No S+S, Part 4 this week, sorry guys. I’ve not been well the last few days and this piece has literally been rushed out at the last minute, as I began to perk up a little.
Anyway, here it is…
I hear the distinctive clip-clop of his footsteps at the end of the corridor. Those cheap-ass loafers come in handy for something after all. In thirty seconds he’ll be entering the interrogation room. Faster still if I make too much noise from inside it.
Across the room, two men. One tall, the other taller. One in the corner, the other across the desk. My side of the desk. Small protuberances around their ankles have already alerted me to concealed knives, complimenting the pistol each carries at their hip.
I calculate it would take the man two seconds to reach across the desk and grab me, judging by his muscular build and the speed in which he grabbed the conveniently knocked pencil I elbowed on my way in. I’d give him three to three-point-five seconds if he decided to grab his knife first.
The man in the corner is the problem. I witnessed first-hand his proficiency with a firearm yesterday. He’s fast on the trigger, but his speed on the draw is an unknown factor. Is he fast, or is he quicker than that? He could pull out his weapon and have finger-on-trigger within two seconds of any initial movement, and even that’s a best-guesstimate.
Either way, I need to be fast, and quiet.
He’s twenty seconds from the door now, around ten seconds until he reaches a decent hearing range. Any closer and I’ll lose the element of surprise.
“I’ll ask you one final time: where is he?”
I offer a nothing but a simple, lips-together smile. I know he has to ask, he knows I can’t answer. It’s procedure, part of the system. One of the many reasons I wanted out.
“Fine. You’re out of time.”
Not yet I’m not.
I take a deep breath.
As he turns to his partner, I launch across the desk, my weight forcing him to the floor. Before we hit the ground I’ve reached inside his trouser leg and pulled from it the knife. It slips out easy, even with metal-bound wrists. I force the inside of my knee across his throat as I fling the knife at the man in the corner. It plants in his neck; his pistol makes a quiet-enough thump as it hits the floor in his hand. I place the man’s neck in a knee-shackled vice, his throat offering up a pitiful wail as his neck snaps.
I grab the handcuff keys from his pocket and leap from the floor. With free hands I place a pistol in my waistline and a knife in my hands. As I hear his sound from beyond the door’s metal, I position myself just out of view. I wipe the unwelcome presence of sweat from my brow, wetting my lips as I ensure a firm grip on the hilt.
As the door rattles from a knock, my focus switches to a new target: the outside, only two minutes from this room, tops.
I just need to deal with the other one plus fifty-or-so agents on the other side of this door. It should be a piece of cake.
After all, they’ve taught me a little too well.