Disruption

by Whibley, Steven

  “Sir,” I said, “please let me go. I don’t know who you think I am, but you have the wrong guy. I promise.”

  He cocked his head and held up his finger, signaling me to shut up.

  That single act was enough to unhinge me. This was a crazy man, and he had me tied to a chair. “Help!” I screamed. I thrashed in the chair again. “Somebody hel—”

  He lunged out and slapped me across the face. The sting knocked any words I wanted to scream out of my head and sent shockwaves down my entire body.

  “Your name,” he said. He slipped off his suit coat and carefully draped it over the back of the couch. “Tell me your name.”

  You’d think the shock of getting slapped would have made my panic worse. But it had the opposite effect. I suddenly took in the scene carefully. I had been taken at night. I glanced again at the sunlight pouring in through the windows on the far wall. It had been hours. The CIA would have known I was gone. They’d be looking for me. And it didn’t matter whether they could get the footage from the satellite. The CIA had all kinds of other gadgets, and they knew the really crazy people. They’d find me. They’d see how I reacted in this situation. I was suddenly determined to prove I had what it took to be a spy.

  The man had just finished rolling the sleeve on his left arm. He glanced at me expectantly. He wanted my name. I pursed my lips. He wasn’t going to get it.

  I didn’t even see it coming. His fist hammered into the side of my face. Blood oozed from my nose and trickled into my mouth. I coughed and spat. Ninety percent of my determination and resolve evaporated with that one hit.

  “P-p-please,” I said, struggling to find words. “W-what do you want?”

  The man drew a breath and smiled. “Your name.”

  “Y-yeah,” I said. “Sure.” I took a few deep breaths. I searched for a fake name to give him, but the thought of him figuring that out and punching me again made me not want to lie. Then he did something that made it so I didn’t have a chance to lie. He picked something up from the end table beside the couch.

  A wallet.

  My wallet.

  Darn it.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “You’re trying to sort out if you want to pretend to be Matt Cambridge of Marksville …” He pulled out another paper and shook it at me. “Or Gunnar Konstantan from …” He glanced down. “Sweden.” He laughed. “I dated a Swedish girl when I was in college. She used to carry a million pieces of ID in her wallet.” He tossed the wallet back onto the table. “Go with Matt. You make a more convincing case for being Matt Cambridge.” He shook his head. “Of course, I’m not an idiot. I know you aren’t Matt, either.”

  I sniffed and tried to blink away some of the tears. What was he talking about?

  “But I’ll play this little game with you if you want.” He lowered his face to mine. “But eventually you will give me your name.” He straightened. “I’ll call you Matt. But you really don’t look like a Matt … or a Gunnar for that matter.” He pulled an ottoman from behind him and took a seat. “More like a Dennis or a Walden.” He shook his head. “But I digress. Tell me about that camp, Matt.”

  “The camp?”

  He leaned forward and sighed. “Do I really have to hit you again?”

  “Look … sir …” I sniffed again. “This is a mistake. You have the wrong guy. I don’t know what’s going on here.”

  “Please,” the man said, “call me Butler.”

  “B-Butler?”

  Butler tsked. “Look, kid, I already know what kind of camp it is. I know, and you telling me won’t make a bit of difference. I just want to hear you say it.”

  Juno had said the rumors were that the Chinese had abducted some of the others. This guy looked as Caucasian as they came. I should have had Rylee give me a breakdown of the people who might have wanted to get their hands on one of the campers. There was a hint of an accent in Butler’s voice. It wasn’t English. It wasn’t Australian. It was almost like Amara’s accent, only a more professional version of it.

  All at once I wasn’t scared, or at least, I wasn’t as scared. Trying to sort out who he was detached me from the situation just enough to calm me down. Plus, I didn’t think he wanted to kill me. He wanted information. I could do this. I could hold out until they got here.

  “S-sir,” I said, forcing my voice to shake. “It’s a camp.” Jason’s words flooded my mind, and they practically fell out of my mouth. “It’s just a camp for a bunch of leather-belt-making losers.”

