Here's an extra long chapter to make up for not posting for so long! I hope it's ok.
Jason crept through the hallway with the police and security agents. He held his pistol securely, aimed directly ahead of him. But to his chagrin, there was a slight tremble in his hands.
Stop that, he told himself. You can't afford shakiness on a mission, especially with a gun!
But it wouldn't stop.
I'm not the man I used to be… I'll never be the same since…the interrogations. And Paraguay didn't exactly help. I don't want to be a liability! I've got to at least hold myself together here, and then… go back to doing more behind-the-scenes investigation, instead of on the front lines.
The ten black-clad men and women crept almost silently, surrounding him like a shield. It made him feel a little protected, but also a little guilty that he wasn't leading the charge.
Markov took point, like the leader he was. He was almost unrecognizable in his helmet and bulletproof vest, but the red insignia on his arm marked his eminent position.
He stopped in front of a door, raising his hand in a fist, signaling a stop. Then he raised three fingers. Three—two—one.
A synchronized kick from Markov and his lieutenant and the door burst open, the wood shattering near the lock.
The others poured in, and Jason followed suit, his gun raised as he leaped over the threshold.
Inside, there were paneled walls and an olive-green carpet with several dark stains on it. But no sign of anyone.
The agents and police spread out through the dingy apartment. In the kitchen, a teapot was still whistling on the stove. Markov turned the stove off and turned to look intently around the room as if gathering every detail.
"I've got him!" yelled a voice from close by and Jason followed Markov into the bathroom, where an agent was gripping the legs of a man who was halfway out the window.
Markov raised his gun. "Don't move. You're not going anywhere. Unless you want to jump to your death."
"I didn't do anything!"
"We'll be the judge of that. Get back in here."
Markov nodded at Jason, and Jason took that as a cue to help. He grabbed one of the man's legs and dragged him back into the bathroom, then they wrestled him out into the living room. Markov took him by the collar and then threw him onto the floor, facedown. He nodded at his agents to cuff the man, which they did in swift professional moves.
I didn't have much to worry about, Jason thought. Maybe a few more missions like this, and I can get back to normal.
Agents half-dragged, half-carried the man, still protesting his innocence, out the door, while Markov ignored him completely. He surveyed the room, rubbing his chin absently. Then he took off his helmet.
"Well…that went about as well as it could go. Besides his near-escape. There's something about all this, though… it's not quite right." He turned to Jason. "You sense that?"
Jason looked around the room, trying to absorb its ambience, but mostly just relieved at the ease of the capture. I was right—Connie didn't have anything to worry about.
Jason shrugged. "Not sure."
"True—you are a national security agent, not an investigator. We're trained to feel things that we can't see outright… In my experience, means there's a clue here. A significant one. We just have to find it."
He flipped over a couple couch cushions. Nothing but lint underneath. Jason followed his lead and looked around the room, careful not to disturb anything that could be significant. There wasn't much to see, just a few pieces of old furniture. Markov motioned to him to come over near the door, and Jason complied. Markov waved his gloved hand, indicating the room. "What do you see?"
"A rather dingy apartment."
"Yes…but what else?"
"Not much."
"Exactly. It's dirty—but that's from previous owners. This guy wasn't here long enough to give it any character. He was just biding his time. It was a temporary place. Not a home by any means. A place to lie low, perhaps. But we've got him. At least—the license plate of the van matched with him. We'll see what else we can find here—and what we can pry out of him."
"Any chance he could be innocent?"
Markov scoffed. "A chance. Could be a plant—throw us off the scent. But something tells me we caught the right man."
They thoroughly searched the apartment but didn't find much in the way of clues. Markov was right—there was hardly anything to indicate someone had lived there, other than the teapot on the stove, a few cans of food in the cupboard, and juice and condiments in the fridge, along with a half-full bottle of red wine.
"If we're going to find out anything," said Markov, "it'll have to be directly from him."
"You think he'll be forthcoming?" said Jason doubtfully.
"I'm sure he won't be. But that doesn't mean we won't get into his head—eventually."
"I'd like to be there for the interrogation. Maybe try my hand at it—if possible."
"Be my guest. I have a feeling it's going to be a few days before we get anything. If that. To get timely information, we'll have to break him using our most intensive methods. I'll have to be meticulous in my strategy…."
