color that attempted to be cheerful but failed miserably.

Three chairs.

That was another interesting thing.

“Your hands,” the guard said, looping the chain between his hands through the metal ring on the table.

Dark sat down, facing the two empty chairs, and prepared himself to wait. That was the other thing one learned to do in prison. Wait. Wait to be allowed to go somewhere. Wait to come back to the cell. Waiting, all the time. He’d thought he’d learned patience in the military, but that was nothing compared to the kind of patience he’d had to develop to survive in prison.

He wasn’t kept waiting long, and that was a surprise as well.

He kept his expression neutral as two men in dark suits walked in, closing the door behind them. One was in his early forties, strong and tanned, with thick black hair and eyes so dark they looked almost black. The other one was at least a decade older, with mahogany skin and a forehead that was a textbook case for male pattern baldness. His shoulders were no longer as wide as they must have been in his youth, but he looked like a man who kept in shape. Regardless of their differences, they moved around each other like men who’d done this together before.

They paused for a moment, as if waiting for Dark to say something. When he didn’t, they moved further inside the room, each one heading to one side of the table and taking a seat. Once again, communicating without words.

They’re not lawyers.

The first flames of curiosity flickered inside him, but Dark didn’t move a muscle. In the last four years, he’d perfected a look of complete indifference—a protection mechanism against anyone who tried to get too close to him, for any reason. Not that many people wanted to mess with a man his size, even in here. Most were happy to let him be. But a few had had to be taught.

The two men took their time getting settled on the hard, institutional chairs, until they looked almost comfortable.

And still they looked at him. Waiting.

You can keep waiting.

Finally, the older, bald man broke the silence.