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Danny could only blink in reaction to the man's words. Had he it heard right?
The man disappeared from view for a few seconds and returned carrying his backpack. He pulled a silver coloured box from inside it. A green light was lit in one of its ends, next to a small antenna.
"These are the rules," he stated, adding the remote control to the rest of the objects on the table. "I am going to remove the gag from your mouth. If you scream for help, I press this little button," he said, pointing to a black circle on the center of the remote, "the bomb explodes and your friends die; if you try anything foolish, you better be fast about it, otherwise I press the button, and your friends die; you don't do as I tell you, when I tell, same consequences. Get it?"
Danny nodded slowly, his racing mind still trying to process everything that was going on. Who was this guy?
It was painfully obvious that he wasn't who he'd said to be. And even if he really was with the FBI, Danny highly doubted that the Bureau had any idea of what its agent's current activities were.
The scary thing was the calm and matter-of-fact way in which he spoke and acted. He wasn't nervous, he wasn't insecure about his actions; he wasn't even concerned about being caught. The man was cool and collected, even somewhat professional-like in his manners.
A jittery and nervous perp was a dangerous perp, but it was also the police's best leverage to catch them, because that was the state of mind where they made the biggest mistakes.
This guy seemed so much in control that Danny feared he might not get a chance to get the upper hand without taking some risks. Or maybe manage to bring him off balance.
The man, seeing the silent nod from his prisoner, rose from his chair and moved behind Danny.
"There," he said as the gag fell away. "Better now?" He asked in false concern. Folding the used cloth, the man placed it inside a plastic bag and stored it inside his backpack.
"You're one sick mother-fucker, aren't you?" Danny spit as soon as he felt his mouth free from the cloth.
The other man smirked. In two unhurried steps he was at the fridge.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" He said, taking out a bottle of cold water. "That way you'd have an explanation for my actions and then you'd be able to deal with me because, let's face it, you deal with mother-fuckers on daily basis."
Another two steps and he was standing next to his prisoner again.
"Me being a sick mother-fucker would bring you some security, wouldn't it?"
Danny gasped as the cold water from the bottle was dumped unceremoniously over his head and naked torso.
"What the hell was that for?" He snarled, trying to suppress a shiver.
The man didn't answer him. Moving through his prisoner's house like he's lived there for years, he stepped in to the living room and opened both windows. The sun would come up soon, but the air was still frosty from the night's cold.
From his chair, watching over the balcony serving both kitchen and living room, Danny saw the man's actions, wandering if he would have enough time to reach for the gun inside the kitchen's drawer. He looked at it, figuring his odds of succeeding and decided against it. It was his ace up the sleeve and he needed to play it just right.
Seconds later the man was back in to the kitchen, making a show of putting on his heavy coat. He picked the bottle of vodka and uncorked it, placing it nearer to Danny.
"The vodka is to be drunk," he ordered. "Between the cold and what you'll have to do, you'll thank me for that."
Next he picked up the knife, passing a finger through the blade, testing it' sharpness. When he spoke, his voice had taken a subtle change, like he was telling a bed time story.
"You're not a happy fellow, Daniel, and this past week's events have been the final straw that led you in to a nervous breakdown. You got home, mad at your boss, you got drunk and decided to kill yourself. Before you lost the ability to form coherent sentences, you typed a very heartfelt suicide note on your computer, saying good bye to your friends and family and giving a number of reasons why you couldn't bare to live any longer. You went in to your kitchen, opened a drawer and picked up a sharp knife, and you used it to cut your wrists open. Sad, isn't it?"
Danny looked at the goose bumps cursing through his arms. He wondered how much of that was due to the cold and how much was a reaction to the man's tone as he casually related his demise.
"Lovely story," he managed to reply sarcastically. "… And if I refuse to play your little charade?"
The man leaned over to look at the TV screen. The digital clock marked 45:15
"The timer reaches zero; your friends go bum!; you ruin my plans and my client's revenge and I kill you anyway," he said, raising one finger for each point he made. With the last one he stretched all five digits and used them to push to bottle closer to Danny.
"Tough, isn't it?"
Danny's eyes were looking at his friends' black and white picture, while he grabbed the bottle and took a gulp. "Very tough," he agreed.
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