FourteenOliver Chung lay on the narrow iron bed and counted the days on his fingers. Five nights. Six days. He’d been in this cell that was not much better than a cave for a week. A changing rota of Black Dragon enforcers brought him the meanest gruel and dry bread twice a day. There was a bucket in the corner that was rarely emptied, so the air was acrid with stale urine and worse. He recognized none of the surly silent men who served him, and there had been precious few clues to tell him where he was being held.
It felt as though it was deep underground. No outside sounds penetrated; the silence was muffled and wadded, as if even whispers had to pass through hard rock and empty air to reach him. He ran his hand over his stubbly jaw. He hadn’t had a wash or a shave since he’d been here.