"What do you mean by 'break him'?"
Markov laughed as he slipped off his gloves and headed toward the door. "Don't worry, we don't condone torture. Aleem Center is just that—Clean. It's no longer Saldenz, the Slaughterhouse; we aren't about to morph into our former masters." He stepped over the threshold and disappeared down the hall.
Jason hoped Markov was telling the truth. Though this thug deserved the worst kind of torture, Jason knew what stooping to their level did to your soul.
Most of the investigation team stayed to dust for fingerprints and find traces of DNA. Jason jumped in the car to go back to the women's shelter.
The dog barked at him again from behind the fence on the way up the sidewalk. He met Connie at the door, along with Sonya. "Connie was a big help! I think the girls were calmed by her presence. Nika seemed happier than she has been since she got here!"
A blush spread over Connie's cheeks, and her eyes flickered downwards, as if she were ashamed of the compliment.
Jason smiled. "Connie has that effect on people. Wherever she goes, she brightens people's lives."
"I believe it." She gave Connie a hug. "You take care of yourself—the both of you. You're welcome back anytime."
"Thanks, Sonya," said Connie, smiling, but somehow subdued. "I'm glad I got to meet the girls and talk to them." A hint of tears hovered in her eyes. The visit must've affected her deeply. Not surprising, considering what the girls had gone through. Something tugged at Jason's heart—a burning ache at the center of his being. He couldn't quite acknowledge it, but he also couldn't ignore it, because it was bound up in anger at the injustice done to these girls. How could he look them in the eye and tell them he wasn't doing all he could to rescue the others still bound in a horrific fate?
"Thank you for letting me come talk to you. I know it wasn't easy for them."
"No—but I think they're glad they did it. They know it might lead to other girls being rescued."
"I hope so." I'm going to do all I can to find them, he thought, but he didn't say, because he didn't know if he could promise it. It could mean a sacrificial cost.
They said goodbye and Jason took Connie's hand as they walked to the car. "Are you okay?" Jason asked.
"I'm fine," Connie said, a little too quickly. She blinked back tears.
Jason didn't press the issue; he knew from experience that to ask her what was going on when she was on the verge of crying could make her cry, and maybe she needed some space to process this on her own.
"What…um…what happened?" Connie asked as they neared the car. She glanced at him, then away. Her voice quavered slightly.
He answered, providing as many details as possible to give her the opportunity to compose herself. They wove their way through Muldavia's streets to the center of town. As they neared Aleem Center, Jason asked, "Do you want to go interrogate the suspect with me, or do you want to go back to the palace?"
Connie chuckled softly. "I don't think I'd be very useful for an interrogation."
"You could just watch."
She tilted her head. "There won't be torture, will there?"
"Markov assured me that wouldn't be the case. He's professional; most professionals nowadays at least pay lip service to condemning torture…." He frowned. He wasn't exactly convincing himself. "He doesn't want to become what was worst about the old regime. I know for sure that Roderick wouldn't allow it, if he knew it was practiced…. In any case, I'm not about to torture anyone."
She pressed her hand lightly on his arm. "That I know. I guess…I'm not all that interested in interrogation. I'm kind of tired. I think I'd like to go back to the palace, take a nap or something."
"Sure. Whatever you want to do. I think I'll come back for a couple hours—might as well follow my best lead at the moment." He steered the car out onto the freeway, taking them back to the palace on the edge of town.
As they neared the grounds, Connie said, "Oh! I almost forgot. Nika…" A pained look crossed Connie's face, but she forged forward. "I asked Nika if it might be easier to write some details down, and she said she'd try it."
"Good thinking! I don't know why that didn't occur to me…"
"I just knew…there was no way she was going to be able to talk about it. Sometimes it helps me to write stuff down. Not that…I have anything to compare with her, but…." Her voice trailed off. She looked out the window, her face reflecting against the green hills.
Jason pulled up in the parking lot. He touched her arm gently. "Are you sure you're okay?" he said, disregarding his own advice. He couldn't help it—he couldn't stand to see her in anguish if he could help her somehow.
"Yeah." Her voice sounded thick; she didn't look at him. "I just…need to rest, okay?"
He sighed. "Okay. I'm here for you if—I can stay if you want."
"No—you need to do this. Help them. There's nothing I can do there anyway…."
