Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Two: Interrogation Duty
Y'know, to me the best part about this is the fact that I'm sending everyone to a place where I can actually speak most of the language. Lynné is pleased about this as well. She was getting tired of having to hear nothing but Spanish for the past three years. Apparently, the only Spanish teaching she ever had was from watching many episodes of Dora the Explorer for reference before she left for Mexico. O.o In any case, now she is going to be in a country where she actually understands what everyone is saying (even though she pretends she doesn't 9.9). This makes her happy, and, trust me, that is a very good thing. 9.9;;;
Everything was blurred around the edges as Sands slowly opened his eyes. Where the hell was he . . . and why was his head throbbing so mu – oh. That's right. He had been drugged. Needle to the neck and out he went. Sands started to raise a hand, wanting to rub his eyes and clear his smeared vision, but found that he couldn't. His limbs and torso were being held immobile by straps, like the kind that had held down the monster as Dr. Frankenstein attempted reanimation of life. That seemed to be the exact opposite of what his captors were thinking. It had to be.
The badly mangled, bandaged face of Armando Barillo sneered, looking like it had just had a nasty fight with a food processor and lost. The disfigured drug lord loomed over him menacingly and beside him stood his dear friend, the good doctor Guevera. Sands chose not to look at the doctor, knowing he would only terrify himself further if he saw what Guevera was holding. Instead, he forced all of his attention on Barillo.
'Fortunately for you,' the drug lord sneered, 'you have not done anything worth dying over.'
Sands blinked in confused. What . . . ?
'You have only . . . seen . . . too much.'
The beautiful face of the woman he had once trusted, once loved leered down at him from afar. No. Hell no. This wasn't right. She was not going to be the last thing he ever saw; she couldn't be. He had trusted her and she had turned against him, sold him out, drugged him, and been part of the plan to bring him down. He would be damned if Ajedrez was the last thing he saw.
Sands twisted and writhed where he lay, trying anything to free himself of the straps that bound him. His attempts were useless. His bindings were strong and would not give. Still, it didn't hurt to try. Twisting where he lay, Sands tried desperately to free himself even though he knew he made his actions in vain.
And then he heard it: The whirring, grinding noise that made him think of a dentist drill. In spite of his own orders not to look, Sands jerked his head around and saw what nearly made him yell in horror. A motorized drill – no . . . corkscrew . . . ? Yes, that's exactly what it was. Seemed that Dr. Guevera liked to tinker with tools every now and then and had whipped this little gadget up especially for the occasion. How sweet.
The electric spinning horror came ever closer and Sand continued to struggle, his eyes wide with fear. Suddenly, he was plunged into a world of suffering and torment from which there was no end. Everything had gone red, a deep terrible red the color of blood. HIS blood. It streamed down his face in rivers of dark crimson liquid and he screamed. The pain was too intense . . . it had finally gotten to him, and he had screamed.
Sands sunk his teeth into his lip in an attempt to silence himself, managing to dull his own yells down to a agonized whimper. He gasped, closing his remaining eye in relief as he heard the sound of the drill being pulled back.
Was it over . . . ? No.
Through the flood of pain and darkness that had surrounded him, he could hear Ajedrez's high, cold laughter filled with malice at the sight of another human being lacerated, mangled, and torn.
Before he could recover from the first bout of torture, Sands found himself being thrown into agony once again, and this time it was ten times worse. At first blackness had only covered his right eye, but now, it was all he saw – all he didn't see.
Sands lay on the table, panting for breath and barley aware that he was no longer being held down by restraints. He made no attempt to move, thinking that they were just figuring out what other means of torment they could use against him. But the next thing he knew, his arm had been seized and he was being pulled roughly into a sitting position. His shoulders shook but other than that Sands did not move.
'Get up.' He heard Ajedrez's voice commanding him but he didn't respond.
'We're through with you,' she told him heartlessly. 'Go.'
His breathing shallow, Sands carefully felt his way around the table, fumbling for its edge. A pair of hands grabbed his quivering shoulders and shoved him in the direction of the door.
