Breaking Free (Unnamed Series #1)

Three (Zach)

Four guards were assigned with the task of bringing me into the living quarters. I didn't think I was that dangerous, but apparently I was. Not even a day here, and I was already learning something new.

Getting here was not very difficult. All it required was a carefully constructed fictitious murder, a series of them really. I left that in the hands of those people much more capable than I am. I'd explain further, but I was a little too busy trying to inspect my surroundings inconspicuously. I wasn't in a rush; I was to spend an indefinite amount of time here until I have something worthy of reporting.

The handcuffs were a nuisance. I could have easily wriggled my hands out of them, but alas, it was necessary. We stopped in front of a set of double doors.

This was it.

The first day of my stint at North Carolina Correctional Facility.

Was I ready?

When I was first approached with the assignment, I immediately refused. Prisons reminded me of somebody I never wanted to think about. I put other people in prison, not myself. Besides, this would be my fourth undercover operation. Four undercover assignments back to back had taken a toll on my physical and mental health. I don't even know who I am anymore. I woke up every morning not knowing whether I was Kareem, the child trafficker, or whether I was Amir, the drug lord. It was not fun.

Joe, however, was a persistent son of a bitch. He was the one who recruited me into the FBI and has always been a pain in my ass ever since. I respected the man tremendously, but frankly, I was tired. The life of an agent was not appealing anymore. Yet, I eventually agreed. I just couldn't say no to that man.

Months later, I was a new person. I was Imran Ali, Inmate #423. Passing off as someone of Arabian descent was my best bet, they said.

"You do have Arab blood in you, Zach, even if you don't like to acknowledge it," Joe had pointed out to me.

It just reminded me further of how much I didn't want to do this job. Nevertheless, I went on with it. I was now a serial killer. My targets were mainly women and children. I raped them before taking their lives, and I showed no remorse.

I was basically my father. The only difference being he didn't kill my mother afterwards.

I digress.

Like I said earlier, getting here was not too difficult. Surviving is another story. Inmates weren't very friendly to child rapists. Inmates weren't friendly, period. Neither was I though, so I suppose I'll be able to handle the loneliness. I've been doing just fine all these years.

Bring it on.

***

The noise was what hit me the first. Loud jeering, taunting, and name-calling was what I encountered as soon as I stepped foot into the living quarters. The two-floor brightly lit complex had 60 units. Each unit housed two inmates and was protected by an automated steel-enforced door with a large white number print on it. I had yet to see which number my bosses would assign me to. From what I was briefed, the units were sparsely furnished; an inmate would have to make do with two cots, a toilet, and a sink. Its interiors were painted with dark blue and beige, with a dull looking insignia on the floor as soon as one entered.

I watched out of the corner of my eye several guards ushering 5 other inmates behind me, before reaching to a stop. The jeering grew louder. I saw one officer smirk at the chaos. He, along with another officer, then proceeded to strip us off our clothes in the pretense of checking for weapons. Completely unnecessary really; there was no way one of us could have acquired a weapon since the last thorough search barely ten minutes ago. Empty hallways don't magically give out weapons. The jeering reached its peak, and I felt as if my eardrums were going to burst. I was not embarrassed, not in the least. I was fit and easy on the eyes, not just by my own admission, mind you. Several ladies can vouch for that. Years of gruelling hard work and my disciplined lifestyle ensured that my body was attractive to most.