"You can be moral support." He smiled. "But you're tired. Go ahead—have a good rest."
"Thanks, Jason." She kissed him on the cheek, then slid out the door, clutching the bag full of birth control pills. She slammed the door shut and stood there for a moment, looking at the palace, then at the grounds. Jason waited for her, the car idling, but she didn't look back. Instead, she headed down the garden path and disappeared among the roses.
A pang hit Jason's heart as he turned around in the driveway. He wished she'd confided in him. An irrational thought pricked him that she didn't trust him anymore, but he dismissed that out of hand. She just needed her own space. But he couldn't help but feel jealousy of the garden, which she'd chosen to confide in instead of him…
She'd tell him if it was important. In her own good time. He accepted it and prayed she'd find the peace she was seeking.
He reached the mouth of the road when a figure appeared, blurred in the driver's side mirror, running and waving.
"Jason!" came a muffled shout.
Jason slowed the car and rolled down the window. A slight cool mist filtered in—the harbinger of more rain.
James ran up beside him, gasping. "Please—can I come with you?"
"Did your parents say you could?"
"Yes. I'm going crazy just sitting around. If there's any way I can help find Luna…." His voice faltered. "Please."
"As long as your dad said yes. I'll text him to make sure."
Jason motioned to him and he ran around the other side and jumped into the passenger's seat. Droplets of mist beaded his hair. He wore a white shirt and blue jeans—hardly princely attire. At Jason's glance, he said, "I thought people might not recognize me if I wasn't in uniform."
"Maybe not. In any case, I'm just going to Aleem, so you'll be surrounded by security personnel."
"That was dad's only condition—that it be safe."
"That's good to know," said Jason. "In any case, most places I go will be safe—even for a prince. It's not in my mission protocol, you could say, to head directly into danger." His conscience stabbed him at this. He replied to it: But how can I risk leaving Connie alone? After all she's been through? It's not like I'm doing this for myself…. Am I? He wasn't entirely sure if he could answer that.
Jason pulled up to the parking lot at Aleem Center, its long low structure gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. James followed him to the lobby; the receptionist bowed to the prince and informed them that Markov was in the basement interrogating the suspect.
As the elevator descended, Jason's stomach lurched. It wasn't as if he hadn't been in the basement of Aleem before, and it wasn't as if his experience there had been particularly traumatic compared to the others. But he felt a sinking feeling all the same. Probably because of the reason they were headed into the basement. Interrogation. Didn't matter if he wasn't going to be on the receiving end. Just the thought of it. Part of him wanted to just take the elevator back up and forget about this. But he couldn't back out now—how could he explain it to James? Besides, he was in no real danger. And he wasn't about to lose control like he had with Gray. Still, he couldn't shake the dread as he stepped out of the elevator. Back during his first visit, he hadn't gotten badly hurt, but it hadn't been the best of experiences. To see Roderick beaten in front of him…chained to those very chains hanging on the wall….
A chill spread through him. Apprehension tugging at him, begging him to turn back, he stepped forward with morbid curiosity to look at the manacles, which appeared splotched with dried blood. On closer inspection, though, it was rust. Jason breathed a sigh of relief, until he saw the pockmarks scarring the wall. Deep gouges spread in a random pattern, all about the height of a head or a heart.
Bullet holes.
Jason touched one of them, rubbed the smooth inside of it. And met cold metal. A bullet. Buried in the wall. His hand jolted back as if shocked.
"What's wrong?" said James, creeping up to him.
Jason turned, almost surprised to see someone there. "Nothing. I mean—I'm pretty sure these are the same ones that were here last time. No new bullet holes…."
"There wouldn't be any more…. Dad abolished executions."
"I know. It's just… this brings back memories…."
"You were here?"
Jason nodded. "Your dad too." He fingered the cuffs, the rust chipping in his hands. "They chained him here, in fact…."
"My dad—they…." His face was ashen.
A pang of sorrow shot through Jason's heart. But James deserved the truth. And he deserved to know of his father's bravery—because the king would never reveal it on his own. "They tortured him in front of us. To make us lose faith. To trample him down, make him seem like less of a king. But it only made him more defiant. He held his head high, each time they would try to beat him down…. He would not let them crush him." Jason looked at James. "That's who your father is. No matter how much pain he was in, how much they threatened him with death, he would fight."
"He…he never told me…."
