What the hell just happened?
I’m sitting on the world’s most uncomfortable chair, with my hands flat on the table in front of me. I look around the small, gray, generic room, noting every detail. Not that there are many.
Behind me and to my right are plain brick walls that probably haven’t had a fresh coat of gray paint since the seventies. At the top of the right wall is an analogue clock. On the right hand side of the wall in front of me is the door, made of old, thick wood with frosted glass in the top half. You can see the outline of things outside, but nothing clearer.
A two-way mirror completely takes up the wall to my left, stretching from waist height to ceiling, and running practically the full width of the room.
My wrists are cuffed, and chained to the table in front of me through a small metal hook. The table itself is bolted to the floor, though the chair I’m sitting in isn’t.
In the top left hand corner, just above the mirror, is a security camera, which can easily see the entire layout of the room. I imagine there’s sound recording on it as well.
I glance up at the clock. A couple of hours ago, I’d arrived at the FBI Field Office and Agent Green hustled me straight into this room, secured me to the table, and left me alone. I’ve been here ever since — no sign of anyone.
Standard operating procedure when you need information from someone is to leave them on their own for a while. People tend to get nervous and paranoid, which over time leads to them feeling guilty. So when you finally go and talk to them, they’ve worked themselves up into such a state that they’ll tell you everything.
But this isn’t my first visit to an interrogation room, either as a prisoner or as the one asking the questions. I relax back into my chair and close my eyes, knowing that in these situations, patience is always the best way forward. Nothing I can do to improve matters, so I’ll wait and let things play out for now. I’m here for a reason — even if I don’t know what that reason is.
And that’s the thing getting to me. I know I’m good enough that they can’t possibly have any real evidence against me for a crime. I’m one of the best contract killers in the world. When I carry out my hits, I’m like a ghost. To the criminal underworld, I’m a legend. But in the eyes of any law enforcement agencies, I’m just a myth — a story told to new recruits to scare them. They have nothing on me, I’m sure of it. Which begs the question: how did they know where to find me?
I look at the two-way mirror and wonder who’s behind it looking back at me. There’s always somebody behind these things. I study my reflection. I need a shave — that’s for sure. My ice-blue eyes stare back at me, looking as tired as I feel.
It’s my own fault for having a few beers last night…
Despite the lack of sleep and the mild hangover, I’m actually in pretty great shape, both physically and mentally. The last year has been both productive and profitable. Overall, I’m feeling better than I have done in a long time.
I briefly look at the scar underneath my left eye that runs down my cheek. My mind flashes back to that portable cabin in the Nevada desert twelve months ago. Ironically, I was sitting in a chair in restraints then as well…
Nothing good ever comes from me being tied up…
I sigh and begin drumming my fingers on the desk to break the silence. I hate not knowing what’s going on.
After another few minutes, the door opens, and two men walk in. The one who enters first is the younger of the two. He’s a black guy, probably late twenties. He has short, dark hair and is clean-shaven, wearing a suit and tie with the jacket open. He walks over to the table, placing his cup of coffee and a document folder carefully on the surface before sitting in the seat opposite me. He’s fresh-faced and very serious — I’m guessing he’s quite new to the job and keen to impress.
His colleague remains standing near the door as he closes it behind him. He’s a little older and looks slightly more cynical than the first guy. Like me, he needs a shave, bordering on the scruffy side of fashionable with his beard. He doesn’t have a suit jacket on, and he's rolled his shirtsleeves up. He leans against the wall with his arms folded, staring at me.
A doomed-to-fail attempt at intimidation.
I’ve always found it amusing when people underestimate me, assuming I’m just like everyone else.
I look at the young and enthusiastic man in front of me, who’s trying his best not to look terrified as he briefly reads the file he brought in with him. After a few moments he closes it, looking at his watch and then at me.
“Interview started at fourteen thirty-nine hours. Special Agents Wallis and Johnson present. For the record, Adrian… Hell, can you confirm that you've been informed of your legal rights and that you understood them?”
I nod once, but say nothing.
Silence is nearly always the best strategy when you’re under arrest. Pick any one of the million metaphors that exist to prove it. If you say nothing, it puts you in control. The authorities can’t do anything if you don’t talk, and more often than not, they’ll crack before you do. Let them form their own opinions. Speak only when necessary.
I know what you’re thinking — I’m going to find this really hard. And you’re right. I’m resisting the urge to have some fun with Bert and Ernie over here. But I have to play this smart. I still don’t know why I’m here, which means as things stand, they know more than I do.
“For the benefit of the audio recording, Adrian Hell nodded,” he says. He looks over his shoulder at his colleague, who nods back at him. He turns to me again.
“So let’s begin. Adrian, my name is Special Agent Tom Wallis. I’d like to start by establishing why you’re in the city of San Francisco.”
I look at him, then at his colleague, who must be Special Agent Johnson. I clench my jaw as I run through everything in my head. I obviously have a cover story in place — it would be downright amateurish of me not to have everything planned and every angle covered before I carry out a hit. But I need to be sure of every detail before I speak, for my own piece of mind. Something’s not right. Must be something here I’ve missed, because they arrested me the moment I stepped outside City Hall…
I’m still confident they don’t have any real evidence against me. I’ve spent too many years learning how to be too good to leave any. But that doesn’t explain how they knew where to find me or what they want.
“Staying silent isn’t as beneficial as you might think, Adrian,” says Wallis after a few moments. “Tell us why you’re in San Francisco.”
I stay quiet a moment longer before answering.
“I’m here on business,” I say.
“What kind of business?”
“My own.”
“What were you doing at City Hall?” asks Johnson, as he walks over and rests his hands on the table next to his colleague.
“Sight-seeing.”
“There are better things to see around here than City Hall,” says Wallis.
“Just wanted to see everything that this place had to offer, that’s all,” I reply with a shrug, looking at each one of them in turn. “Why do you care anyway?”
“We care about the safety of the people who live here,” says Johnson, with a hint of disdain.
“How very noble of you. You want a medal or something?”
“Are you not curious how we know who you are?”
“You don’t know who I am.”
“We know exactly who you are,” says Wallis, tapping his left index finger on the file that he brought in with him. “Let me show you.”
I shrug again. They don’t know a goddamn thing, but I’ll let them have their fun.
Agent Wallis opens the file and starts reading: