This must be a bad dream.
The sweat is dripping from my forehead, and I do the futile wrestle against steel.
My head spins from the last concussion dealt by a gun butt, confusing me even more, since I'm usually at the other end of the stick.
How did I end up here?
Last thing I remember I was sitting in the cruiser, sipping coffee, talking to Ben … where the Hell's Ben?
I ask myself, what these people want from me, just as the whispers tell me that it's my own agency.
Looking up, the floodlight blinds me, making it impossible to see a damned thing.
The chair my legs are strapped to has a short leg, making it rock, the same tact I used for interrogations, drawing the fine line below outright torture.
Let them sit and sweat, losing all concept of time, getting hungry, mulling over their excuses, waiting for a spoken word to break the deadening silence.
I know I'm about to pass out, again, as the sweat is dripping from my forehead, and I do the futile wrestle against steel, as I wake up.
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