This is a test starter which could probably help you readers generate feedback, especially on the first-person style of writing. Another test post for Painkiller would probably be online tomorrow, so do hope to hear from you guys. Thanks.
*****
“Sam? Can you hear me?”
The words echoed through my ears, and I thought I was walking in a dark cave because I could not see anything. I felt my arms resting on a hard surface and I knew I was not moving at all. Where was I?
Bright light shot through my eyes through a small crevice, causing some hurt and sending blackness back into my sight. But almost immediately the small hole expanded and the light began to condense into more familiar shapes. My vision was still blur but I could make out a man in a suit facing me, probably five feet away.
“Sam, I am Agent Blake. You were drugged just now. Can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” I grunted. “Where am I?”
“You are in the custody of the FBI. We need to ask you some questions.”
My vision finally came back. I looked around me – cold grey walls with no decoration whatsoever, not even a painting. A bit reminiscent of my cell wall when I was still serving time for false robbery but without the cracks and calendar marks. I was seated on a wooden chair which was quite uncomfortable for my back and the man in the suit was sitting on the opposite end of a white tabletop. He had some files and papers laid before him while I had a glass of water near my left hand. It was half-full.
We were the only people in the room, and the other man looked to be my age. Probably a bit younger, but sure looked like a government agent. They always had that “i-have-a-suit-and-badge-don’t-mess-with-me” type of look which makes me lose my appetite. I had seen enough of these snobs back in the CIA and was grateful to have been transferred to the NSA where the environment was so much friendlier, though you had to learn to put up with a few computer nerds who could work their fingers away at the keyboard non-stop as though it were some exercise machine, and they would never leave their seat except to go to the washroom. Lunch was mainly coffee, ham-and-cheese and Chinese takeaway if they worked overtime, and food was always brought in by the clerks outside. You never see any of these guys go, “Hey I’ve got pepperoni pizza. Want some?”. Never.
I suddenly remembered what Mr Agent Blake said. “What about?”
“Your ex-supervisor Colonel Irving Lambert was found dead one week ago with a bullet to the head and two shots in the chest. A gun was found at the crime scene and had your prints on it.”
Lambert? The guy whom I had known since I was in the Navy and who was the one who took me out of the CIA. Lambert, the man who sent me on those top-secret missions only his team and a few top officials in Washington ever knew. Lambert, the boss who never failed to make his voice heard in my ears when I was miles away, and gave me orders to follow even though I was two years older than him.
He is dead? It could not be possible. And I definitely did not kill my friend.
“Are you implying that I killed him?” I raised my voice, knowing all too well the reason for being under FBI custody.
“What we have here is based on evidence we gathered…”
“Screw that!” I cut him off before he could continue his sentence. I could not take any more of this nonsense. I could not believe that I got myself into this incogitable situation, and I had to get out of any impending trouble. “I had not seen Lambert since I was discharged and I have no reason to kill him! That gun is not mine!”
Agent Blake showed me a black and white photograph. “This gun is the murder weapon. An agency-issued FiveSeven pistol..” he looked down at his file to recollect the details, “with an OCP-attachment. The gun’s registration matched that of your records, and the bullets came from the pistol’s magazine.”
They stole my gun. They stole my gun and killed Lambert. Now they are framing me! This scene is all too familiar, like as if I was inside a scene of some typical 90’s movie. I could not think of anything else other than to reiterate myself, “I did not kill Lambert.”
Agent Blake looked highly unconvinced. From the start when he told me about Lambert’s murder he already had that disturbing look that I was the culprit, and I detested it.
“Perhaps you could tell us about your operation with John Brown’s Army?” he rubbed his chin with his right thumb and index finger while spinning a pen with his left hand.
“I will not speak without my lawyer present.” I decided to give a smart Alec though I knew I would most probably would not get my rights due to my criminal past.
It was not my fault.
Now it was Blake’s turn to make his presence felt. He leaned forward and whispered, “Mr Fisher, may I remind you that this is an interrogation conducted by the government and you absolutely will not have access to a normal suspect’s rights. Do you understand?”
I nodded my head. Fucker.
“So tell me about your connections with the John Brown’s Army.”
“You have the papers right in front of you. What else do you want to know?”
Agent Blake slammed both hands on the table, obviously not amused by my response. Those palms must have stung a bit. “Answer the damn question!” he raised his voice so loud that the guard, or agent, outside the door looked into the room through the small window.
“Alright. I was a NOC agent working undercover in the JBA. I prevented the nuclear bomb detonation and killed off the JBA members. Job done. And now I’m being held up here in a god-knows-where room.”
“It says here you worked with the JBA for three months prior to the Nashville incident. Why the long period of time?”
“Lambert needed more evidence. We didn’t know what Emile was up to until he got the Red Mercury in August.”
Agent Blake flipped to the next page. “How did Lambert get caught in the operation?”
“Lambert was posing as a weapons supplier in order to build up a case on the JBA. Somehow his identity was leaked and the JBA got him. But I planted false cover so that they wouldn’t kill him.”
“But you killed him after the JBA was dismantled?”
The reflex answering was interrupted by Blake’s bizarre question, and it prompted me to punch the table and growl “I did not kill Lambert!”
“After your daughter’s death, you lost your mind and got discharged from the NSA. You robbed five banks in order to gain recognition from Jamie Washington to join the JBA. You wanted revenge.” Blake stood up and shouted back, speaking as though he had rehearsed the words.
“Fucker!” I threw the glass of water at him, but he ducked and it hit the window instead. The guard outside looked in again.
“You wanted the JBA’s money. You set up a deceiving plan to eliminate all of the members, then killed off Lambert yourself to cover the truth, you sneaking son-of-a-bitch.”
I had had enough of the agent’s lies and kicked the table at him. My fists were all clenched, ready to beat up the man who had falsely accused me of my alleged crime. The commotion finally got the guard to burst into the room and aim his MP-7 sub-machine gun at me. Agent Blake recovered from his fall and drew his pistol. I held out my hands high, facing two barrels down my face.
“Sam Fisher, you are under arrest for conspiracy, treason and murder.” Blake snarled before knocking me to the cold hard ground.
