A Murder of Crows Read Online Free PDF

hunting the University. ‘He is hunting you.’
    He remembered his training. Stay focused. Work on what’s in front of you. Break the Moroccan.
    Hicks looked up when he heard a gentle knock at the kitchen doorway. It was one of Roger Cobb’s new men—a trainee whose name escaped him.
    “Sorry to bother you, sir, but Roger says the subject is ready for you now.”
    Hicks blinked his eyes clear. “Tell him I’ll be up in a minute.”

H ICKS HAD ordered The Moroccan to be held on the top floor of the safe house in an area which had once been a one-bedroom apartment. The space now housed one of Roger’s latest inventions—a plastic containment module he had dubbed ‘The Cube.’
    It had been constructed on a raised platform of soundproof material to prevent the prisoner from hearing sounds or sensing vibrations from the outside world. The exterior of The Cube had been encased in one-way glass from floor to ceiling. Inside, the prisoner could only see his own reflection no matter where he looked. Cameras had been mounted on the other side of the glass to provide unobstructed three-hundred-and-sixty degree surveillance of the prisoner’s movements. Various kinds of tiny sensors placed throughout the cell constantly monitored his vital signs, body temperature, and brain waves. Those same sensors also served as a lie detector to determine how truthful the prisoner was being during an interrogation.
    Once inside The Cube, the prisoner had no contact with the outside world. Lighting, temperature and sound were all controlled electronically by Roger and his technicians who could adjust them to encourage a desired effect. Roger could blare Megadeath to jar the prisoner or crickets to soothe him or radio static grate on his nerves.
    Hicks knew Roger preferred to keep The Cube silent for undetermined periods of time. Absolute silence broke a prisoner’s will most of all. Meals were slid through a slot in the door, depriving a prisoner of any human contact for as long as Roger saw fit.
    Other than a small air conditioning vent beneath the cot, the toilet was the only thing connected to the outside world. It led to the building’s main sewer line, but first went through a tank lined to block all sound and vibration. A steel table and two chairs were bolted to the floor and used for interrogation purposes only. Even eating at the table was a privilege he had to earn through cooperation. The Moroccan had not earned such a privilege yet.
    A cot against the far wall served as The Moroccan’s only comfort.
    If he disobeyed any of the rules Roger decided to enforce on any given day, the punishment would be severe.
    Roger had decided constant sleep deprivation would disturb the Moroccan’s circadian rhythm. A lack of access to natural sunlight only enhanced his distress. In the course of his interrogation, Roger had discovered The Moroccan was also claustrophobic. When the prisoner was belligerent or uncooperative, the lights were shut off and all sound quelled. Roger often allowed him to shriek himself hoarse in the darkness of the mirrored room until he was ready for his next session.
    Hicks knew The Cube was as medieval as it was high tech. And whenever he began to have sympathy for The Moroccan, he remembered the dead little girl of his dream. Help me.
    Hicks found Roger sitting alone at The Cube’s control console, making notes in a cheap spiral notebook. The cell’s environment could easily be controlled from his tablet, but Roger was a bit old fashioned and preferred making his notes on paper. Hicks supposed even torturers could have a sentimental side.
    The monitors of the workstation showed a green-hued image of the Moroccan shrieking in the darkness of his cell. Numbers at the bottom of the screen calculated the prisoner’s heart rate, brain waves, and other vital statistics. The sound had been switched off, but the image of the prisoner’s muted agony was clear.
    Hicks was not happy. “He can’t talk to me if he