44. Kyra
44
KYRA
K yra paused at the edge of the camp and adjusted her headscarf. Tents' canvases rustled behind her as Soran and Zara caught up, probably planning another attempt to dissuade her from going.
"This is insane, Kyra," Soran said, his voice low enough that no one else might overhear. "Wait a week until the dust settles. In the meantime, Parisa will collect intel for us like she has done for months."
Zara caught her elbow. "They'll be checking everyone now. They will order you to take your face covering off and realize that you are not Parisa. You'll get caught, and they will put you in a cell and abuse you the same way they are doing to that woman you are so obsessed with. And who is going to help her then?"
Kyra pulled her elbow out of Zara's grip. "They had me remove the face covering the first day I went, but the guard didn't notice anything. I'll be fine."
Her grip tightened on the small cloth bag at her hip. Inside it, she'd stashed Parisa's doctored ID, which had served her well until now and hopefully would serve her again.
She was tempting fate, but the pull inside her was too strong to ignore. She couldn't leave behind the woman in cell number twelve.
"Please," Zara pleaded. "Don't go."
They'd argued for hours the previous evening, but in the end, no one could sway her. No one else understood how crucial it was for her to check that Twelve was still there and see if there was a chance to free her.
"I have to do this. We need information, and Parisa is not good enough to collect it. Not the kind of information I need. You have your assignments. Go."
Soran shook his head but exhaled in resignation. "Just...be careful. At the first sign of trouble?—"
"I know." She forced a tight smile. "I'll get what we need and slip out."
"Good luck," Zara murmured. Then she stepped aside, arms folded, a scowl etched on her face. "Come back safe, or I swear, I'll come after you and drag you out of that place myself."
"Don't you dare." She patted Zara's shoulder, turned, and walked briskly away.
It was still freezing this early in the morning, and Kyra nearly jogged to keep warm. Each step carried her farther from the half-ruined buildings of their makeshift camp into the rolling terrain that hid the road to the compound. She pulled her black scarf tighter around her face to shield it from the biting cold.
Every nerve in her body prickled with warning as she neared the compound, but that was nothing new. No matter how many times she'd done it before and the confidence she fronted for her people, everything inside her rebelled against walking into the facility and the ugliness it concealed.
Her senses were on high alert—ears straining for the hum of guard vehicles, eyes flicking to the horizon for any sign of unusual patrols. But it was quiet this early.
Perhaps too quiet.
By the time she arrived at the side gate, Kyra was already breathing shallowly, not from physical exertion but from the tension coiled in her gut. The guard on duty—a lanky, half-asleep soldier with a stained uniform—barely gave her a once-over. She dipped her head, offering the practiced meek nod that was part of her disguise. He waved her through with a bored grunt, and she exhaled in relief.
The cantankerous female tasked with patting down women staff for weapons did a more thorough job, but since Kyra had nothing on her, she passed the inspection without incident.
Inside, the atmosphere was different than usual. An undercurrent of agitation was palpable across the courtyard. People moved faster, hushed voices broke out near the main entrance, and she spotted a few uniformed guards hauling in supplies from the corner of her eye.
Kyra trudged across the cracked concrete yard with her head low and eyes downcast. The building's doors stood open, and she slipped inside, inhaling the familiar cooking smells from the kitchen.
Such homey smells in such a terrible place.
But then it wasn't terrible for everyone in here, just for the prisoners getting beaten and drugged on the third floor of the East Wing.
She made her way to the maintenance closet on the first floor to fetch a mop and a bucket. A small cluster of maids hovered by the sink, gossiping. They didn't seem more subdued than usual, yet their laughter was a little quieter, less boisterous.
Hopefully, no one would address her thinking she was Parisa. She would have to feign a cold and speak with a rasp so they wouldn't notice the different voice.
Filling the bucket, she never once lifted her gaze. If anyone recognized her as Parisa, they gave no indication. She got one annoyed glance for hogging the spigot, but that was it.
After cleaning the first and second floors and forcing herself not to rush through them, she finally ascended the stairwell leading to the East Wing's third floor, clutching the mop's wooden handle in her left hand, the bucket in the other, and several rags stashed in the belt tied around her waist.
At the landing, she paused, heart thudding for no apparent reason. The pendant felt warm against her skin, but no more or less than usual.
Kyra took a steadying breath and pressed forward.
The third-floor corridor seemed busy. Near the end, guards were posted, rifles slung across their chests, right next to the cell she needed to check on.
Damn.
Starting on the floor near the staircase, she listened to them talking, but except for a few Farsi and Kurdish words she recognized, the rest was unintelligible.
What language was that?
It was rough and clipped, but it didn't sound like Arabic or any of the region's other languages. Her memory itched at that odd accent, which was unpleasant and jarring, but she couldn't place it.
Thankfully, the guards moved to a different spot, paying her little attention except for a curt bark to watch her step as she passed them. She didn't need to pretend when she flinched, but the servile nod took some effort.
She carefully guided her bucket and mop into the corridor section containing the row of cells she was interested in.
She hadn't gone more than a few paces when distant clanking and subdued shouts drifted in from a side corridor. The volume of the voices rose, and Kyra froze in place, sensing movement behind the thick walls.
Curving her shoulders in, she resumed a slow push forward while flicking her gaze toward the intersection ahead. That was when she saw them. Four young women with nothing but towels wrapped around their bodies walking in a tight group flanked by uniformed guards.
They must have been coming back from the showers.
They all looked terrified; one girl had fresh bruises on her forearm.
So, these were the new prisoners that had been brought in yesterday. They were too young and scared to be activists or rebels. They were probably brought here as playthings for the guards or as subjects for the same experiments she'd undergone.
Kyra swallowed hard.
One of the overhead fluorescent lights flickered again, momentarily casting a strobe-like effect on the scene. As the women were herded around the corner, she heard a cell door open, then another.
Kyra clenched her jaw.
She had to find out how they intended to use these new prisoners. Her heart was pounding so loud that she was afraid the guards would hear it, and if they were enhanced like her, they might.
She felt guilty for not doing something for the young women, but there was nothing she could do. She needed to be patient, gather every piece of information, and devise a sensible plan.
After what seemed like the longest time, the coast was finally clear, and she rushed to the door of cell number twelve with dread curling in the back of her throat. Was the woman still inside?
Kyra inched closer, the squeak of the mop head on the worn linoleum covering the slight noise of her footsteps. Then, another cluster of voices echoed nearby, words in Farsi, Kurdish, and that third, more guttural tongue mingling.
The hair on her arms stood on end. What if those were the ominous higher-ups?
Kyra swallowed, the sense of foreboding clenching her gut tighter. She had to see if Twelve remained locked in that cell or if they'd moved her somewhere else or gotten rid of her altogether.
Fear propelled her onward even though every muscle screamed for her to run the other way. She paused one last time, hugging the mop handle, and then pressed forward toward cell number twelve, but something stopped her from peeking in. A sense of foreboding and a slight warming of her pendant preceded the sounds of more footsteps approaching.