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Infiltrated

I feel the ropes around my wrists, the scratchy dark cloth covering my face, the stickiness that must be duct tape covering my mouth, the cold ridgidness of the chair of my back. I don’t know where I am, or how I got here, but I know this is bad. I’ve been caught.


The bag is ripped from over my head, and the tape torn from my mouth. I resist the urge to cry out. Pain is only temporary. I try to remind myself of that. The light from a metal lamp in the corner of the room hurts my eyes. It has been awhile since I have seen light.


A stern looking woman looks over a desk at me. She looks menacing and blond, with cold grey eyes that would pierce into your soul just to rip it apart. Her eyes burn into mine, until I’m sure one of us will have to look away. The creak and squeak of the door makes both of our heads whip around.


A grey haired man walks in, confident in his stride, until he sees me. He falters, grimaces, then regains his composure in a split-second. They both regard me with stares that are mostly curiosity, with a hint of perplexity to spare. They break the awkward silence with a shuffling of papers, a tape recorder set on the iron desk between us and a not-so-discreet nod at a security camera that I had already noticed the moment I swept the room. When the bag was taken off my head, I squinted and attempted to find a way out. The interrogation room was small, with room for a couple of chairs and a table in the center. The heavy metal door was bolted.


“Do you know why you are here?” says the woman. Her voice sounds strangely automated.


“More importantly, do you know what you’ve done?” The man leans across the desk, with his pink sweaty hands leaving marks that slowly fade away. I see no choice, so I shake my head no. I consider myself a fairly good actress. My instincts tell me that this conversation will go better if I remain silent. They don’t buy it. “Yes or no,” the man says, “speak.”


“No,” I respond icily, “I don’t know why I’m here or what I’ve done. Now can I just go home?” Interrogation rooms would be a second home to me if I had ever been caught before. I’m a liar, and they’re sensing something is wrong.


“You will answer our questions,” blondie snaps.


“The point is, twelve people are dead, and you killed them.”


It takes all the effort in the world to keep my jaw from dropping in contempt. A gritty film plays on the wall of a girl creeping in the window of a house, then coming out with a gun drawn. I don’t remember any of this, but the gun tucked at my waistband betrays me. How stupid are they? Unless they planted it. Bluffing it seems to be my only chance. Or lying. For me, both are as easy as snapping my fingers.


“I know you’re lying,” I say, “I only killed three.” Their stunned faces show that I am right. “The guilt won’t work on me, and you know it.”


“So you are admitting to murder?” the woman says, writing furiously in her notebook.


“I’m not admitting to anything,” I snap back poisonously, “It was just a job.”


I catch murmurs of, “assassin...sixteen...yes...no...I understand,” from the older man. What they don't realize is that now the ropes on my ankles are on the floor, along with the ones that bound my wrists. It’s tough getting the ropes around my waist though.


Then, I do the only thing I know how to do. “I think this lovely interview is over,” I say, and then to top it off, I whisper, “And I’m not coming back.” I stand up, flip the metal desk on top of them, and fire two shots. “Now I’m bringing the total up to five.” I grab the files from the desk, destroy the tape recorder, and blow the lock off the door. By now, even the guards have noticed something was wrong. I smash my gun on their heads. There’s no need to be too messy is there? As I jump onto an outgoing car, I realize that this was almost too easy.


But then again, my jobs almost always are.


Besides, I did my job. I got the files.


As I swing myself into the car and throw the driver out, I smile.


And move on to my next job.




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