Page 7 of Dark Soul

Before the plane landed, British brought out the blindfold again.

Dark tripped on the last step coming off the plane, came close to kissing the tarmac—would have, except British wrenched his elbow backwards, drawing a curse from him but successfully keeping him on his feet.

He let British push his head and body down until he was sitting on a plush leather seat, in a car that still had that telltale new car smell.

The secrecy was starting to piss him off.

If Dark’s internal clock was working properly—and he was pretty sure it was—ten hours separated them from Kansas.

So most likely London, or somewhere in western Europe.

Or somewhere in Western Africa. Dakar or Bissau.

But no, it was too cold for that.

Western Africa was warm, even in January, and he’d felt cold air on his cheeks and hands as they stepped off the plane.

Honestly, he didn’t give a shit where they were.

Who do they think I’m going to tell?

My reflection in the mirror, when they return me to my cell in Leavenworth?

Something clenched inside him at the thought of going back to prison. Anguish, hot and rancid, pushed its way up his esophagus, until he thought he might vomit.

He purposefully kept his expression neutral under the blindfold, sure that the other man was looking at him. Dark could smell the tea British had been drinking on the plane, right before the blindfold had gone on again.

And he knew British would be looking out for external signs that Dark was about to crack.

Because there was no doubt in Dark’s mind, one of the purposes of this little trip was to provide him with a little reminder of what it felt like to move again, instead of standing still, waiting for his life to pass by, as he’d been doing the last four years.

So he regulated his breathing and made sure to give nothing away, used the handcuffs against his wrists as a reminder that he wasn’t really free.

The temperature inside the car was warm, but the window against his shoulder felt chilled.

Another sign that they were probably somewhere in northern Europe.

Dark had always wanted to visit Oslo.

He wondered if this might be his chance.

He might not even find out if the assholes kept the blindfold on the entire time.

Eventually, the car slowed down, then stopped. British left him in the car while he stepped outside and exchanged some words with the driver, speaking too quietly for Dark to overhear.

Then the door opened again, and British helped him out, again careful to move Dark’s head out of the way, making him think he’d done this plenty of times before.

Military.

Or police.

Except he hadn’t looked or dressed like either of those.

Dark inhaled the cold, fresh air. It felt good going into his lungs. Fresh air was in the top five things he’d missed while in prison.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” British said without missing a beat.

Dark didn’t bother replying. Eventually, the man grabbed his elbow. Dark let himself be led up what he assumed was a paved road or driveway. Finally, there was the sound of a door creaking open. They stepped inside a space that felt cavernous.