The complex formed with the main building and two outbuildings three sides of a quadrangle.

Sam was sitting in the meantime again, with handcuffs on, in the backseat. The sun had withdrawn behind thick clouds. Even behind the windows of Miguel's police car, Sam could almost taste the approaching rain.

Miguel had taken a cigarette break shortly before her arrival and prepared Sam for admission to prison.

He had warned her not to make eye contact with the other prisoners or the guards. She should answer questions in a concise and precise manner. Ignore insults and personalities. Should she be faced with aggressiveness, make the first strike. Always stand with your back to the wall in the collection showers, never in the middle of the dining room, always at the outer tables on the edge and so on and so on.

For almost 20 minutes, Miguel gave her a crash course to survive among professional killers, psychopaths, and killers. When things got tight, he told her to play the wacky madman and admit that she had murdered a child molester. He told her that there was a certain code of honor and hierarchy in prisons, where child molesters took the lowest grade and were not infrequently demolished enough.

The more Miguel came up with helpful hints, the more Sam's courage declined to assert himself in such a world. She had one major drawback she was fully aware of.

She looked like a girl who had sprung from the Wichsvorlage popular glossy magazines. Sam took stock of her mind: Tall, slender, with full breasts that defied gravity, long, shapely legs, an angelic face with wonderful, slightly slanted green eyes, full lips, and, according to Smitti, a hot ass than Jlo.

Here were the kennels of the guard dogs guarding the grounds at night. Bullied, gray animals, with bloodshot eyes, glared at them through the grates of their crates. The dogs made no sound. Sam shivered, imagining what they were doing to a human who would meet them in the dark.

Miguel opened the car door and grasped her upper arm. They had agreed not to exchange a word. Silently, he led her to a door flanked by two armed men in dark blue uniform.

"Miguel Sanchez with fresh meat for Lapuente." Miguel spoke in the same full, commanding voice that Sam had first heard in the interrogation room. One of the uniformed men kicked the door, which opened shortly thereafter.

They entered a narrow, dark corridor, which led to a room after about 7 meters. The room was the modern control center of the prison and was dominated by a huge L-shaped desk with all sorts of technology. Several flat screens stood on it and were connected to the central computer in the cellar. On a huge blackboard glowed different red and green diodes connected by white lines. Huge, silver filing cabinets with large drawers lined up close to each other on three walls.

A uniformed man looked up from his screen for a moment, looked at her and looked back at his screen. "He's waiting for you in his office." At that, his fingers moved nimbly across the keyboard again.

Miguel led Sam through a glass door and up two flights of stairs. At the end of the corridor, they stepped through a double-winged, dark wooden door decorated with numerous inlays. They entered the office of what Miguel had said was a well-known and corrupt prison warden.

As they walked through the door, the director rose from behind his desk and walked toward her. Miguel motioned for her to stop. The men silently shook hands. The director stepped in front of Sam and studied her closely. He walked slowly around Sam.

"So that's your scissors lady?"

The man suddenly jerked his head forward and smelt on Sam's hair.

"When she's freshly showered, you've brought me a showpiece of peacemakers."

Sam frowned, his head bowed. Peacemaker? What does that mean?