Chapter 22

Samson scratched at his face and tugged at the beard he was now accustomed to. It was impossible to know how many days had passed before or since he'd recommitted his life to Jesus in the darkness. Demir had made sure he never saw the time or got a view of the sky. And he'd never grown a beard this long to know how long it would take.

His food had been minimal and mostly devoid of nutrition, which meant his body should be breaking down, but strangely, it wasn't. In fact, it was doing the opposite. He could feel his strength returning, and his muscles that had initially deteriorated had returned, but he was careful to hide it.

The guards still beat him on a regular basis, but he never fought back. His biggest struggle at the beginning was mastering his anger. Everything inside of him wanted to retaliate, but he knew it wasn't God's plan for him in here. The only way he could hide his strength was to control his anger. Now, he used the pain of the blows to draw closer to his savior. He thought of the pain Jesus had suffered in order to save him, and soon, it wasn't just his body that was strengthening but his mind as well.

When he wasn't working on the bombs, or being beaten, they left him in his pitch-black cell, where he spent most of his time praying or exercising.

Moments of desperation would surface as the enemy tried to wear him down, but he found that, as his self-control over his anger strengthened, he was better able to resist the dark parts of his mind. And random verses from his childhood would resurface, giving him strength to endure when he needed it most.

He now sat with his legs crossed, leaning against the back wall and humming a hymn he'd thought he'd forgotten, while he went over his plan in his head.

When footsteps of the approaching guard echoed into the room, he pulled out what little food he'd saved and quickly stuffed it into his mouth, chewing fiercely and then swallowing it. Then, when the key clanged into the lock, he stuck his finger down his throat so he was throwing up when the guard came in. The same one as usual.

He was a low-level guard, dispensable in case Samson tried anything.

"Are you kidding me?" the guy said when he shined the light in Samson's face. "Stay where you are," he grumbled as he tucked the flashlight under his armpit and held his rifle while he made a call.

"Hey, yeah. It's me," he said into the phone. "I'm calling about Samson. He's puked all over himself." He listened for a second. "How should I know?" Another pause. "I'm not going to touch him. You get someone down here to help me."

He hung up and continued to blind Samson with his light.

Samson covered his face and groaned.

"Are you gonna be sick again?" the guard asked.

"I don't think there's anything left to throw up," Samson grumbled. "It's not my fault you give me food that's gone off."

"Did you have to throw up all over yourself? Who does that? You've got a bucket."

"I can't see anything in here. How am I supposed to find the bucket in time?"

If he was lucky, or if God saw fit, he'd get the opportunity to see more of this prison besides this room and the bomb room. He could remember the blueprint of the building that Trevors had supplied, but without knowing where he was being kept, it made his planning difficult.

Another guard arrived. "Let me see," he said. "Keep your gun on him. If he moves. Shoot him."

Samson kept his head down but could hear the new guard enter the room, then stop. "That's gross. I'm not gonna touch him."

"I don't think we have to," the first guard said. "Hey, Samson. On your feet."

Samson slowly got onto his hands and knees, then used the wall to raise himself up. He held his hands out, knowing they'd want to cuff him.

"You do it," the second guard said to his partner. "I'm senior here."

"Fine. But if I get any of that on me, I quit."

When Samson's hands were cuffed without any more drama, both guards kept their distance from him as they ushered him into the hall and led him past the door to the bomb room and to a flight of stairs.

"Climb," the second guard said.

Samson obeyed, keeping his shoulders hunched and his head down.

When he reached the door, he tried the knob, but it was locked.

"Hey," called out the second guard. "It's us. Open up." He swore while they waited. "I told them to leave it open. The smell," he growled. "Open the door or we'll shoot it!"

The door opened, but the guard on the other side gave them a wide berth and put a hand over his face.

"Come on guys," Samson said, lifting his head enough to get a look at the new guard, but it was hard to see in the natural light. "It's not that bad."

He tried to find a window and see the sky, but his eyes were still too sensitive. He'd have to wait until they adjusted more.

"Move." The guard at his back poked him with what felt like the barrel of the rifle, and Samson tripped forward.

"I can barely see," he said, reaching his hands out in front of him as he squinted at the halls and rooms that they passed.

"Keep going straight until I tell you otherwise."

