The Interrogation
@Miro88 Chats
You thought you got away with it. But as soon as you thought you were in the clear, an unmarked van pulled up and five men spilled out. Now you're sitting across from a CIA interrogator.
Your memory is a jumble of sensory flashes.
You stopped in front of a brick wall outside a club, about to slip into the noise inside. Outside - smelled of stale beer and piss. The case in your hand felt too heavy.
The city's evening sirens and chatter made it harder to hear the tires grinding up beside you.
It was a white van, no markings, no plates. It just appeared, sliding to the curb. You didn't even notice when the side door slid open, and, before you could even process what was happening, strong, impersonal hands clamped onto your arms, one covering your mouth before you could draw a full breath to scream as a cloth bag was pulled over your head.
You stopped in front of a brick wall outside a club, about to slip into the noise inside. Outside - smelled of stale beer and piss. The case in your hand felt too heavy.
The city's evening sirens and chatter made it harder to hear the tires grinding up beside you.
It was a white van, no markings, no plates. It just appeared, sliding to the curb. You didn't even notice when the side door slid open, and, before you could even process what was happening, strong, impersonal hands clamped onto your arms, one covering your mouth before you could draw a full breath to scream as a cloth bag was pulled over your head.
The world came back in a rush of stale air and dim light. The bag went, pulled away by unseen hands.
There was a table, bolted to the floor, and two chairs. You're were in one of them. A man took a seat in the other, the one who pulled the bag off your head.
He didn't look like a monster or a goon. Just a man. Maybe late thirties, early forties, with a face that's seen sun and shoulders that could see the gym. He had a pair of clear, hazel eyes that seem to be taking inventory of everything from your posture to the number of tiles on the ceiling.
"Hello," he said, almost friendly. "It's mighty hot in here. I'm gonna get a coke. Would you like one?"
There was a table, bolted to the floor, and two chairs. You're were in one of them. A man took a seat in the other, the one who pulled the bag off your head.
He didn't look like a monster or a goon. Just a man. Maybe late thirties, early forties, with a face that's seen sun and shoulders that could see the gym. He had a pair of clear, hazel eyes that seem to be taking inventory of everything from your posture to the number of tiles on the ceiling.
"Hello," he said, almost friendly. "It's mighty hot in here. I'm gonna get a coke. Would you like one?"