"He'd probably rather forget. But I don't think we should."
"That's why they're there," said a voice.
Jason nearly jumped but managed enough composure to turn around slowly, for he knew the voice. Markov strode toward them, wearing dark gray pants and a dark blue T-shirt, which revealed his muscular torso. Jason felt almost put to shame by the toned physique.
Markov gestured toward the wall. "We keep them here as a reminder. Of the courage of the king, yes, but also a memorial to the many who suffered in Saldenz. This wall is the last remnant of it—a reminder to never forget. Never forget ourselves to the point we're creating another slaughterhouse."
Jason nodded, acknowledging its purpose, but he still felt rather creeped out by it. He turned his back to it. "So you've begun the interrogation?"
"We've established a baseline. So far, he's playing the fool. Says he knows nothing. Even when we've practically caught him red handed." He turned and gestured for them to follow. "We want to break him down psychologically, but that's hard to do when he won't reveal his true self. He's good, if it's truly an act; his façade hasn't cracked yet. But we'll get him. In time."
"Those kids don't have time," said Jason.
Markov nodded grimly. They strode down a bright, clean corridor lined with stainless steel doors set in concrete. Just like seventeen years ago. And the air had a damp chill in it. Jason had yet to see what exactly was different from last time. Besides the new management….
They stopped at the door at the end of the hallway, which led to a smaller corridor lined with faux wood doors with windows. Markov opened one of them, which led to a control panel in front of a one-way mirror. Through the window, a man was sitting in a chair in the center of the room, two guards standing near the door. The man's brown hair was disheveled, and his face had a lost, bewildered look. His hands were bound to the steel table in front of him. He wore glasses, an unkempt blue plaid shirt and rather faded jeans. He didn't look especially dangerous, but Jason knew firsthand appearances could be deceiving.
Markov turned to the prince. "It's advisable you stay out of the room with him. For your safety."
"He can't do anything handcuffed," said James
"One never knows. Besides, we might eventually turn him loose, see where he goes, if he is as disingenuous as he appears. We don't want anyone to know the royalty has this close of contact with the case. And…frankly, we want to keep inexperience out of the interrogation room."
"I want to learn."
"You can learn by watching. Hopefully we'll get something out of him, so we'll get closer to finding Luna." He gave the prince a sympathetic look.
"As for you," he turned to Jason, "if you'd like to try your hand at it… I'd prefer it fit with my overall interrogation strategy. We're trying to shake up his carefully constructed persona. Get him actually flustered, make him reveal something without catching his mistake. Break through that appearance of nervousness to something that can actually rattle him. Might be hard, if we scratch and find actual steel beneath. If he's Yavesh leadership, like we suspect, it won't be easy."
"He's Yavesh leadership?" Jason asked.
"Just cell leader, probably. Still, they're incredibly selective with their cell leaders. We also suspect he could be a diversion, in which case he'll be even harder to crack, since he'd be sent specifically to throw us off the scent. I'm thinking we'll just throw you in once as a random shakeup, unless you're game for a long haul. You can ask him what you want, but we're mostly focusing on any contact with leadership. Then there's organizational details, cell member and cell locations, and of course locations of any missing children." Markov looked at Jason searchingly. "So do you think you'll be available long term, or will you go back to your other leads?"
Jason thought for a moment. He didn't want to leave Connie alone, but at least for now, she wanted to be by herself. He would rather not leave her wondering into the night, though, or go to bed without finding out if she'd resolved what was bothering her or if he could comfort her in any way. "I'm available for this evening," he said, hoping he and James wouldn't get too hungry if there wasn't anything around to snack on.
"All right," said Markov. "We can work with that. I think we'll send you on in; he's had some time to himself to wonder what we're up to, maybe get him on edge a bit. First I'd better brief you on what we know about him so you're not going in blind."
Markov outlined the basics: other than the fact the apartment was nearly bare, they had found a hidden panel with cash inside it—pretty much a smoking gun, although Wil, the name the man gave, denied it was his and said it was from the previous owners. The van also matched the description to the letter, and traces of hair and skin cells had been found, which were being tested. Though the apartment hadn't had any missing children in it, parts of it had been wiped clean, as if he'd been in the process of sanitizing it before he moved on. It was likely the Romani girls were held somewhere else, perhaps even shipped out of country.
