They started simple. Something that James called good cop, bad cop. The two CIA officers easily fit into their respective roles, as I only knew them as angry and calm CIA officers, having never gotten their names. James was not too pleased about this, he refused to tell me them and instead told me to figure it out myself.
Angry, CIA slammed Vince's chair against the wall when he refused to answer, rattling his already throbbing head. He let his voice drop to a gravelly whisper and promised that if Vince didn't talk, there were "off the books" people who could make him disappear, along with his family, without anyone ever caring. Calm CIA guy, meanwhile, offered him cigarettes. Water. Talked about second chances and family. "You're not a bad guy, Vince. You've just been fed a bad life. Give us the dossier, and we can make all this go away."
They would mix in some disorientation. They took out the clock from the room. Kept the lights on bright for hours, then suddenly off for very short stretches. The overhead swing bulb became Vince's sun for the rest of his time here, the lurching shadows the only indicator of passing time. The room was either too cold or too hot with radiators turned on full blast for an hour, then switched off entirely. At one point, the radio played static for four straight hours. Then no noise. No voices. No footsteps. Just silence. Vince began talking to himself the second day after they introduced that method.
It was a good experience to see firsthand, though I know my is shaking his head in sadness in the heavens.
I got to watch as the sleep deprivation seeped into Vince like a starved snake seething into the depths of his mind, searching for remnants of it. They let him drift off in the chair—then woke him fifteen minutes later with a splash of cold water or a loud bang. One time, they used a flashlight in his eyes. Another time, they played old classical records at full volume, skipping in endless loops. By this point, he stopped pretending he didn't know what they were talking about.
The thing that finally broke Vince was some simple fear and threat. I stepped in late on the second night, only managing to catch the tail end of the conversation. "How are your mother and sister, Vince. Carmela and Darlene?" The angry CIA man said.
His head slumped forward. "How?"
"Does that matter?"
He fell silent. "All my best documents are held by a broker in the Bronx; I told him to only ever give me access."
He smiled smugly. "Best rest then, Vince, you'll be taking us to him." He patted his face as he walked off.
He slumped forward in the chair, half-conscious, shaking as he walked back out and to the side room.
"Told you I would break him." He said to the quiet CIA man, who did not take the liberty to respond. He finally turned towards us. "After we get the document, we will be parting ways."
James managed to catch himself before he rolled his eyes. "We know." The Angry CIA man scoffed.
As he walked off, I led into James. "Not to bring down the mood, but how are we going to get the tech without the CIA guys seeing us. That guy will never let those documents out of his sight."
James just smiled. "No idea, that's future James's problem."
/
The rain started to smash into the roof. It was soft at first, before it found its rhythm, and started banging the windshield, the car rolled into a quiet Queens neighbourhood with rows of narrow, two-story homes connected up with stooped and cracked sidewalks. Streetlamps flickered on broken figures, as haloes of splattered rain marked the houses of the destitute. Vince fidgeted in the front passenger seat, leaning on the door, silent in his penitence as he hadn't said a word since his interrogation ended.
We stopped outside a small, slouched brick house with iron bars on the windows and a yard of overgrown weeds. Vince and the quiet CIA man moved through the pelting rain, smacking against their wary body. Vince kissed his fingers and tapped them on the Virgin Mary statue on the door, her face smooth and pale in the little light. He slammed on the door and waited for a moment before a small hatch opened to a pair of beady eyes. They chatted for a moment before he closed it again.
We all patiently waited in our car, and I could see the Angry CIA man tapping his steering wheel vigorously as his feet lightly bounced. Robert leaned back into his front seat, scanning the street. James laid his pistol across his lap, also giving the street a quick look down. I stayed in the back, following their lead, giving the street a look down, only spotting a blue sedan driving the opposite way from us.
I heard scraping at the door and turned back. It opened up to a man holding an envelope wrapped in a plastic shopping bag. He nodded to Vince before closing the door as I started to relax, watching the two men make their way back to us. I gave the street another look down, only spotting a blue sedan, its headlights suddenly flared from behind us straight into my eyes. The car screeched and blasted past us before another one followed, pulling up in front of us. Doors flew open. Their guns were bared before us, before shouting for 'hands up'.
Crack! A muzzle flashed, blinking in the dark from the first car. We slowly raised our hands as we watched men from the first car storm the walkway to stand over the downed Vince and the CIA officer. They seemed to chat before Vince weakly flipped the man off, receiving two bullets to the chest and one to the head for his 'kindness'. He turned to the downed CIA man before shaking his head as he watched the blood seep through the man's jacket, seeping onto the sidewalk.
I watched one of the other men snatch the envelope from Vince's slack hands, whilst some more came to our car and slashed the tires. Then quickly they all jumped into their cars before pulling away. We watched as they pulled down the street; they did not even speed off.
James slammed his hands on the dashboard. "Fuck." We all quickly hopped out of the car, rushing to the downed man who had already been seen to by the other CIA man.
He shook his head as we approached. "He's already done for. Forget about him and get after those motherfuckers. We can't let them get away with this. I want those fucking documents back."
We all gave him a look as he chucked his car keys to us. "Alright then!" Robert said, heading for the car first, before we followed after him.
The engine snarled as James punched the gas, tires screeching on the wet pavement. I barely had time to shut the door before we were tearing through the streets, headlights slicing the rain-streaked dark. Robert sat forward, trying to see through the rain.
I leaned forward between the seats, heart still hammering. "Take this right, I saw them go down it." Robert gave me a look, but James didn't question it and quickly went around the bend.
Robert shook his head, trying to see if he could see around the rain. "How the hell are we going to see through this?"
Up ahead, I caught the taillights of the mercs' car taking another turn. I pointed. "There."
Robert gave me another look. "How the hell are you seeing through this rain, kid?"
I could never tell him the truth. "Just getting lucky, I guess, just happened to be looking at the right place." I held onto the door as we took another turn, finally catching up with the cars, though they looked not to be making it difficult for us.
"Pull back." Robert barked. "They don't look like they're expecting us to catch up with them. Hold back and follow them."
We followed for a while before getting to the industrial outskirts of the city, past shuttered warehouses and gas stations dimly lit under buzzing signs. The rain kept falling, slicking the roads and distorting reflections of car lights into long ribbons of red and white. We tailed them, always careful to stay just far enough back not to be obvious.
Eventually, the men made their move in a side alley near the Brooklyn waterfront. They pulled in fast, doors opened, and within seconds, they transferred into pre-parked sedans.
"Switched cars, they aren't rookies," Robert muttered, watching as their news cars pulled away.
James nodded. "Slick move. But they didn't split up."
The chase continued, now going through the financial district, where the roads narrowed between glassy new office buildings and crumbling brownstones, until finally, they turned down a private drive and disappeared behind a steel gate.
James slowed the sedan and parked across the street. The car turned off with a grumble as we watched the vehicle be swallowed by the compound beyond, an angular building of brushed steel and black concrete, its sharp lines and glass façade a slap in the face. A large sign above the gate glowed dimly in the mist:
GOLIATH DYNAMICS – Advanced Defence Solutions
James sighed. "One of Stark Industries' many competitors." He shook his head. "All of this was done by our own people."