by L. T. Ryan
He turned his head toward me. His face was deep red and the veins in his forehead stuck out like a snake swimming through water. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water as he tried to suck in air, but couldn’t.
“Keep him quiet,” Frank said.
I nodded. Looked at the man as he held his arm close to his chest. I said to Frank, “Go ahead and call the doc in to set and splint that arm.”
Chapter 2
Frank drove us to SIS’s unofficial headquarters. Though we said unofficial, the building outside of Washington, D.C. was our primary location. However, any building we occupied for the purpose of advancing our mission would be considered our headquarters and always labeled unofficial. The SIS was an agency that didn’t exist. The primary focus of the group was counter-terrorism. We had complete and total autonomy. We could push any other agency to the back of the line if we felt our cause took precedence. The agents in our group were considered elite, and often handpicked from among the top recruits of the CIA, FBI and DEA. Only a handful of politicians and higher ups in the military knew of the agency’s existence, and if you asked them, they’d flat out deny it. Even if there was a gun to their head.
We pulled up around the rear of the building. Frank stopped in front of what appeared to be a wall. If you stood close enough, and in the right, spot you’d see a tiny crack that ran up its center, then turned to the right and met another thin crack. Frank pulled a device out of his pocket and pushed a button. A wide door opened out and Frank drove into a dark garage. The place was empty except for my car, a large SUV, and a four door maroon Lexus that belonged to the doctor.
I waited in the back seat after Frank parked and cut the engine. He got out, walked around the back and opened the door next to the man. I removed the handcuff from his left wrist and pushed the man out while Frank pulled. The guy stumbled out and fell to the ground. He groaned and clutched at his broken arm.
“Get up,” Frank told the guy.
I slid through the open door. The guy was on his knees, bent over with his forehead resting on the concrete floor. I grabbed him by his shirt collar and pulled the man’s upper body straight up. Frank reached under his left arm and started pulling. I grabbed his collar and the waistband of his pants. We got him to his feet, then led him to the only door in the garage.
Frank swiped an access card through a security card reader and the light changed from red to green. He then placed his thumb on a pad. There was a series of beeps, and another light turned from red to green. Then the lock clicked and Frank turned the door handle. We walked down a short hall and came to the area of the main floor that we called the lobby. There were two doors on the far wall. Each door led to an interrogation room. A four by six foot mirrored window was placed a foot away from each door. Opposite the interrogation rooms was our infirmary, a state of the art medical facility that was equipped for everything from bee stings to surgery. There were six offices in the lobby, three on the north wall, three on the south. My office was next to Frank’s. The third office on our side was designated for all of team B.
The stale air of the lobby enveloped us. The smell of ammonia hardly affected me anymore, but the guy we were dragging down the hall coughed and gagged as he breathed in the fumes.
The doctor stood in the doorway of the infirmary. He was tall and middle aged. His full head of hair was half brown, half gray. His long, pointy nose was the only distinguishing feature on his face. He nodded toward our prisoner. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Broken arm,” I said. “Maybe a concussion, too. But that shouldn’t matter.”
The doctor shrugged and nodded over his shoulder. “Drop him in there.”
“You want one of us to stay?” I asked.
“Him.” The doctor pointed at Frank. “You ask too many questions, Mr. Noble.”
Frank laughed and the doctor joined in. I said nothing. He had a point. I did tend to ask a lot of questions when he was working on one of us. I often thought that if my life had gone a bit differently when I was young, I could have ended up a doctor or trauma surgeon.
I left the infirmary and went to my office. I stacked a few manila folders and moved them to the corner of the desk, then started a pot of coffee. The rich aroma of the dark grinds soaked the air in my office. I didn’t feel like waiting for the full pot to brew, so I emptied it into a stained mug as soon as there was enough. I held the mug in both hands and leaned back in my chair. The caffeine coursed through my veins, providing the jolt I needed.
I got up and left my office and walked back to the infirmary. Frank glanced at me and said nothing. He concentrated on the guy’s broken arm. I took a few more steps and stopped inside the doorway and leaned against the frame.
“Out,” the doctor said.
I could tell by his tone that he was serious. We tried hard to not piss Doc off, because you never knew when you were going to need him to treat you. I shrugged and backed up a few feet. Turned around and leaned back against the wall a couple yards from the door. I lifted the coffee to my face and inhaled. Steam singed the inside of my nose, just for a second. I took a sip. It was strong. Perhaps a bit too strong, if there was such a thing. I decided it didn’t matter. The brew helped clear the cobwebs from my head, and that was always welcome.
Behind me, I heard the sound of bone grating against bone. The doctor was setting the fracture. The man screamed as his ulna and then radius were placed in their natural positions. I took his cries of pain as a sign that the doctor hadn’t bothered to numb the guy up. I was OK with that, and apparently Frank was too. Why waste our supplies on a criminal?
With the doctor almost finished, I started to think about what questions to ask the man. We didn’t know much about him, except that he showed up at a place that our intel indicated would be a spot where something would happen. But we had no idea who this guy was. What was he doing near the bus stop? Was he a part of the group we were tracking, or just doing business with them? Why did he run from us? Why did he try to kill me?