Jason soaked this all in, trying to figure out an interrogation strategy of his own. As he walked the small stretch of hallway to the interrogation room entrance, he tried to shove down the unsettled feeling gripping him. If you couldn't get rid of apprehension before an interrogation, the least you could do was put a mask over it to hide any weakness. A clever subject could turn the tables, get under the interrogator's skin… It wasn't like it was personal this time. Not as if this man had tortured Jason…although he had tortured young girls…. Anger shot through Jason's heart as he stepped through the door, bolstering his inner strength. As another foundation, he summoned to his mind remnants of professional interrogations he'd done with the NSA. A long time ago… but still nestled in the core of his memory so that it should almost be second nature.
The man looked up in surprise. He had dark circles under his eyes and a hint of stubble on his chin. He looked mid-to-late thirties, not far from Jason's age. The fear in his eyes was disarming and Jason felt a twinge of sympathy, but he couldn't afford to let that get to him if he was to get any useful information out of this man. He had to treat him as an adversary until proven otherwise…though the backwards way of looking at it gave him an unsettled feeling.
That's the sort of feeling I've got to give him, he reminded himself. If he's innocent, well, he'll have a rough night of it but something to talk about afterwards. It's more likely that he's not. You've dealt with tough characters like this before. Ones with layers upon layers like Russian dolls….
He felt the professional façade fall over him like a second skin after long disuse, and it put him more at ease. It's been a long time…but training and experience have burned deep patterns; it's not just more recent events that have affected me strongly…. He shrugged off the memories of old scars, leaving just the strong persona of an agent.
Jason stopped in front of the table. Looked in the eyes of a man who had looked into little girls' frightened eyes as he kidnapped them. Anger flickered through him. He seized that anger, honed it into laser focus, a burning inner pillar of strength, a driving force that would propel him forward and disguise any cracks in his armor.
Okay, he told himself. I'm here to be a wild card. He has no idea what to expect from me. I might as well make the most of it. Drawing on his reservoir of experience as an agent, in a few seconds he constructed the rough sketch of a persona. One that had perhaps as many shifting masks as the subject.
He leaned down, regarded the man closely, studying him. Keeping his eyes locked on the man's, trying to see into his soul, even though he didn't like the idea of facing unabashed evil. After a few moments, the man dropped his eyes, hunching down as if to avoid Jason's gaze, but perhaps to avoid revealing his true self.
"You're good, I'll give you that," said Jason.
"W-what do you mean?" said the man. Wil.
"We know you're working for Yavesh."
Wil shook his head, his eyes wide, bloodshot. "I don't know what that is."
"You're telling me you don't know the name of one of the most nefarious organizations in Muldavia. One that has everyone on edge."
"I… I think I may have heard of it…. I don't know. I move around a lot."
"Why is that?"
"With my job. I don't stay in one place for long. I sell copiers."
"So it makes sense why it looks like your apartment was hardly lived in."
Wil's eyes lit up. "Yes! I…don't put down roots, makes it harder to pick up everything and move. Plus, I just moved into that place."
Jason sat down, giving the man—or his persona—space to feel a false sense of ease. "It was under your name, it's true. That part of your story checks out."
"Yes—you see—it's all a big misunderstanding. I have to get back to my job, or my boss won't be happy. I might get fired. It's not the most stable way to live, but it's all I've got. Please—make them see reason. I'm nobody—I'm not a criminal, least of all someone who would—" He shuddered. "Hurt all those innocent girls."
He is good, thought Jason. In another life he might've been an actor. Should've been, rather than either of his professions. His story checked out—Jason had glanced at the file. He was a salesman. Good cover for the human trafficking business.
"I might believe you. Except your name is also registered to a suspicious van. One that was seen abducting young girls."
"It's a mistake! It has to be. You must've got the testimony from an eyewitness—you know how unreliable those can be."
"It could've been a mistake," Jason conceded. "But it doesn't just match the license plate, which could've been misremembered. It matched the color—and the scrape on the side."
"You know how many people in Rakima get into car accidents each month?"
"The van could've been a false clue. But that's not all we have. We found cash in a secret compartment."
Wil looked shocked. "That's crazy! I was living there for a month—whoever it was must've really hidden it!"
"So you didn't hide it."
"Of course not! If I found it…I might've been tempted to keep it. But I would've given it to the police. How much was it?"
