The Second Confrontation

11:37 P.M. CIA Division Headquarters, Central North East

The computer screen in front of me finally went black. After fifteen hours of sitting at this desk, my eyes were bloodshot and my brain felt a little like jell-o. I stood and I'm pretty sure that every bone cracked. The sound echoed off of the walls of my office. I struggled to put on my blazer. I was exhausted.

I grabbed my briefcase and finally left the office. I dragged myself down the hallway into Central Command. The night team, which began their shift at 6 pm, was working diligently at their computer stations.

Head Tech dude Bryan looked up from his system, "Jack, you're still here? Do you know what time it is?"

I nodded, "Yes, I know what time it is, thank you."

"Jack, you know," he started again. He ran through this speech at least once a week, if not more. "What happened wasn't your fault. Bosse (our divisional agent) knows it wasn't your fault. He's just following protocol. Give it a couple more months, everything will blow over. C'mon, Villerosi, you're the best we have. Who else would spend four months working 24/7 on a low level drug case being run out of a trailer park?" Bryan said with a smile.

I looked at him. You know if I were remotely attracted to Bryan, I would have kissed him then. I had heard this speech at least twenty times since I had returned from my two month leave of absence. "Thank you, Bryan. I'll see you in about six hours, okay?" I said. He just inclined his head.

The elevator dinked up three floors. Oh yes, I went from the leader of a global intelligence team to an agent with minimal clearances and a basement office. My replacement on the Kirill case, Alexander Pantos, was graciously keeping me informed for my own safety reasons as he put it. It was more like, I am the only living agent to have survived an encounter with the man therefore I was an extremely reliable resource.

The elevators doors opened; I trudged out. The garage was empty except for the fifteen or so cars that belonged to the night shift. My car was parked on the other side of Bryan's in the left side. I reached my car and reached into my pocket. My keys were stuck, probably on a string. I laid my briefcase on the roof. I leaned down to peer into the pocket. I fought with the keys from several seconds. Finally, they slid out.

I sighed. All I wanted was to get home and go to sleep. Nothing was easy anymore, not even opening a car door. I slid they key into the lock. I heard the click as it opened. Then, there was a quick sensation of pain across middle as I was thrown from behind into the door.

I was pinned against the door. I struggled at first, trying to knee my male attacker. No luck, this guy was just too big. My face was crushed against the glass, "Did you miss me Baby?"

"I sure as hell did not. Let go of me," I said.

Drake threw me off of the car and onto the floor, "I sure have missed you." I froze as I saw him. He was no longer the ugly gorilla, now he was a mutilated gorilla. His left shoulder hung grotesquely low. There was a scar that ran up from beneath his shirt up, over his face and into his hairline. His left eye was unfocused as well. "Yes," he started as I begin to move backward slowly on the ground, "This is what he had done to me. Just imagine what he'll do to you when he gets his hands on you." He laughed gaily, then abruptly stopped, "But, Baby, I've tracked you for three months to this city. I've been watching you in your house on June Street. I am going to do you a huge favor..."

I cut him off as I got back up to my feet, "And what's that?"

He smiled, "I'm not going to let him get you. He will not disturb a hair on your head." I was tempted to ask why. He must've sensed my question, "Relax, Baby, Kirill isn't gonna get 'cha cuz I already got you and you ain't gonna be alive much longer."

And there was my answer. It was pointless to run. He could most likely out-run me. He was also probably packing and could easily shoot me in the back. Although on the other hand, getting shot in the back would probably save me some hours of relentless torture. I had a lot of options to weigh, it seemed.

"You're not going to run, Baby? Wow, I'm tempted to fuck your brains out before I blow them out now. All that pent-up tension that's following through your veins right now..." he had a sick grin on his face.

"You make me ill. I'd sooner turn a gun on myself than let you touch any part of me," Ok, so, this wasn't a good thing to do. After all, he was a lot bigger and stronger than me. And he showed it, when he whacked me across the cheek with the barrel of a .45.

Before I could pull myself up, he had done it for me. He dragged me across the garage and threw me into the door of a (what else?) Mercedes, "Get in."

I opened the door and slid into the leather seat. He climbed into the passenger seat and cuffed me to the steering wheel. He punched the keys into the ignition, "Drive to your house, Baby."

I could feel a trickle of blood running down my chin. Still, sometimes, I do not know when to quit, I suppose it's one of my faults. I turned to him, "Can't we take my car? It will save me a cab ride to work tomorrow."

He chuckled, shook his head and brought the gun down hard into my thigh. I slumped forward as pain shot through body. I swallowed with much difficulty. I opened my eyes and stared straight ahead. He lightly patted my throbbing leg, "That's a good Baby." He started the car, "Now drive."