By the time they finally reached the bathroom, Samson's eyes had adjusted enough that he could look out the window at the end of the hall. He knew the view. It was the street at the front. "Thank you, Jesus," he mouthed.

"Get in there and strip down," the first guard said, uncuffing him. "Clean yourself up. We've got a towel and a change of clothes coming."

"Thank you. I mean it. You've been really helpful." Samson went into the room, but they left the door open. "No privacy?"

"If you're worried we'll peek, you can go into the shower stall."

Mostly, Samson was worried they'd notice how toned his body was. "You're the one who'll have nightmares. I don't know if you're aware, but you haven't been treating me very well."

He pulled the shower curtain across and stripped down.

His body was covered in sores and bruises, but it wasn't as bad as he'd expected.

Then he turned on the water. It was cold, but it was the first time they'd let him wash properly, and he reveled in it. He would promise to never take a shower for granted again, but knew this was probably the last one he'd ever have.

"Times up!" someone yelled. "Turn the water off."

He did, and a towel was thrown over the top of the stall. Then a sweatshirt and sweatpants. The pants touched the floor before he could scoop them up, so he had to ring them out before he put them on. They were too small, but he felt too good to care.

"Hands out," came another command.

He stepped forward so his arms poked out through the curtain.

Once he was secure, the guard pulled him out. "Don't do that again. Next time you won't be so lucky."

"You think I did it on purpose?"

"If you get sick again, throw up on the floor."

"If you insist."

"I do."

As they returned to his cell, Samson noted the position of every room, and, with every turn, he rotated the blueprints in his mind.

"We'll be back for you soon," the guard said before closing him back into the darkness.

"How soon?" he yelled through the door but didn't get an answer.

He closed his eyes, remembering what he'd seen. The light had given fuel to his soul, and he embraced the joy that appeared there.

He smiled. "You did that," he said to God. "You gave me more than I could have asked for or imagined. I had my plan, and I executed it, but you gave me more. More than I deserve. Thank you."

He walked the three steps he knew it would take to reach the wall and leaned against it, picturing again everything he'd seen. Both because he needed to remember and because it felt good. It felt so good.

In the beginning of his captivity, when God was still teaching him self-control, there had been one day when he'd been perched on the edge of the madness. His eyes had strained in the dark, searching for anything. The darkness messed with his head, and he'd ended up punching a wall. He was lucky he didn't break his hand. But he was a different man now.

He slid to the floor, rested his head against the wall, and fell asleep.

The door clanged, and Samson's arm flew to his face in reflex to protect his eyes from the light.

"Is it time already?" he said.

"I'm glad to see we haven't had a repeat of earlier."

"I haven't had anything else to eat."

"Get up."

After he was cuffed again, he said, "I forgot to ask you if you had a good weekend."

"You know I can't tell you what day it is."

They entered the hall.

"You don't have to tell me how many days since the weekend, just whatever you did during the last one. I hope it was good."

"Uh-huh."

"You won't tell me? What about your birthday? I'd like to know when it comes up."

"Move." He shoved Samson forward.

"Please. I'd like to wish you a happy birthday."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Why not?"

"We're not friends."

"I can understand why you don't think so, but you're the closest thing to a friend I have in this place."

"How'd you figure that?"

"You've never been particularly nice to me, but you bring me food, and you never hurt me. Also, you got me a shower."

"It wasn't because I was being nice."

"Doesn't matter. It counts for a lot from where I'm standing."

"I have no interest in being your friend."

"I totally understand. But I consider you a friend. It makes being in here more bearable."

"Why do you think I'd want to make things more bearable for you?"

"Good point. I hadn't thought about that." He continued shuffling down the hall, dragging his feet now and then for show. "Still. Is there anything you'd like to ask me? I'm an open book."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Why not? I've got nothing to lose."

"Okay. I have been wondering about something."

"Shoot."

"Is it true what they say about you?"

"That depends on what they say."

"That you used to be this tough guy who could take on an army of men?"

"You hadn't heard about me before now?"

"Nope. Maybe you're not as renowned as you think."

"Who said I think anything of myself?"

"I've heard them talking. They say you're bulletproof. That's why Demir hasn't shot you. Does that mean you're bombproof too?"