Jason wasn't sure, so he didn't answer. "You can drop the act. You're wasting everyone's time. If you confess, you can get this over with. We will find out the truth, eventually—do you really want to put yourself through this?"
"I'm innocent—I'm telling you! Why won't anyone believe me?" He looked away, exasperated. Then looked back at Jason. "I'm being railroaded, you know. They just want an arrest because they haven't had any luck so far. Doesn't matter if I'm guilty or innocent."
"Then why would they bother with this interrogation?"
"They have to go through the motions. Markov likes to play his little games—I have a feeling he enjoys watching people squirm. You're the ones wasting time. While you're wasting your resources on me, the real perpetrators are getting away! They're…." His voice faltered. "I have a little niece of my own," he said softly. "I never want any harm to come to her. I can't imagine what those families are going through…. Those—poor little girls…." He drew a shaky breath, bowed his head. When he looked up again, his eyes were shining with tears. "Please—please, you have to let me go. I've got to warn my family. They live out in a remote town…they might not realize the danger." A tear rolled down his cheek.
Pretending to be altruistic, crying—he's top notch. Jason couldn't deny a feeling of doubt creeping up on him. He tried to shake it off, but it stayed.
"So if you're so innocent, why did you run?" said Jason, knowing when he said it that it was wrong. He didn't believe it himself; he just…hadn't had a good comeback. And this man was getting under his skin.
Anger flashed through Wil's eyes. "Ever hear of an innocent man getting jailed?" he said sarcastically.
Jason nodded. "You're right. That wasn't the most enlightened of questions."
"And why are you here anyway? You're not Muldavian. I can tell by your accent."
Perhaps I should've feigned an accent…but accents never were my specialty.
"They brought me in from America to investigate human trafficking." Which was, strictly speaking, true. He just didn't specify who "they" were.
Wil jerked his hand against the manacles. "You're an outsider! Of course you're clueless about what goes on here." He leaned forward and whispered, "If you ask me, it's the police that should be investigated. Some of them are probably even complicit—it's why Yavesh is so successful. It's why they trap innocent people to take the fall for them."
"You really think you should say that?" Jason glanced at the one-way mirror.
Wil glanced at it. "You need to know the truth. I can't make these people see reason, but maybe you can."
Classic move, thought Jason. Trying to sow division in the ranks. But part of him wanted to believe it was true…. Saw the potential in it… doubt gnawed at him. It didn't help that it seemed Markov might not have told him everything…. There had to be pieces missing, otherwise there was barely enough evidence to hold this man, much less put him under harrowing interrogation.
No. I can't afford to let him get away with this. He's putting me on the defensive. Maybe he's not one of them—but what if he is? They're the kind of people who are hard to pin down. And we've got one here. I have to see him as guilty… even if he isn't.
He hated the idea of punishing a potentially innocent man. But there was no way to know it for sure.
I've got to have resolve on this. Can't let him shake me. He made himself see this man as someone who was deceiving him to make Yavesh win. Brought up the image of those girls at the women's shelter, their brokenness. The desperation in the eyes of Mr. Brand when he spoke of his son. The unspeakable things that were done to children for money—
Anger surged through him and he lurched to his feet. He strode around the room, letting the anger burn bright, let it reach its full potential and sear away any last shreds of doubt.
Then he turned back to the prisoner. "Nothing you say will make me believe your lies. I know this is just a façade. Tell me the truth. Where are the little girls you abducted."
Wil looked up, apprehension in his eyes. "I—I never abducted any little girls. You have to believe me."
"Tell me who works with you. There was a man with a bandaged hand who was seen stuffing girls in your van. Tell me who he is."
"I—I don't know—that's so vague it could be anyone…."
Jason slammed his fist down on the table and it rattled with the force of the blow. "Stop the act! You will tell me what you know. Or—"
"Or what? You'll torture me? I've heard about what goes on in here. I didn't want to believe it but… maybe I should've fought harder to escape."
Jason slid around the edge of the table. "I can't believe a single thing you say. Until you start telling me the truth."
"You only want one truth! You want me to lie? I'll make up all kinds of lies, like I'm some leader of a slave organization, I love hurting little girls, I earn more money in a month than you could make in a year—is that what you want to hear?"
"Give me the names of the Yavesh couriers. The enforcers who keep you in line."
