No clocks.
Only cold concrete and the distant, low thrum of air scrubbers.
They looked broken.
Their designer clothes were crumpled and mud-stained.
Their cell phones were gone.
Their expensive watches had been stripped from their wrists.
When the heavy iron door opened, I walked in.
I wasn’t wearing my coat anymore.
I wore a crisp black shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, revealing the subtle scars from my younger years in international intelligence ops.
Behind me walked two men in high-ranking federal uniforms: the Regional Director of the FBI and the Deputy Attorney General of the United States.
Arthur’s eyes widened with a desperate, hysterical hope when he saw the federal officials.
“Director!
Director Miller!”
Arthur shouted, struggling against his restraints.
“Thank God!
Look what this lunatic has done!
He kidnapped us!
He’s holding us illegal!
Arrest him!
He’s a terrorist!”
Director Miller didn’t even look at Arthur.
He walked over to me, handed me a thick leather-bound binder, and stood at strict attention.