  One of Butler’s eyebrows rose.

  “I don’t even like it there, sir … but it’s just a camp.”

  “Uh-huh.” Butler drew a breath, nodded, then stood up. “Are you sure that’s the way you want to play this, kid?”

  I clenched my jaw. I guess that single gesture was enough for Butler to take it as an answer. His foot, shiny leather shoe and all, struck out and drove into my stomach. The chair toppled backward, and I went with it. I caught a glimpse of another man behind me, but before I could really look at him, he dropped to his knees and placed a leather glove over my eyes and pressed my head into the chair. Then something sharp stabbed into my neck. Coolness spread down across my chest and then throughout the rest of my body.

  It was over before I had a chance to react, and as the hand came away, my vision clouded with a fog that darkened like a brewing storm until it was black, and I was out.

  *****

  When I woke up, my body ached like I’d … well, it felt pretty much like I’d been tied to a chair for a couple days and beaten senseless. My mouth felt like I’d fallen asleep in the desert.

  Who was this guy and what the heck did he want? And why wasn’t the CIA busting through the doors yet? Yaakov would’ve had the images of my abduction pulled up instantly. But maybe he wouldn’t want to tell Dalson or Smith about them because he’d have to admit to hacking their system.

  “Can I get you something?” the man asked. His tone was as pleasant as if he’d invited me over for tea and was now asking if I’d like some sugar.

  I hesitated and then said, “W-water.”

  He nodded and poured a glass of ice water from a jug on the end table beside him. Then he took a straw from a container beneath the coffee table, put it in the cup, and held it up to my lips. It was the best-tasting water on the planet, and for a moment I thought maybe I’d get out of this mess. And then Butler pulled back a step, threw the water in my face, and slapped me across the cheek. Hard. My whole face stung. That’s when I did something very, very unspy-like.

  I started to cry.

  I tried not to. I didn’t want to do it, but the tears just came, and then my nose started running, and I started sobbing even harder.

  Butler shook his head, and that mysterious hand gripped my head from behind, jabbed the needle into my neck, and then, again, the world went black.

  Chapter 35

  Four times I woke up, and four times, Butler was there. Sometimes he was smiling and talking to me as though we were old friends. Then he’d suddenly turn into a raging lunatic and pound on me some more. Each time he asked me about the camp.

  “Tell me about the camp.”

  “What do they teach you at the camp?”

  “Who runs the camp?”

  “What made you join?”

  “What is your real name?”

  I answered his questions as honestly as any camper would do if they really were a camper and not a CIA operative.

  “It’s a stupid summer camp.”

  “They teach us arts and crafts and archery.”

  “Mr. Smith and Mr. Dalson.”

  “My dad made me join. My dad put me in this stupid camp.”

  “My name is Matt. Matt Cambridge.”

  I cried a lot. I wish I hadn’t. I hated looking like such a baby. But I couldn’t help it. This guy was nuts, and he was about to use my skin to make a new pair of boots or something. I cursed myself for getting caught. I cursed the camp for not having better security, and I cursed the CIA for no
t getting their butts in gear and getting me out of here.

  If the curtains had been drawn, I wouldn’t have had a clue about how long I was in there, but twice when I woke up, it was night, and twice, it was day. Each time, a pit of despair sank deeper into my stomach. The CIA wasn’t coming for me. No one was coming for me. It didn’t make sense, except maybe they couldn’t find me. Or maybe they had that rule of disavowing all knowledge of captured agents, like they did on Mission Impossible.

  That’s just a movie, Matt. Keep it together.

  They’re coming … aren’t they? If they could find me, they would’ve by now. My mouth opened as if my mind had split and one half of me, the half that controlled motor skills, wanted to talk. To tell Butler everything he wanted to know. The other half of me, the half that handled speech, refused. Barely. It was a thread of resistance that could be snapped with one more strong word.

  I wasn’t going to make it.

  I swore. And when I did, Butler smiled and injected me with whatever it was that kept knocking me out.