Both Frank and I had a feeling we were closing in on something big. Every piece of evidence we had gathered so far pointed to this being a terrorist cell. The only good thing about that was that we didn’t have to turn it over to the FBI or DEA. These guys had been running drugs and guns and smuggling people in and out of the States for months. If it were just one of those activities, we’d be out of the loop. But it wasn’t just one activity, it was the full gamut.
It also appeared that they had funding from some big businesses in hostile places, as well as possible connections with powerful people in the U.S. Homeland tried to take over on account of this, but Frank managed to push them back.
The men themselves were a mix of U.S. citizens, Colombians, and guys from the Middle East. That was the only thing that clouded our initial assumption. Why were so many different groups working together? I hoped that this guy, who looked like he might be Colombian, could tie some of those loose ends together for us. Assuming he talked, that is.
“OK, Mr. Noble,” the doctor said from the other side of the wall. “He’s all yours.”
I drank the last of my coffee and pushed off of the infirmary wall. Met Frank and the man at the entrance. The doctor had set the bone and placed an air cast over the man’s forearm. The guy sat on the edge of the gurney, shoulders slumped, head hanging, and eyes focused on the floor.
“Take him to room one,” I said to Frank. Then I turned to the doctor. “Can he hold up?”
The doctor shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll stick around. I’ve got a few things that can help keep him up and awake through whatever you do to him.”
“You won’t want to watch if it gets to that.”
“With what you guys pay me, I can watch anything.”
“Go wait in your office. We’ll get you if we need you.”
The doctor held up his hands. He then crossed the room and went into his office, which was on the wall opposite of mine. He closed his door and took a seat behind his computer. I g
lanced in as I passed and saw the familiar green game board of computer solitaire.
Frank had placed the guy in the interrogation room and now stood on the outside, watching the man through the smoky mirrored glass.
“What do you think?” I said as I stopped next to him, a few feet separating us.
“No doubt he’s got information. And if our intel was right, he was at that bus stop for a reason.”
I nodded. Said nothing, waiting for Frank to continue.
“Something was about to go down,” Frank said.
I nodded again. Remained quiet.
“Question is what, Jack? And is he one of them? Or was he there to meet them?”
“Great questions, Frank,” I said. “Only one way to find out.”
He nodded and smiled. “You ready?”
“Not quite.” I took two steps to the right and adjusted the thermostat, turning it down to fifty degrees. “Let’s freeze him out for a bit.”
Half an hour passed while we downed two cups of coffee each and smoked a few cigarettes. Neither of us said much. After two years of working together, there was no need for idle banter between us. Both of us knew what needed to be done. We each had our own tactics, and they played well off one another.
I got up and went to check on the man. He looked considerably uncomfortable. “Let’s go, Frank.”
Frank entered the room ahead of me. He sat at the far end of a rectangular wooden table. I sat in the middle, opposite our prisoner. The man looked between us. His lips quivered and his teeth chattered. He sniffled and shivered.
“Can we get you anything?” Frank asked.
“A coat,” the man replied.
“We can do that,” Frank said. “Can’t we, Jack?”
I nodded. “Sure, but first you need to answer a few questions for us.”
The man stared at a spot on the table and said nothing.
“What’s your name?” I said.
The man said nothing.
“Your name?” I said again.
“Pablo,” he said without looking up.
“What were you doing at that bus stop?” I said.
The man slowly turned his head. His teeth stopped chattering as he clenched his jaw. Muscles rippled at the bottom corners of his face. He licked his lips and calmly said, “I want my lawyer. I’m not saying anything until my lawyer is here.”
Frank laughed. “I’m sorry. Do you think you have rights down here? Jack, did you read this guy his rights?”
I shook my head. Said nothing.
Frank stood and positioned himself next to me, across the table from the guy. “OK, asshole, here are your rights. You have the right to sit in that chair. You have the right to answer every friggin’ question we ask you. You don’t have the right to remain silent. Your efforts to remain silent are going to be met with a pain so intense you’ll wish we had amputated your arm instead of just breaking it. You don’t get a lawyer or a chaplain or your mommy. That doctor over there, he’s on our side. He can give you medication to keep you awake through any amount of pain we put you through. You won’t pass out, asshole. You’ll cry until you have no more tears. You’ll puke until all your stomach is barren and all you can do is dry heave. So answer my partner’s question or your pain is going to start in about thirty seconds.”
The man clenched the fist of his good arm. His eyes watered. I assumed the reality of the situation hit him at that moment. We weren’t the cops and there was nothing legal about us, at least not in any sense that he, or most people, understood. Frank and I were authorized to do our jobs, no matter what it took. We could come and go and shoot to kill without asking questions, and without having questions asked of us.
Frank placed both hands on the table and leaned over until he was no more than a foot from the guy’s face. “So what’s it gonna be?”
The man pulled his head back a few inches. His lips thinned and his cheeks puffed out. Frank jerked to the side just in time to avoid most of the spittle that flew out of the guy’s mouth.