'Oh,' he heard Ajedrez say in mock surprise. 'Here, you'll be needing these.'
He felt something being shoved onto the bridge of his nose – his sunglasses, he realized – and heard Ajedrez's cold laugh once again.
Sands shivered as he tried to fight against the darkness that had overthrown him. But it was impossible. The world of black he had now entered was timeless, endless, and he would never escape.
"Are you all right? Hey, c'mon, wake up . . ."
A silky voice and a consoling hand on his arm brought Sands out of his nightmare with a start. Blinking rapidly, he looked around him in search of any signs of danger. His eyes landed on the woman in the seat next to him. Long, thick, auburn hair spilled over her shoulders, falling onto the dark purple shirt she wore. Her vibrant green eyes were wide with concern and Sands noticed that her semi-long nose that curved upward daintily was twitching slightly. The delicate hand of Zebbidy Samhain, the young woman he was supposed to be protecting, was placed across his arm.
"Are you all right?" she repeated, still looking worried. "You were shaking."
"Fine," he assured her, peeling her hand off of him, thoroughly annoyed with himself for freaking out over something that had happened months ago. "Just fine."
"Are you sure – "
"Yes."
She wisely backed off. Good. Now maybe he'd get some peace.
In your dreams – well, no. You've never been one to have pleasant dreams, have you, Sheldon?
Not when they're plagued by drills, betraying girlfriends, and memories past, no.
"Sands?"
He looked up. In the row of seats in front of his, Lynné had twisted around and was looking at him with mild anxiety, her dark brown eyes large.
"As I told Miss Samhain –"
"SOW-when," both his sister and the woman who bore such a confusing name corrected.
"— I'm just peachy. Now leave me alone and fuck off. Maybe then I'll be able to fall asleep on this plane."
"Yeah, you do that," Lyn muttered, turning back around.
She glanced in the seat next her hers and shook her head at the sight of Agent Liam Fusco of the CIA completely paralyzed with fear as their airplane drifted peacefully, almost lazily through toward their destination.
Told him he shouldn't have watched that movie, she thought to herself.
Ah, you know men, the voice said wisely.
Yes, she agreed, I do.
"Attention passengers," a bored sounding voice announced over the loudspeakers of the airplane. "We will be arriving in Paris, France shortly so please fasten your seatbelts as the plane prepares to land."
Well, so much for getting a few more hours of sleep . . .
"Welcome to the city of lights, gang." Sands heard Lyn mutter from her seat in front of him.
Fighting off a wave of nausea as the plane descended to the ground, Sands bowed his head and closed his eyes. Planes always made him sick, though he did not know why. The good thing was they never pushed to the point of throwing up. Not saying that there hadn't been some close calls. The only way to dismiss the airsickness was sleep and even when he did accomplish that his nightmares always came flying back to wake him. Sands ground his hand into the armrest of his seat. His contacts were itching, a warning that he should take them out and replaced them with his glasses.
You won't, cocky jackass. This time the voice sounded suspiciously like his sister, but Sands ignored it.
He felt the plane sliding down to the earth below him. It had been a long and tedious journey that could have ended sooner in his opinion but didn't. Maybe there was somebody up there (or down there) trying to spite him. He wasn't sure. However, just in case there was, Sands decided to make a warning.
Fuck off, Ajedrez. Leave me in peace.
Oh, Christ, groaned the voice. Don't tell me you're that paranoid. You actually think that heaven and hell exist?
I never said I was an Atheist, Sands informed it pointedly. Agnostic R Us right here.
Oh for the love of God . . .
Contradictor.
Whiner.
Ass.
Wanker.
'Wanker?' Sands thoughts were full of amused disbelief.
Lynnie's used it before, the voice replied indignantly.
Listening to Lyn, are we?
No.
Me thinks thou doth protesteth too much.
Oh, to hell with you . . . whiner.
Dick.
Fuckmook.
Catchphrase-stealer.
"What sort of family forms connections with the mob when they're from Wisconsin?" Lyn asked Zebbidy Samhain skeptically as they reached their small group of expensive hotel rooms with the rest of the CIA agents she and Sands had deemed worthy enough to 'tag along.'
