Morris tries to watch the woman on the chair without looking like he's watching. He guesses that Stephen, who is standing on the other side of the door, is doing the same thing. This room used to be an office or something, but since The Boss settled into the place it's been converted into an interrogation room. Morris himself stripped off the cheap carpet that used to cover the floor. He also took out most of the furniture. Someone else painted the walls – and the window – dark gray. The original fluorescent light fixtures were taken out and replaced with a single, harsh light that now hangs down from the center of the ceiling, directly over the wooden frame chair where the woman is now sitting. The chair itself is bolted to the floor. Racks and shelves on the walls hold dozens of devices and chemicals designed specifically to hurt people and/or screw up their heads until they talk.
The Boss can take anywhere from ten minutes to several hours to get the information he wants. Morris knows this because he has stood guard through countless interrogations – he and Stephen are often picked for this job because they don't talk about, or get shaken up by, the stuff that goes on in here. He has learned that the length of the interrogation does not depend solely upon the willpower of the subject. It depends upon a number of other things as well, such as the amount and complexity of the information The Boss wants to extract and, as in this case, whether or not he can afford to cause serious, permanent or fatal injury to his subject.
Clearly, The Boss does not wish to hurt this woman any more than he has to. It's not because he's moved by her small size, her young age or her virtue (most of the people he works on have, at best, extremely flexible morals), but because The Boss needs more than just information from her. He needs her cooperation in order to get what he and his higher-ups want from her company. She can't exactly help them – willingly or not – if she's not whole and relatively unharmed. So The Boss is only using an electric shock collar and vague threats. No drugs. No fists. Nothing that will leave a visible mark on her.
Even in the interrogation room The Boss dresses sharp, in a subdued gray pinstripe suit of hand-tailored silk. It matches his hair, which used to be all black but is now about halfway to white. His skin is rugged, brown and lined, but still somehow tight over his angular nose, chin and cheekbones. "I'm starting to lose my patience with you," he says to the woman. But he doesn't sound frustrated. His voice is middling deep, always quiet and sort of hoarse, like he's recovering from bronchitis. The effect is somehow intimidating, at least to most people – including Morris and The Boss' other employees.
Not to this woman, though. "I lost my patience a long time ago," she says, sounding slightly aggravated. "Don't you people know when to quit?"
"Yes - when we get what we want," The Boss answers. "And you won't be leaving until we do, no matter how many smart remarks you make."
She sighs and crosses her legs. "So what are you going to do?" she drawls, eyes moving slowly around the room. "Torture me? Shoot me up with truth serum?"
"I'd prefer not to do that," The Boss says, in a way that suggests he will in fact be doing those things in the near future. He starts walking back and forth in front of her chair, looking up at the ceiling, his shoes tapping against the concrete floor. "No, I'm not going to do any of that. Not to you."
The woman stiffens and her eyes widen a little. She quickly gets it under control, but Morris knows what she's thinking. They caught the woman's driver, too, and so far the boss has given the impression that she was killed as soon as the car arrived. But he's been keeping her to use as a lever.
"Mister Alberth," The Boss says. He's still looking at the woman on the chair. "Bring the girl."
"Yessir," Morris says smartly. He adjusts the strap of his rifle on his shoulder as he turns to open the door. Once he's outside he carefully shuts it behind him and heads for the makeshift holding cell. On the way he passes a few other guards – they're all dressed the way he is, in charcoal-and-black paramilitary fatigues with no markings. They all look like corporate security guards, except that they're all carrying assault rifles and several other devices, including explosives, that no mere security guard would ever carry.
Morris takes two wrong turns on his way to the holding cell. He can't get the hang of the corridors in this place. It's an old industrial complex – built around the turn of the century, it contains administration buildings, manufacturing, storage and shipping facilities all in the same large compound. They hadn't yet started combining all those things and more into single skyscrapers by the time this place was built. It's an abandoned wreck among similar abandoned wrecks, which is why the higher-ups decided it would be a good hideout. A fixer-upper hideout, Morris thinks.
He finally finds the storage closet where he put the girl earlier. She's probably awake now, and scared half to death. If she doesn't cooperate she'll at least be unable to put up any resistance. He takes the keyring off his belt with one hand while he swings the assault rifle around behind his back with the other. He wants to have his hands free. It takes a bit of fumbling to get the right key for the lock. Stupid old-fashioned tumbler locks, he grumbles.
Finally he finds the right key, turns the knob and pushes the door inward. He turns his eyes toward the cot but can't see it. The room's dark, even though he's pretty sure he left the lights on. Maybe he shut them off after all. He can't hear anything, either, so he assumes the girl is still out from the gas. At this point a little cold water should wake her up. Morris steps into the room and starts patting the wall for the light switch. When he finds it he flips it on.
He's startled to see that the girl is standing right in front of him. And she looks very angry.
Morris is about halfway through the process of stepping backward when the girl's hand swings around and hits him in the right temple, causing pain and sparks to explode from that side of his skull. While he's reeling and off-balance from that she grabs him by the front of his uniform and pulls him into the room with surprising strength, shuts the door with the other hand and slams him sideways against the wall, seemingly all at once. Another bolt of pain flashes through his head. As he goes down he feels a tug on his belt – by the time he realizes that she's taken his handcuffs she's already locking his wrists together with him.
By now he's belly-down on the floor. She puts on knee in the small of his back and an arm around his neck, tight enough to cut off his air supply. "Sorry," she whispers in his ear, "but I think I'll let myself out."
Morris realizes all too late that he made a grave mistake. It's the last thought to enter his consciousness before he loses it entirely.