Page 105 of Samson

“I know you do. So do I.”

She hadn’t given Trevors any information about Luca, but she wouldn’t put it past Marc to drag him into this. Especially after the part she’d played. That left her with nothing but a black hole of guilt and regrets.

Chapter 22

Samson scratchedat his face and tugged at the beard he was now accustomed to. It was impossible to know how many days had passed before or since he’d recommitted his life to Jesus in the darkness. Demir had made sure he never saw the time or got a view of the sky. And he’d never grown a beard this long to know how long it would take.

His food had been minimal and mostly devoid of nutrition, which meant his body should be breaking down, but strangely, it wasn’t. In fact, it was doing the opposite. He could feel his strength returning, and his muscles that had initially deteriorated had returned, but he was careful to hide it.

The guards still beat him on a regular basis, but he never fought back. His biggest struggle at the beginning was mastering his anger. Everything inside of him wanted to retaliate, but he knew it wasn’t God’s plan for him in here. The only way he could hide his strength was to control his anger. Now, he used the pain of the blows to draw closer to his savior. He thought of the pain Jesus had suffered in order to save him, and soon, it wasn’t just his body that was strengthening but his mind as well.

When he wasn’t working on the bombs, or being beaten, they left him in his pitch-black cell, where he spent most of his time praying or exercising.

Moments of desperation would surface as the enemy tried to wear him down, but he found that, as his self-control over his anger strengthened, he was better able to resist the dark parts of his mind. And random verses from his childhood would resurface, giving him strength to endure when he needed it most.

He now sat with his legs crossed, leaning against the back wall and humming a hymn he’d thought he’d forgotten, while he went over his plan in his head.

When footsteps of the approaching guard echoed into the room, he pulled out what little food he’d saved and quickly stuffed it into his mouth, chewing fiercely and then swallowing it. Then, when the key clanged into the lock, he stuck his finger down his throat so he was throwing up when the guard came in. The same one as usual.

He was a low-level guard, dispensable in case Samson tried anything.

“Are you kidding me?” the guy said when he shined the light in Samson’s face. “Stay where you are,” he grumbled as he tucked the flashlight under his armpit and held his rifle while he made a call.

“Hey, yeah. It’s me,” he said into the phone. “I’m calling about Samson. He’s puked all over himself.” He listened for a second. “How should I know?” Another pause. “I’m not going to touch him. You get someone down here to help me.”

He hung up and continued to blind Samson with his light.

Samson covered his face and groaned.

“Are you gonna be sick again?” the guard asked.

“I don’t think there’s anything left to throw up,” Samson grumbled. “It’s not my fault you give me food that’s gone off.”

“Did you have to throw up all over yourself? Who does that? You’ve got a bucket.”

“I can’t see anything in here. How am I supposed to find the bucket in time?”

If he was lucky, or if God saw fit, he’d get the opportunity to see more of this prison besides this room and the bomb room. He could remember the blueprint of the building that Trevors had supplied, but without knowing where he was being kept, it made his planning difficult.

Another guard arrived. “Let me see,” he said. “Keep your gun on him. If he moves. Shoot him.”

Samson kept his head down but could hear the new guard enter the room, then stop. “That’s gross. I’m not gonna touch him.”

“I don’t think we have to,” the first guard said. “Hey, Samson. On your feet.”

Samson slowly got onto his hands and knees, then used the wall to raise himself up. He held his hands out, knowing they’d want to cuff him.

“You do it,” the second guard said to his partner. “I’m senior here.”

“Fine. But if I get any of that on me, I quit.”

When Samson’s hands were cuffed without any more drama, both guards kept their distance from him as they ushered him into the hall and led him past the door to the bomb room and to a flight of stairs.

“Climb,” the second guard said.

Samson obeyed, keeping his shoulders hunched and his head down.

When he reached the door, he tried the knob, but it was locked.

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