"Mine, I guess," the woman she was supposed to be protecting answered, shrugging her slim shoulders.
So unaware that she's being used, Lyn mused in a would-be sympathetic voice if she ever actually felt sympathy.
Mmm, her inner voice murmured, and I'm so aware that you're annoyed with that answer.
Yeah, I am. She can do better than that.
"But you were unaware that they had been involved with the Poisson Mafia family?" Lyn pressed, looking at the woman before her and taking in her new subject of study.
"I told you, yes," Zebbidy hissed, glaring in annoyance.
Okay, so she's uptight. I really shouldn't blame her cuz "she's been through a lot" but really, she doesn't have to be rude.
You do, the voice snorted.
Yes, but I'm allowed. CIA, remember? Those three initials give me access to a lotta things other people aren't entitled to.
"Anything you need to know is in there in my file," Miss Samhain said, irked. She nodded her reddish-brown head at the file in one of the agent's (Agent Lynch's) hands. Without another word, she whirled around to face the door of her room, fumbling to unearth the key she had hidden in her pocket.
"I suppose I'm just to . . . wait around here until you bring the Poissons down?" she asked, holding up her key in success.
"Oh, of course not, Miss Samhain," Sands said in a falsely cheerful voice. He was striding up to the two with Liam trailing after him lugging several bags. "While you're in France we want you to enjoy yourself, make the most of things."
Get yourself kidnapped by the very mob you think we're protecting you from, that sorta thing, he thought but didn't dare say for risk of compromising the mission.
"Just go out and see the sights, ma'am," Liam put in, smiling politely. "Try not to worry about the future."
"Yeah, try and heed your own advice for us, won't you, Fusco?" Sands inquired, pleased to see his fellow agent frown in annoyance.
Lyn quirked an eyebrow but said nothing.
Christ, let this place make good daiquiris. I really don't wanna have to go scouting around for a decent bar.
"Where were you born?"
"Maine, but my family moved to Wisconsin when I was about four."
"Have you ever been anywhere else?"
"No."
"Your parents names . . . ?"
"O – Odysseus and Helena," Zebbidy answered with some hesitation. Sands didn't blame her; those names weren't common, in fact, they were rather unbelievable. Sands felt that his charge was telling the truth, though. The tone of her voice assured him of that. Then again, he had once thought of Ajedrez's voice as reassuring as well and look at what that had resulted in.
Sands sighed, annoyed that he was the one who had been conned into doing this. Everyone else was busing themselves with their own agendas: Liam and three other agents were off bugging the hotel, two more agents were setting up the computer equipment in one of the rooms, and Lynné had made herself scarce by whisking off to get a strawberry daiquiri. And so, Sands had been stuck with interrogation duty. Not that they hadn't already gathered plenty of information on Miss Samhain before they had flown to France. However, according to, well, everyone at the company the person who had questioned her before hand was not what one would call a great inquisitor. Oh, he was a pro at meddling in other people's affairs, he just sucked at researching their clients and figuring out their personalities, what made them tick, and especially their weaknesses.
Luckily, that just so happened to be one of Sands' areas of expertise.
"And you have no immediate family?" he pressed.
"No," Zebbidy replied, short and to the point in every one of her answers. "They're all dead. Forgive me for sounding dramatic and cliché but . . . I have no one."
Join the club, sister.
"And you don't have any friends or acquaintances in, ah, Wisconsin?"
". . . . no."
"And you're thirty-one, right?"
Zebbidy cleared her throat.
"Yes," she responded, and Sands detected a note of uneasiness in her voice. The hell she was thirty-one.
"Tell me again," Sands began, flipping through the folder that contained all of the CIA's information on Zebbidy Samhain. "Because I can't seem to find anything in this" – he gestured to the file – ". . . have you ever been anywhere else? Besides Maine and Wisconsin?"
Silence, then –
"No. Not that I remember."
"Okay," Sands sighed, rubbing his eyes. "What about –"
"You don't where contacts, do you?" Zebbidy interrupted.