Frank reached out and grabbed the man’s right wrist and yanked up, then down. The man screamed as the jagged edges of his broken bones grated against one another.
Frank pulled out a knife. “The bones are already broken. Shouldn’t be tough to cut through. Then there’s just a mess of veins and nerves and meat and flesh. You want to see what it’s like to hold your own severed arm?”
“Enough,” the man said through clenched teeth. “I’ll talk. I’ll talk.”
The left side of Frank’s mouth turned upward in a smile. He broke the guy down fast. While we’d seen some turn faster, we expected this guy to last a few rounds before caving in.
Frank let go and the man pulled his broken arm to his chest. Cradled it with his left arm. He let out a couple sobs, then wiped his eyes dry. Tears stained his cheeks and settled into his thin facial hair.
“What do you want to know?” he said.
“I want to know what you were doing at the bus stop,” I said.
He licked his lips and leaned back in the chair and let out a loud exhale. “Got a cigarette?”
I looked at Frank and nodded. Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a soft pack. He tapped the open end against his palm and retrieved three cigarettes. He lit two and handed one to the man. Rolled the third across the table to me. I tucked it behind my ear, choosing to save it for later.
“The bus stop is where the pick up was going to be made,” the guy said.
“What pick up?” I said.
He shifted his eyes from the table to me. “The kid.”
I felt Frank’s eyes settle on me, but I didn’t look back at him. “What kid?”
The man’s facial expression changed. The pain and anger lifted, and a bemused look crossed his face. “What did you pick me up for, man?”
“We’ve been tracking you guys for months. We’ve got you for drugs, guns, and smuggling terrorists in and out of the country.”
He threw his head back and laughed. The spasmodic motion of his body jolted his arm a few inches more than was comfortable and he scrunched his face in pain. After a few seconds he steadied himself and said, “OK, you’re onto something with the guns and drugs. They pay well. But the terrorists in and out, you’re way off.”
“What then?” Frank said. “And what about the kids?”
“Is that all you got? You think these people entered and exited the country alone?” The smile returned to Pablo’s face.
“Stop fucking with us,” Frank said. “What are you talking about the—”
“Frank,” I said. “He’s talking about us being way off. This isn’t a terrorist cell.”
Pablo’s eyebrows arched up into his forehead and his smile widened. He looked between me and Frank and nodded vigorously.
I continued, “They’re child smugglers. He was at the bus stop today because he was going to kidnap a child.”
“You son of a bitch.” Frank charged the man and punched him three times in the head, rendering him unconscious.
By the time I got across the table, Frank had backed up. He looked down at the bloodied face of Pablo and shook his hand, which was equally covered in blood. I couldn’t tell if it was all Pablo’s, or if Frank had split a knuckle or two.
“Well, that was tactful,” I said.
“I got kids, Jack.”
“I know.”
“Christ,” Frank said as he stepped around Pablo and made his way toward the door. “What now?”
I followed Frank out into the lobby. The door slammed behind us, echoing through the room. The doctor looked up and saw us and opened his door.
“Need me to do anything?” he asked.
“Smelling salts,” I said. “And check his arm. Might need to be set again.”
The doctor reached for his bag. “That’s why I went with the air cast,” he said with a smile.
Frank stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips and his head leaned back.
“You need to
get it together,” I said. “I’ll have you pulled from this.”
“I’m good. I’m good.”
“OK,” I said. “We need to get some more information out of him. Now, I don’t think he’s going to give up anyone else. At least, not yet. But maybe we can get the location of where they are keeping these kids.”
“You sure about this? What if he’s jerking us around?” Frank said.
“That’s why we need the location. We can verify it in person, then come back and hammer on him some more, and then we’ll lead a raid on the place.”
Frank nodded as the doctor emerged from the interrogation room.
“He’s ready for you guys again,” the doctor said.
I grabbed Frank by his shoulders. “Let me do the talking.” Then I pushed him toward the room. I wanted Frank to enter first, figuring it would cause the man to feel a little more unsettled.
Pablo was conscious when we entered, but he looked confused.
“Where are you keeping them?” I said.
“Who?” Pablo said.
“The kids.”
“In a house.”
“Where?”
“Northern Virginia. Suburbs.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know the name of the neighborhood. Spring Street. Ninth house on the right.”
“Going which way?”
“You can only enter from the north.”
I looked at Frank and he nodded.
“Good enough.” I stepped to the door and pulled it open. Turned back and saw Frank stop in front of Pablo and lean over and drive his fist into the side of the man’s face again.
“Was that necessary?” I said.
Frank looked at me, then at Pablo, then back at me. “Yes.”
About the Author
Lee "L.T." Ryan lives in the suburbs of Atlanta, GA with his wife, three daughters, and one psychologically unbalanced but lovable dog. He enjoys writing fast paced suspense thrillers. When not writing, he enjoys reading, hiking, mountain biking, fishing, and spending time with the ladies in his life.
Current projects include Noble Intentions: Season Three (Episodes 11-15), two Jack Noble novels: Never Go Home and When Dead in Greece, and a post-apocalyptic series penned under another name.