"If I'm bulletproof, why do you bother with the guns?"

"I didn't say I believe it."

"I'm a regular guy like you."

"I don't see what everyone thinks is so impressive about you. What made you so hard to catch?"

Samson almost said luck but then saw an opportunity he would have refused when he was a free man. It was a long shot, but the God he served did the impossible.

"It may sound unbelievable, but the truth is, God has protected me. He had plans for me, and He made sure I could fulfill those plans."

"That explains some things."

"Does it?"

"We're going after Christians. You're one of them. I guess Demire likes seeing you guys blow yourselves up while you build weapons for him to kill other Christians."

"When I was brought here, I wasn't much of a follower of God."

"Then why do you think you deserve your god's protection?"

Samson shook his head, surprised by the tears that surfaced. "I never deserved it. But for some reason, He never gave up on me."

"Sounds like Demir was right. Keeping you in the dark is causing you to lose your mind. Just don't try anything stupid."

"You mean like blowing myself up? I'm telling you the truth. Jesus loves you too."

The guard chuckled. "You really are nuts."

"Just think about it."

"No thanks."

Samson sent up a silent prayer that the guard wouldn't be able to get those words out of his head. There was still time.

"How much longer do you think this is going to go on?" Samson said. He'd tried his best offering salvation; now he needed information if he could get it.

"What?"

"The prep with the bombs. I've lost track of how much material I've gone through."

"You're not supposed to keep track. It will be done when it's done."

They arrived at the bomb door, and the guard pushed it open, then used the barrel of his rifle to push Samson into the room.

"Do you guys all live in the building?" Samson said as he walked to his chair. "Or do you get to go home at night?"

"That's none of your business."

"Fair enough. I guess I ask too much."

"You do. Hold out your hands."

Samson did, and the guard uncuffed him, then locked him in.

"If there's any chance for any of them," Samson prayed. "Make sure they're not inside when this place blows."

He stretched his hunched shoulders back, remaining straight-backed as he walked to the other side of the room to confirm they hadn't found his stash.

The scrap metal he'd piled in the corner was good cover. Everyone only saw what they wanted: a weak, broken man. They were too inexperienced to know what to look for in someone like him.

After removing several large pieces of metal, he counted the bombs he'd created.

It had been a slow process in order to keep anyone from noticing the disappearing parts, and he'd had to force himself to be patient. He couldn't move too early on this. He only had one shot, and if he didn't have enough firepower, it would all be for nothing.

As far as the timing went, he'd have to leave that one up to God and trust that whoever needed to be in the building would be.

But there was one man who he knew would definitely be a casualty of the bombs. He'd made his peace with the fact that there was no way out of here for him. He'd given himself to God, and it would play out how it needed to. Knowing that God had given him a second chance to make a difference right at the end was more than he could ever have hoped for.

Before moving back to his seat, he dropped to the floor to do pushups. At first, he clapped in front of his chest with each rep. Then he increased the difficulty by clapping behind his back. Once he was done, he sat on the floor and clasped his hands together, thanking God for the vigor that had been restored. It was more than he needed to get the job done, but it was good to know he wasn't finishing his life in weakness.

"Amen," he said, then went to the table, reaching underneath the seat to pull out the paper he'd stashed there. He'd found it crumpled up in one of the boxes they'd brought in.

After smoothing it out on the table, he angled the lamp so he could more easily see the marks he'd made in it with a dirty nail.

It was a map he'd made of the building from his recollection of the blueprints.

He took the nail he'd left by the leg of the table and added a few more details, marking his cell and this room, which he now knew the positions of.

"That's much better."

He pulled his chair closer to the table. It wasn't time to move yet, but it was getting close. He could feel in his spirit that the season had shifted for him. God had been faithful, and it wouldn't be long until Samson would finally be able to fulfill the purpose that had been established for him at the beginning. He'd lose his life in the process, but those were the consequences, and he was willing to face them. Like David paying for what he'd done to Bathsheba and Uriah, Samson would take responsibility for the choices he'd made in life.

His eyes lifted to the ceiling.

"I know you know this already, but if I could go back and do it all again differently, I would."

All the mistakes he'd made, and yet God hadn't given up on him.

"Thank you for letting me finish what you started."