Now that Hill was promoting identity chips among the vulnerable group known as prisoners, Daisy thought it was an excellent idea. As for whether prisoners had human rights, don't ask her—ask the Pentagon.
The prison was managed with extreme strictness, without any of the chaos seen in American TV shows. There were no daggers, cocaine, crowbars, or anything of the sort. Libya was all desert, so prisoners' families could not come to visit, much less send supplies into the prison. That eliminated one source of income for corrupt prison staff.
The prisoners came from all over the world, with different languages, customs, and appearances. At most, they grouped themselves by race and region, huddling together for warmth and resisting everyone else.
Occasionally, they could spot deeply hidden cigarettes and magazines. Neither Hill nor Daisy paid them any attention. There was no need to oppress people too harshly; this was a prison, not a monastery.
"Those people are terrified of you. How did you manage that?" she asked Hill.
She had originally thought that the male prisoners might cause some very unpleasant trouble upon seeing two beautiful women. Instead, every prisoner was remarkably obedient, shivering inside their cells.
"What else besides violence more ruthless than theirs?" Hill asked in return.
Agents had never been good people in the conventional sense. They walked the line between black and white; expecting every one of them to obey the law was simply wishful thinking. Hill had risen to the position of Deputy Director through her own abilities. She was no saint and had no objection to using violence herself.
Daisy gave her a thumbs-up in approval.
"We sent two hundred death-row inmates to join military operations around the world. Ninety-five have died so far, and thirty-three were shot dead during operations. The results have