Wil shook his head. "I'm not in the mood to pretend to be someone I'm not. If you won't give me a phone call to my lawyer… I have nothing else to say to you."
"Where is Yavesh Central?" Jason paced around the room. "Who is the leader? You must have some connection to them." He stopped again opposite Wil, his hands grasping the back of the chair.
Wil looked at him wearily. "You know, I get it. You were brought all the way over here, you have to at least look like you're playing along." He glanced at the one-way mirror. "But I can't give you what I don't have. I'm sorry. I just… I wish you'd see reason. I'm a good guy. I never get in trouble. Just a couple car accidents. I drive a lot. People here aren't always the best of drivers. I…may be a drifter with no real roots, but that doesn't mean I don't have the right to my own life!" He sighed. "Maybe this is a sign I need to settle down. Too late now… unless they let me go. I just—want to have a family of my own… a wife, some kids…. So if I get out of this… I'll make sure what I do with my life counts."
His eyes were earnest, his voice heartfelt. No, he's not catching me off guard again. Still… there was a sincerity to his voice that made Jason wonder if he wasn't at least telling a half-truth. It wouldn't surprise him if some of it was true… many human traffickers probably had families and didn't see the horror of what they were doing—or chose to cauterize their empathy.
Anger flared through him at this. That someone could pretend to have a decent life, all the while creating unspeakable horror for countless children…..
"As if you actually care about children. If you did, you wouldn't be torturing them." Red flashed before his eyes. Along with the image of torture—its deep dehumanization, the humiliation of being stripped, pain sliced into your skin, your soul—
He hardly realized he was doing it until he felt his hands on the man's shoulders. Shaking him. The feeling of the fabric and flesh beneath his hands only fanned the flames and he gripped harder, rage racing through his veins, blazing down his skin like wildfire.
"Please, I don't know anything—!"
He backhanded the man and his glasses flew from his face to clatter to the floor.
Icy shock shot through Jason's heart then and he reeled back. Looked at his hands, red from the blow, his knuckles stinging. Wil's eyes were startled, fearful, although there was a crafty gleam to them…. His cheekbone was reddened, slightly swollen. Fear plastered over his face like a mask and he huddled down, as if cringing for the next blow.
Shame tingled over Jason's skin. It didn't matter what this man had done. He'd lost control. He'd forgotten himself—when he'd thought he was over that. Forgiven Gray—but there were still scars on his heart, which could still sway his emotions if he let them…. He hadn't realized this. And of course there was his inherent impulsivity, always getting him into trouble, even at this stage in the game….
Without a backwards glance, he walked out of the room. He'd ruined all credibility. Even if he knew he could trust himself, now the trafficker knew he could get to him, and Jason didn't want to give him the opportunity.
No more interrogations for me, he thought. Either interrogator or subject…. Can't put myself in that position.
He hesitated before stepping back into the viewing room, dreading facing James after what he'd done.
James stood when he entered, his face pale, a new light in his eyes that was almost fear and made shame wash over Jason like a wave. Markov stood as well, but his expression was entirely different. He looked on the edge of anger. "What's wrong? It was going so well, I thought."
"Didn't you see what just happened? I can't be trusted with him."
"Yes, but that's the kind of thing we want. A wild card to shake him up. You're telling me you didn't plan it?"
"No. I lost control."
"That's not good. Still…we could use it. You may not be in control, but we can step in at any time. You're just a tool to break up his complacency. I think—might've been my imagination—but I thought I saw his control crack as well. Something real peeking through the veneer. We'll have to go over the recordings to be sure. Sure you don't want to go back in?"
"I'd better not."
"Suit yourself. I'm thinking we should head in a similar direction—in a more controlled fashion, of course."
"What do you mean?"
"Shake him up. Send in people he doesn't know who things he doesn't expect."
"I doubt any of them will resort to torture tactics." He ran his hand through his hair and looked at James apologetically, hardly believing he'd hit the man.
"Torture? No. But a few strategic hits won't hurt him any. Might just shake his resolve enough to get an inroad."
Jason's heart flipped. "So you do intend to hurt him."
"Just enough to get him unsettled. We've got to keep pushing, shoving a wedge into that fissure until it's wide enough to see his true self. Then we can really get to work."
