“Adrian Hell — born Adrian Hughes, February 14th, 1972 in Omaha, Nebraska. Joined the Army in 1990 and was part of Desert Shield. Your military record is a little hazy from ‘93 to ‘02, but you’re rumored to have worked in some capacity with the CIA. No details on record of any operations you may or may not have carried out during that time.
“In 2002, after being given an honorable discharge from active military service, you moved to Pennsylvania to marry your partner of five years, Janine, with your three-year old daughter, Maria, in tow.”
Huh… I’m actually surprised they have so much on me. They’re clearly well prepared. But they’ve made the mistake of showing me their hand straight away.
“Why stop there?” I ask. “You were on such a roll… Please, continue.”
Agent Wallis says nothing. I look at him, then at Agent Johnson. They exchange frustrated glances but remain silent.
“What?” I ask.
More silence.
“You can’t continue, can you?” I say, smiling. “That’s all you have. You’ve got nothing on me since 2002, and everything you do have is on the military’s databases anyway, and therefore easily accessible if you know who to ask. Am I right?”
Wallis looks down at the table in defeat, closing the file as he realizes his bluff has backfired.
“You have absolutely nothing to justify holding me here,” I continue. “Which brings us back to square one, gentlemen… What do you want with me?”
“We want to know why you’re in the city,” says Johnson after a minute of silence.
“And I’ve already told you, so what else do you want to know?”
Johnson leans forward, his expression changing from attempted intimidation to genuine anger. “Well, this morning, a man died in City Hall of a suspected heart attack. Roughly around the time you were in the building.”
“That’s a tragic coincidence,” I say, solemnly.
“Our Forensics team is running blood tests at the moment. I wonder what they’ll find…”
“How should I know? Maybe that he needed to cut out fatty foods or something?”
“Look, asshole, we might not have anything in a file, but we know who you are and what you do, alright? Everybody does. The FBI, the CIA, the NSA, Homeland Security — everybody. I don’t care if we can’t prove it. We all know it. You’re a goddamn psychopath and you should get the chair!”
Wallis stands up and pushes Johnson away from the table. I wink at him, to wind him up further. You know me — I’m not one to pass up an opportunity to piss someone off for my own amusement.
But what he said concerns me… I doubt everyone knows who I am and what I do, but given I’m sitting in an FBI Field Office; there’s possibly some truth to it. I think back to my dealings with the Secretary of Defense last year in Nevada. I wonder if word has gotten round?
I dismiss it for now.
After a moment or two of whispering, seemingly happy he’s defused the situation, Wallis returns to the table. He clasps his hands in front of him and leans forward, coming across as a lot more experienced and comfortable than he probably is. I’m impressed. He looks briefly at the two-way mirror and sighs before speaking.
“Adrian, like it or not, my colleague is right,” he says, somewhat reluctantly. “You are on several Agencies’ watch lists after your involvement in the Nevada incident last year.”
Shit. I knew it.
“It’s kind of an unspoken agreement that we all know what you do, but keep it to ourselves because we all know we can’t prove it. You want the truth? You’re so good at what you do, it scares us. But that’s not why you’re here. You’re here because we at the FBI need your help.”
I wasn’t expecting so much honesty, and it confuses me. What could they want my help with? Before I can say anything, there’s a knock at the door. Another agent enters, followed by a man in a suit with shoulder-length blonde hair and a briefcase.
“Sorry to interrupt, but this gentleman says he’s Adrian’s lawyer, and he’s demanded access to his client before any further questioning takes place,” says the agent.
“Jesus Christ,” mutters Johnson as he steps out of the room, shaking his head. The other agent follows.
Wallis stands and turns to my lawyer. “I’m Special Agent Wallis,” he says. “Adrian has been formally arrested for assaulting an FBI agent.”
My lawyer looks at me with raised eyebrows. I shrug in response.
“But to be honest,” he continues, “while that explains why he’s handcuffed, that’s not why we originally wanted to bring him in. I was just about to explain that we need his help. Consequently, I don’t think legal counsel is necessary at this time.”
“That’s a valid opinion,” says my lawyer, “and we can discuss that in more detail once I’ve spoken with my client in confidence.”
“I can assure you there is no need to—”
“Did you or did you not place my client under arrest?” my lawyer says, interrupting him.
“Well, yes,” he replies.
“And I assume you followed procedure and read my client his rights?”
“We did.”
“In doing so, you advised my client of his right to legal representation, and on his behalf I am exercising that right immediately. Please clear the room and turn off any recording equipment so I can talk with Mr. Hell confidentially.”
Wallis sighs, realizing there’s no point in arguing. He leaves the room and a moment later, the little red light on the CCTV camera goes out, signaling it’s no longer recording.
My lawyer sits opposite me and places his briefcase on the table. I regard him for a moment. He looks younger than me, but I know for a fact he’s a few years older. I’ve not seen him in a few months, and under the circumstances, I’m very glad he's shown up. I smile at him.
“Hey, Josh.”
4
“Why in God’s name did you assault an FBI agent?” asks Josh, sitting down opposite me. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
“It's good to see you too,” I say, smiling. “How did you get here so fast?”
“I was in the area,” he replies, dismissively. “What happened, Adrian?”
“I was walking out of City Hall on the phone to you when they swarmed at me from out of nowhere. They knew exactly who I was and where I’d be, I'm sure of that much.”
“And again, what possessed you to beat up an FBI agent?”
I look down and sigh, feeling like a guilty child being given the ‘we’re not angry, just disappointed’ speech by their parents.
“I hit the agent trying to bring me in for questioning because he said for me to come along quietly, or else.”
“He used those exact words?”
“Yup.”
Josh is quiet for a moment. “Fair enough,” he says with a dismissive shrug. “All things being considered, the guy’s lucky you didn’t kill him…”
We both fall silent for a moment, before bursting out laughing.
“It’s good to see you, Boss,” he says.
“Likewise,” I say. “How did you know to come here?”
“You know I don’t like giving away trade secrets, Boss. Don’t ask me that.”
“Josh…”
I stare at him until he can't hold my gaze any longer. He looks down at the table, lost in some inner turmoil, like a magician asked to reveal how he does a particular trick.
“Just because I’m handcuffed, it doesn’t mean I won’t kick your ass,” I continue.
“Alright, fine,” he says with a reluctant sigh. “Typically, I'm never more than a couple of hours away from you when you’re on a job. I have a little Winnebago which I’ve kitted out as my own little mobile command center. Ever since Philly, I’ve tried to stay close when you’re working… y'know, just in case you need any back up or anything.”