  *****

  “Well, kid,” Butler said when I groggily woke up for the fifth time, “you’ve done a good job. Been real convincing. But time’s a-wasting. Why don’t we just cut to the chase? I don’t like hurting kids.” He smiled and shook his head. “Okay, I guess I do kind of like it. But it doesn’t have to be kids. I like hurting adults, too.”

  And small animals, I bet. I hadn’t noticed at first, but my feet felt cold, and I glanced down. My pant legs had been rolled up to my knees, and my feet were in a very large mixing bowl, like you’d find at a family reunion where your aunt makes enough potato salad for forty people.

  “W-what’s going on?” I glanced up at the crazy man, and then back down at my bare feet, and then back up. Now I knew what a true psychopath looked like. “What is this?”

  Butler stretched out his back and frowned. Then he nodded and walked across the room to a small closet and pulled out a metal trolley, the kind you see at school dances with the plates of brownies. It had a greasy blanket draped over the top, and the grin Butler wore as he pushed it across the floor made me want to puke. He was going to show me severed body parts and then tell me how he was going to add mine to his collection. That didn’t explain the bare feet in the mixing bowl, but who knew what kind of crazy stuff this guy could think up?

  My breath came in quick, shallow rasps.

  “Sure you don’t have another name?” he asked. “Absolutely certain you want to stick with Matt Cambridge? And you’re sure there’s not something else going on at that camp of yours? Something you’d like to tell me?”

  “Please, whatever you’re about to do, don’t. Please. I’ll tell you anything, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  “I know you will,” he said. Then, with the flourish of a magician, Butler pulled the blanket off the trolley, revealing three very well-worn automobile batteries. Wires ran from the terminals of each battery and disappeared into the end of a fist-sized box with a switch. Three long wires emerged on the other side of the box, each with an alligator clip on the end. Butler looked up at me and smiled.

  “This is a real treat for me,” he said. “I don’t get to do this nearly enough.” He attached each clip to the metal bowl and then pulled a large jug from the bottom of the trolley and poured water over my feet, filling the bowl enough to cover my ankles. Then he stood back to examine his work and smiled. “Do you know what it feels like to be electrocuted?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s like your insides are on fire. It actually cooks you. Did you know that?” He wrinkled his nose. “Burning flesh is one of those smells that takes a long time to get used to. I’d say it’s only been in the last year or so that I’ve started to like the scent, and I’ve been doing this for years and years.”

  That did it.

  I totally lost it.

  I screamed and thrashed against my straps. I threw my head back against the headrest of my chair, hoping to somehow nudge the chair enough to get my feet out of the water. My screams turned to shrieks, the kind you’d hear from a girl at a haunted house, only a hundred times worse. It felt like the screech was coming from deep within my chest. Like my whole body was begging for its life.

  Butler’s fist struck the side of my face and silenced me completely. The world flickered for a moment.

  “Shut. Up,” he said. “Got it? Shut. Your. Mouth.”

  I blinked until my vision cleared and licked at the blood I felt oozing over my lip.

  “Tell me your name,” he said. “It’s the easiest question I can ask. You’ll tell me your name, and I’ll check it out. If it’s true, we’ll have a little talk, and I’ll let you go.” He pressed his hand to his chest. “I am a man of my word.”

  I spat a mouthful of blood onto the carpet and blinked away the tears that were once again streaming down my cheeks. “Y-you d-don’t understand. You have the wr-wrong kid.” I sniffed. “I am Matt Cambridge. That’s really who I am. I swear.”

  Butler rubbed his nose and put his hand on the switch.

  “One.”

  “Please,” I begged. “Please don’t.”

  “Two.”

  I couldn’t go on. The idea of having this crazy psychopath cook me from the inside out was too much to handle. “Okay, okay!” I said quickly, “I’ll tell you what you want to know. I will. I’m a spy. Well, not yet. I will be. I will be a spy. For the CIA. That’s what the camp is. It’s a training camp for the CIA where they train kids. It’s a spy camp.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  He wanted a name. He didn’t think I was Matt, and he certainly didn’t believe I was Gunnar. I blurted the first name that came to my mind.

  “I’m Chase. Chase Erickson. I’m just some punk wannabe. A real loser. I’m not the kid you want. But that’s the truth. Please. I’ll tell you everything.”

  Butler’s smile widened. I thought he was going to let me go now that I was telling the truth … well, except for the name. But instead he looked at me and said, “Two and a half.”

  “What? No!” I shouted and thrashed in my chair, “Please, Butler, no! I told you, the camp is run by the CIA. Please!”

  “Three!”

  He flicked the switch.

  Chapter 36

  Sparks burst from the ends of the alligator clips on the metal bowl. I screamed and thrashed, and screamed and thrashed again, and then … I stopped thrashing and stopped screaming. There was no pain. No massive jolt of electricity coursing through my body. No smell of burning flesh as Butler had suggested. The sparks were shooting to my knees, but I didn’t feel anything. I wiggled my toes. There was no electricity at all.

  Butler flicked off the switch, and the sparks stopped. “Well done, Cambridge. Well done.”

  What was going on? I breathed quick heavy breaths and felt my head lighten.

  “All right, take it easy,” he said. “Breathe slower. Purse your lips. You’ll hyperventilate if you keep that up.”

  This was another trick. Wasn’t it?

  He took a small remote control and pointed it at the ceiling. A small red light that I hadn’t noticed before blinked twice and then stayed off.

  My head swam, and I forced myself to take slower breaths until I started feeling more … present. Butler strolled casually into the kitchen and returned with a wooden chair.

  “All right, look …” He sat down and rubbed his hands together. “I’m supposed to go over the interrogation with you. Now that it’s over, I mean. Crucible Learning Protocols, CLPs, and all that nonsense. You know the drill.”

  “C-crucible?” That was the training I was supposed to get, wasn’t it?

  “But honestly, kid,” Butler continued, “you did great.” He rocked back in his chair. “I gave you my A-game too. I mean, I was all over the place. Happy, angry, nice, mean.” He smiled. “You took it on the chin, son. Well done.” He rubbed his hands again. “Right up until the end, I thought you’d figured out it was a Delta challenge. Right up to the end.
But those were real screams at the end.” He nodded. “I know screams, Cambridge, and those were real.”

  I tried to clear my throat. “Delta challenge?”

  “I knew it,” he said. “Wow. I’m really impressed, kid.” He pulled out a clipboard from behind his chair. “Right, I’m supposed to impart some wisdom, so here it is.” He cleared his throat dramatically. “Interrogators are like vintners.”

  I felt my brow furrow, and Butler must’ve seen it, because he added, “Vintners. You know, winemakers.”

  I blew out a breath. “I don’t get it. This … this was a test?”

  “Delta event, Cambridge. C’mon, let your mind catch up. Don’t fight it.” He tapped his pen on his clipboard.

  My mouth gaped. This had all been a test? This was the Delta event and this psychopath worked for the camp? He worked for the CIA? No, it’s not possible. It can’t be that. It’s another trick. My heart pounded in my ears, and all I could think about was escape.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “a vintner is a winemaker, and every winemaker thinks their wine is the best. They say it’s because they have better grapes or a better process. Let’s be honest: grapes are grapes. But process, that’s something that has effect. Same goes for interrogations.” He tapped his index finger to his temple. “It’s all about the method. As you might have guessed, I employ the keep-’em-guessing method. I give you the opposite of what you expect, and in return, you become mentally fatigued.”

  He smacked his lips. “Point is, when you’re getting interrogated, take your mind off what you’re feeling and focus on sorting out the methods of the interrogator. Each one is different, and each one has their own unique method. Their own brands of wine, as it were.” He shook a finger at me. “For example, and this is a funny story, my mentor used to start every high-level interrogation by breaking one finger of the suspect.” He smiled. “No questions. He just walked into the room, and before a single word, he’d break the finger.”

  I felt my eyes widen, and I started breathing heavy again.