Novel & Cerita Black Pentagon Prison

“I didn’t hear it. I saw it.” She wondered. “What did you see?” Nollace smiled and said nothing. At this time, Waylon and Quincy stood in the courtyard. Quincy said that after the detainee who repatriated Donald arrived in Yaramoor, Donald was sent to Vermont Bane Prison by Interpol. He would be imprisoned there for life without parole. Vermont Bane Prison was located in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The entire prison was built by an aircraft carrier, one of the world's strictest facilities.

We could end up in jail. Felix would watch as I tore his flesh apart. The building was huge; it was called The Vault. It had several rooms like a hospital,l but instead of treating patients, the rooms were made to torture them. Everywhere was painted grey, giving it a haunted look. As I walked through the hallway, I received a text. I went to the elevator and pushed the button to go to the underground floor. Two armed men were standing outside the metal double doors that only opened with mine or Logan's fingerprint.

Chapter 332 ​Nathan exhaled slowly through his nose, a sound of controlled frustration. “They’re in jail. Both of them. Maximum security at Blackgate. No contact. No movement. I made sure of it. They shouldn’t even be able to breathe without it being logged by a guard I’ve personally vetted.”

Donald asked “The only whistleblower that ever dared to cha-challenge Hillary Gray” “Where is he?” “In prison— he's in prison doing time for attempted murder” Palmer let go of the man, but not without giving him a good scratch on the back of his hand. “Wow, you pissed yourself. How pathetic!” Three hours later Donald Pavilochenki was at the state prison sitting with a man who was handcuffed. A warden was inside the room with them. The handcuffed man seemed to be in his late forties, and time in prison had withered him of his best years. He looked distraught and had dark circles around his eyes.

The holding facility was not a prison; it was a sensory deprivation chamber designed for the dissolution of the soul. They didn't call it a jail. They called it The Processing Center, a concrete-walled monolith buried deep beneath the city's old financial district. When the guards threw me into the interrogation chair, the cold metal bit into my skin through my thin sweater.

Third Person's POV The federal holding facility was a concrete fortress designed to break spirits before trials even began. Cold. Gray. Smelling of industrial cleaner that never quite masked the underlying scent of human desperation. Astor Sinclair sat in his cell, a space barely eight by ten feet, with a metal bed bolted to the wall, a toilet with no seat, and a small metal desk that wobbled when he tried to write. The orange jumpsuit he wore was rough against his skin, a constant reminder that his thousand-dollar suits were gone. His penthouse was gone. His empire was crumbling.

Cancelling them would cause talk, concern, perhaps even panic among those already whispering about unusual happenings in the palace. “We need more information on what the Voice is planning,” I said, standing abruptly. Ares pushed against my control, urging action rather than more discussion. “Let’s go talk to Ethan.” We moved through the palace with purpose, descending the stairs that led to the secure wing where we kept prisoners who required special handling. Guards saluted as we passed, the weight of their respect and fear a familiar pressure against my senses. The cells in this section were different from the standard dungeons, more comfortable, more secure, and designed for longer-term

“How sketchy?” “The back of the van’s basically a metal cage welded to the interior frame with a couple steel benches on either side. The two prisoners already in it look like they haven’t bathed in a week and they’ve been using a metal urinal connected to a drainage tub. Probably for the same amount of time.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Shepard cursed again. “Extradition’s a state responsibility and most of them contract with these kinds of services. Does it at least look like they can’t get out of the cage?”

I was pinned by sheer force of will. Rhys did not even spare me a glance; I was beneath his notice. He addressed Gideon, his conviction absolute and his voice hard as tempered steel. "She is fully recovered, and she has proven she cannot be trusted in the living quarters. I will not have her polluting the Pack House any longer. She is a grave security risk, and she will be placed in the Black Pit until the tribunal. Before that, she needs to wear silver restraints at all times." The Black Pit. The name alone carried the terror of total, sensory deprivation. It was a cylindrical hole, twenty feet deep, lined with rough, unworked stone, reserved only for the most destructive rogues or captured

Zena said. " Black Tourmaline." The man replied. " Black Tourmaline? Why would Dagon order for black Tourmaline and that too in large quantities?" Zena asked. " That, I don't know. Dagon doesn't share his plans with me." The man replied. " Okay, question number two. Where are the prisoners kept?" Zena asked. " In the dungeons of course." The man replied. " I mean where is it located, silly." Zena sounded annoyed.