Actionable Intelligence
Moisture is condensing on the pastel-colored cinderblock walls, mimicking the sweat collecting on Shane's brow. He sits at a table. The chair has been stripped of its cushion, so the metal frame bites into his thighs. He would stand but they threatened to beat him the last he tried it. The table itself is Formica, well used. There are stains on the table. Dark stains.
The linoleum floor is light brown in color and in need of repair; some of the tiles are started to buckle and peel. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz and flicker. He wonders if they're rigged like that to put you on edge. This used to be a classroom, after all.
Four others are in attendance. Three are guards in standard military garb, scattered around the room's perimeter—two male and one female. The fourth seems to be a doctor of some sort. He is sweating even more profusely than the man at the table, which isn't a good sign.
An official interrogator strides in, his uniform freshly dry-cleaned, followed by a female subordinate who looks unsure about her role here. The interrogator is cordial enough even while being cold as ice. He informs Shane that he's sorry about the delay and, when Shane complains about the chair, he flies into a rage. "I demand you find this man a proper chair to sit in!" Soon enough his commands are executed.
Shane begins to think perhaps there is a silver lining. Maybe it's all a mistake and he can reason with these people. "Please, where am I? Can I make a phone call?"
"Of course. But first you must do something for us. We want names."
Shane scrutinizes the interrogator, the doctor, the guards. This is serious. He's got no idea what they're trying to dig up but he has no intention of playing their games. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The interrogator becomes cross. Is this how he's to be repaid for giving Shane a comfortable chair to sit in? But no matter how angry he becomes Shane doesn't budge. With a nod the subordinate interrogator orders the guards to restrain him. The doctor, shaking now, steps forward.
"We're going to get names, one way or another."
"Uh...uh..." The man begins to hyperventilate when they pin his hands to the table and the doctor produces a bone saw. "Names! Okay, there's Glen Milford over on First Avenue. He's in on it!" They all look at each other. The interrogator is pissed. "No. *We* want names. Got it?"
"You want names?"
The blade is placed at the first knuckle of his pinky finger, just below the fingernail.
"Jorge!"
"Jorge? Which one of us is supposed to be Jorge?"
Shane looks around, unsure. "Um...you?"
The interrogator's face contorts with rage. "Do I look like a fuckin' Jorge to you?!"
Before Shane can reply the saw bites into skin and bone. He still has six people to name and twenty-seven knuckles left to go.