Sands shot her a questioning look. Women's intuition was something he could do without. Especially from this chick; he got enough of it from Lyn and his stepsister Grace whenever she was around without adding another girl to the mixture.
"Why?" he demanded sharply.
"Well, I was just going to suggest taking them out, that's all." She shrugged offhandedly. "They're obviously bothering you."
Sands threw an irksome glare her way, but continued with his questions.
"Just for curiosity's sake," he began slowly, "where do you get a name like 'Zebbidy Samhain?'"
Zebbidy stared and for the first time Sands could not determine if she looked insulted or simply thoughtful.
"Well," she sighed, "I'm not sure exactly. I know it's strange, and you've probably never heard of it before."
"Can't say that I have."
Surprisingly, she ignored Sands' rudeness, continuing as if the agent had said nothing.
"But while my mother was pregnant with me, she was rereading a book she had read when she was younger: The House with the Clock in it's Wall. And in the book there's a town called New Zebedee, not spelled the same as my name, of course, but said the same none the less. It was one of her favorites, so . . ." She shrugged nonchalantly. ". . . that's what she decided to call me."
Sands said nothing but acknowledged her little story with a single nod.
"When d'you think you'll be able to catch them?" Zebbidy asked suddenly, and Sands was surprised to hear that her voice was neither quiet nor concerned (the two things he detected the most when dealing with that question). Zebbidy Samhain's voice was merely curious, and maybe even a bit interested. Strange.
"Catch them?" Sands repeated with a hollow laugh. "You mean all of them? I hate to be the one to break it to you, Zeb" – he bit back a smirk when Miss Samhain glared at her new little nickname – "but it's unlikely that we'll be able to bring down all of them. What the CIA plans on doing is simply . . . dulling their operations down a bit and then . . . you should be able to go back to Wisconsin and your normal . . . everyday . . . life."
"So you won't be able to bring down all of them?" Zebbidy asked sternly.
"Not for a long time," he replied, truthful and unconcerned.
The woman sighed, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling and rose from her seat.
"Are you finished?"
Sands grinned wryly.
"Gonna do some sight seeing?"
Zebbidy rolled her eyes again and sighed theatrically.
"After I unpack . . . why not?"
She said nothing else but strode over to the door of Sands' hotel room, picking at the hem of her long green jacket as she walked. Then, just as she had laid her hand on the doorknob, she turned back to the CIA agent sitting on the bed.
"Oh, and take out your contacts, all right? In all honestly, I can't say I'd feel safer if I knew I had a blind CIA agent watching my back."
With that, she opened the door and was gone. From his position on the bed Sands glared, raising his arms in a movement that was crossed between a swinging punch and a gesture of strangulation.
I'm sure you'd feel differently if you knew about last years' Day of the Dead extravaganza, sugar-butt.
Geh, that wasn't very eventful, was it? Sorry, I just had a lot of trouble writing this chapter after I got done with the dream sequence. After that I, admittedly, felt like I was rambling. Zebbidy needed to be introduced, though, so I guess I did accomplish something. It gets better once we get into the plot, which will, hopefully, start within the next two chapters. Stay with me, guys, that's all I can say. I have something of a feeling it's going to get better. o.o'
Review Responses and Author's Thanks
Dawnie-7: D Somebody caught it! Okay, so both references were rather obvious, but there were a few in my first fic that I thought everyone would get and nobody said anything. O.o For instance, whenever Sands and Company gets back to the 'States for the first time, at the airport Grace is holding a sign up so they'll know it's her and the sign says 'Corso' on it. I dunno how popular The Ninth Gate was, though, so maybe that's why nobody got it. (looks at what she wrote) o.o! I'm rambling! Again!
TheDmntFerret: (hands over a cookie) :D!!!
vanillafluffy: Shortly after I saw OUaTiM for the first time I saw that shirt and automatically thought 'That's Sands' shirt. No question.' I meant to put it in my last fic but forgot, oy. But I'm glad you liked it and my stories. I loved yours, by the way, and am eagerly anticipating a sequel to Darkness Bound.
o