I sit back down on the cold, hard bunk. The man looks up at me. I stare back down at him. I am cold, and unrelenting. It is clear that I am now in control and I know it and the Columbian knows it. He stands up, walks over to me.

"That was a dumb-ass mistake, cop, and you better hope you'll live to regret it."

I am not sure what exactly he means by this, but the tone and feeling are evident. He is not pleased. I stand up, getting off the bed. My joints have healed in the past few days, and moving does not hurt as much as it once did. Still, though, I am forced to suppress a grimace of pain. I inch closer to the man. I am a small bit taller than he is, and I use this to my advantage. His eyes are staring directly towards me, but he avoids any eye contact. So do I. He, like me, has detached himself.

"What's your name?" I ask him. I pretend that he is a suspect, that I am once again agent Tony Almeida of the Counter Terrorist Unit. It helps some. When I was taken away, in handcuffs, put on trial, locked in jail, I lost something. I lost my edge, as an interrogator, as an agent, and as a human being. In fighting back, I redeemed myself. I regained my edge.

"Manuel." he spits, saliva splattering against the concrete floor.

"Listen, Manny," I sneer, "If I were in your position right now, I would not be so cocky. Do you know who you're dealing with? Huh? Do you know why I'm here?"

"No," he replies.

"I didn't think so. My wife- and the woman you just threatened- was kidnapped. I risked thousands upon thousands of lives to help a known terrorist in return for her safe return. Thousands of lives. Somehow yours seems, well, rather unimportant. Care to tell me again, how I've made a mistake?" I try to make myself taller, more imposing. I am so close I can feel his breath against my neck. He backs away.

"I don't believe you." he offers lamely.

"Fine. Don't. But if you want to wake up tomorrow morning, I suggest you do."

With that, I sit back down on the bed, completely ignoring the Columbian- Manuel- and I say nothing. I pick up my book, turn to the page I folded, and continue reading. The words have long since lost any meaning. I know Michelle's intentions were to help me, in giving me this book, but I don't grasp any life lessons from it, any philosophies to get me through this. I barely remember the plot. It is too 'less real' than what is all around me. It is nothing more than a momentary distraction.

I hear a guard shout to Manuel, telling him that a visitor is here for him. I continue reading. The guard comes over, cuffs Manuel, leads him away. Everything is perfectly organized, unflawed, rehearsed. It has been done many times before. In my lifetime alone I will probably do it more times than I can count. This is what my life is reduced to. The most joy I get is from confronting thugs, and waiting for a visit.

I want to get out. I want to scream. I need to be free.


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