Jason folded his arms, not sure if he'd heard right. "So you're saying you do practice torture here. I thought it was the most ridiculous of his lies, but now—"
"It's not systematic. This is the hardest kind of nut to crack. We've got to use a bit more…unconventional methods on him. We might have to get a little tough on him—but so what? We're under time constraints. The priority is the abducted children—we can't stop to worry about the human rights of the worst kind of criminal. If we violate them—and we find the children—it will have been worth it, frankly."
Jason felt a sinking feeling. "I can't be a part of it."
"It's a good thing you're not tied down to us. Diverge. Go do your investigation in your way. I have a feeling the stronger methods will prevail."
A chill ran through him. "Do you know who you're starting to sound like?"
Markov looked a bit taken aback. He narrowed his eyes, his face hardening. "I stand by my methods. Just because I don't feel the need to put on velvet gloves where it comes to human traffickers doesn't mean I'm like Zahl." He laughed mirthlessly. "Doesn't mean I'm about to set up a firing squad." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the entry room.
"Perhaps that's a bit unfair. If it comes down to saving the children and saving a criminal, well… I won't say I might not make the same choice. But there has to be another way. In general, it's more effective to build a rapport, lull the subject into a false sense of security."
"Yes, and that would be our normal method. But we don't have that kind of time."
"I understand. Do what you have to—I just—can't be involved."
"I don't want someone around who loses control."
"I'm sorry. I… couldn't stand the thought of children being torn apart in the… the same way I was."
"So it's personal."
"In a way…it is." Jason rubbed the knot of a scar in the center of his hand. "An agent shouldn't let it become personal—but I'm not an agent."
"I suggest you get a rein on your emotions. Agent or not, you won't be effective in the field unless you do."
"I'm not what I used to be. Perhaps I'm getting too old for this."
Markov chuckled. "If I'm not too old for this, neither are you."
Jason headed toward the door, feeling infinitely weary and much older than he actually was. Perhaps he'd never really been cut out for this…. He'd lived to be an agent, it was in his blood, but at the same time…. such a blunderer he'd been the first time in Muldavia! And this time he was still struggling with fatal weaknesses. Perhaps it was just this country… brought out the worst in him while it brought out the best in his father….
Markov gave him a nod in farewell and Jason had the feeling they were parting ways, perhaps for good. He had a deep unsettled feeling that Markov might take the interrogation too far. At the same time… it was a human trafficker. The worst sort of scum on earth. But…doesn't mean we should stoop to their level… Even when it comes to saving kids? Well…. We should at least exhaust all options first….
Jason meant to rush out of there, but he stopped near the bullet-marked wall. His vision blurred. He felt half-numb, unsure, out of step with himself.
"Are you all right?" said James.
"I…" He almost blurted, "I'm fine" but didn't feel like putting on another façade. "Just remembering."
"You…" James hesitated. "You said you didn't want the kids to be hurt like you were? When…you were here with my father?"
"Not here. It's happened several times—but never got to me like it did when…." He hesitated, not wanting James to think ill of Gray. "When Gray tortured me."
"He—he—" His face was pale with shock.
Jason lifted his hand, showing the scar in its center. "It was about a year ago."
"And now he's—"
"He's undergone torture of his own, and I've forgiven him. Before that, though—I lost control, a bit like I did in there. I may have forgiven Gray, but there's still something inside of me—it was more than just anger for what they were doing to the little girls. It was like it was happening to me again and—" He shook his head, forcing himself to catch James' eyes instead of looking away. "It shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry. Sorry that you… saw me like that."
"That's okay. I might've done the same thing if I were in there with that piece of—" He stopped. "What I mean is, it was probably personal, but you were still feeling the little girls' pain as yours. Otherwise you wouldn't have gotten so angry."
Jason nodded, seeing his point. It didn't give him a free pass, but James' unexpected insight made him feel a little better.
"If I found the person who did that to Luna—I'd—" He clenched his fists. His eyes flashed, his body trembling.
"I hope you don't take me as an example."
"No, but…. Sometimes you have to defend the ones you love."
Jason knew that he probably couldn't—wouldn't want to—restrain himself if anyone hurt Connie, especially in such a horrific manner. He dared not directly entertain the idea, especially since it was purely hypothetical and Connie was in no real danger. So he shoved that disturbing thought down and they headed upstairs, into the waning sunlight.