Page 153 of Silver Elite

The first time they come for me, they throw a black canvas sack over my head and haul me forward by the armpits. They don’t say a word. I think it’s two men, but I can’t be sure. My legs drag behind me as I struggle to find my footing.

They throw me into another room. The bag is yanked off, and my eyes water from the sudden onslaught of light after hours of darkness. Ivy’s right. We’re on a train. A railway car that carries cargo. There’s only a narrow strip of windows near the ceiling, but the slits of morning light they allow in practically blind me. Along the sides of the car, heavy-duty chains and tie-downs are secured to the walls, ready to anchor cargo in place during transit. Large metal hooks hang from the ceiling, and I’m wondering if they’re going to string me up when I’m suddenly shoved onto a cold, metal chair.

I find myself staring at two men I’ve never seen before in my life. For a second, I question whether this is really a Command exercise.

“Where are Silver Block’s black caches?” one of them asks. He’s a muscular man in his mid-twenties with dark eyes and skin. His buddy looks older than that. A short, bearded blond man.

The black caches are weapons sites whose coordinates we had to memorize last week. They’re totally off the books. Secret reserves of weapons that could arm the Uprising if they wanted to use them, or cripple Silver Block if they chose to destroy them.

I take a breath and say, “Wren Darlington. Recruit 56. Silver Block.” That’s the only information we’re allowed to offer, according to what we learned in this section.

“That’s not what I asked, bitch.”

He slaps me across the face. Hard. My cheek throbs from the sting.

“Where are the black caches?”

“Wren Darlington. Recruit 56. Silver Block.”

After ten more minutes of that, they shove the sack over my head and drag me back to the other car. The pitch black welcomes me once more, almost comforting. I’m not scared of the dark. This is just a nice morning in the Blacklands for me.

“That wasn’t too bad,” I tell Ivy.

“You say that now.”

The door is wrenched open. Roe’s turn.

“Get your hands off me, godfucker,” he spits out as they manhandle him.

Once he’s gone, I ask, “Did you really go to family dinners with him? Because that sounds like a nightmare.”

Her snort of laughter echoes in the railcar. “Wasn’t fun.”

—

Those first eight hours aren’t awful. Truly. The two men drag us out, repeat the same question for ten, fifteen minutes, slap us around, throw us back in the car. My stomach growls a little and my mouth is parched, but I’m otherwise unaffected.

Until I fall asleep. Somehow, my body succumbs to slumber, but not for long. I’m wrenched into consciousness by the sensation of being submerged in ice-cold water. No. I’m not submerged. It’s coming from above me. Sprinklers. They’ve fitted the railcar with sprinklers. Assholes.

The three of us are now lying on cold, wet dirt. Shivering. And that’s when I realize this is going to be a lot harder than I thought.

The worst part is the bucket. Every time I hear the loud, steady stream of Roe pissing into it, I want to vomit.

“How do you produce so much urine,” I mutter in the darkness, “when you haven’t had anything to drink in twenty-four hours?”

He just chuckles and returns to his designated spot. We’ve eachchosen our corners, with the vile bucket taking up residence in the fourth corner. I pray I don’t have to use it more than absolutely necessary. It’s mortifying, and I now realize why Ivy hates this section so much. Taking care of your personal needs with two people listening—neither of whom likes you very much—is a form of humiliation. Though I suppose that’s why they’re doing it.

—

Day 2. I think. Every time I fall asleep, those sprinklers dump ice water on us, so I have no idea how much time has passed. My stomach hurts. When they drag me into the other car again, I feel a noticeable lack of energy.

The interrogation drags on. That same question over and over again. Where are the black caches. Tell us where the caches are. Repetition is a tactic. It’s supposed to drive me mad, make me cave. And holy hellfuck, I want to scream for them to shut up. But I hold firm.

“Wren Darlington. Recruit 56. Silver Block.”

Mr. Muscles spits in my face. The glob slides down my cheek and mingles with the blood pouring out of my lip. We’ve graduated from slaps to outright fists. He uses that fist now, slamming it into my jaw.

I fall off the chair from the brutal force. The metallic tang of blood floods my mouth. But still, I refuse to yield.

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