Hunter's Games

by James P. Sumner

“I might. But then again, I might not. You said yourself I’m not under arrest, so you can’t make me.”

  He smiles and tries again to lead me away, but I hold my ground. When that doesn’t work, he looks at me with something akin to an apology in his eyes. Like he really doesn’t want to have to do it, but he’s going to anyway.

  “Adrian, don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

  “I’m not. On the contrary—I’ll make this as easy as I can for you. Move your hand, or I’ll give you a reason to arrest me.”

  The circle of agents in front of me is getting twitchy and Agent Green is getting increasingly nervous. He’s quickly losing control of the situation and losing face in front of his SWAT team. I don’t think he wasn’t expecting any resistance, under the circumstances. I mean, who in their right mind would argue with an armed FBI SWAT team sent to detain them…

  They clearly have some idea of who I am; otherwise, they wouldn’t have come so well prepared.

  “I can arrest you any time I want,” he says. “I’m trying to be nice about this, as a gesture.”

  “Just out of interest, on what grounds would you place me under arrest?” I ask. I know they’ve got nothing on me. I’m too good.

  “Pre-meditated murder, for one.”

  “Bullshit. You can’t prove something I’ve not done.”

  The agent laughs. “Just do yourself a favor and come along quietly, or else,” he says, turning and walking away, expecting me to follow.

  Oh dear.

  Those two words to me are like a red rag to a bull.

  Or else.

  I process them for a moment. I wish people would stop trying to push me. Nothing good ever comes from doing it. I can feel the adrenalin building up inside me. My heart rate’s slowly increasing, along with my anger. I look around me once more. There’s no way they’re going to shoot an unarmed man in public. Even if they are trying to arrest me, the most they’ll risk is a non-lethal takedown, and I can live with that.

  “Or else what?” I ask, finally.

  Agent Green stops and looks back at me. His eyes narrow and he takes a step back before spinning round to face me, stopping a few feet away. He raises his right hand. I have no idea why. Maybe he intends shaking a disapproving finger at me. Or maybe he’s going to grab me again, I don't know. But I’ve no intention of waiting to find out. I’m past caring.

  I grab his right arm at the wrist with my left hand and twist it away from me. I catch him off-guard, and he almost overbalances. He instinctively moves his body to try to ease some of the pressure on his wrist, which I anticipated. As he does, I thrust the straightened outside edge of my open right hand into his throat, sending him crashing to the ground.

  I drop my bag and step back into a loose fighting stance, slowly turning and eyeing up each agent in the circle in turn. I feel enraged... trapped... and my instinct is to react the only way I know how to… Violently.

  I know it’s not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. I know they came here with nothing on me that they can use to justify an arrest. Although, something is definitely amiss here. I mean, how did they find me in the first place? And why would the FBI want to talk to me? It has to be some kind of misunderstanding. But now, all that’s irrelevant. Because now, they do have something to arrest me for—assaulting an FBI agent. I can imagine what Josh would say to me if he were here. In his sarcastic, British voice, he’d say, ‘Nice one, Adrian, you muppet!’ I don’t fully understand the reference, but I know that muppet means idiot…and he’d have been absolutely right.

  They swarm toward me, forcing me to the ground, holding me in position as they place handcuffs on me. I don’t offer any more resistance. I’ve proved my point. You can’t get away with threatening me.

  Two of them drag me to my feet while the others follow in a wide arc, guns trained on me from all angles. Agent Green has managed to get back up and is dusting himself down and massaging his throat. He catches up with us and escorts me to a fleet of cars parked a short distance away.

  “That was a grave mistake,” he says to me. “Now you are under arrest.”

  He reads me my rights as they usher me into the back of one of the cars. They slam the door behind me, and everyone retreats to their own vehicles.

  We drive off and I look out the window at all the onlookers who are staring and pointing.

  That went south really fast…

  What the hell just happened?

  14:31

  I’m sitting on the world’s most uncomfortable chair, with my hands flat on the table in front of me. I look around the small, gray, generic room, noting every detail. Not that there are many.

  Behind me and to my right are plain brick walls that probably haven’t had a fresh coat of gray paint since the seventies. At the top of the right wall is an analogue clock. On the right hand side of the wall in front of me is the door, made of old, thick wood with frosted glass in the top half. You can see the outline of things outside, but nothing clearer.

  A one-way mirror completely takes up the wall to my left, stretching from waist height to ceiling, and running practically the full width of the room.

  My wrists are cuffed, and chained to the table in front of me through a small metal hook. The table itself is bolted to the floor, though the chair I’m sitting in isn’t.

  In the top left hand corner, just above the mirror, is a CCTV camera, which can easily see the entire layout of the room. I imagine there’s sound recording on it as well.

  I glance up at the clock. A couple of hours ago, I’d arrived at the FBI Field Office a couple of hours ago and Agent Green hustled me straight into this room, secured me to the table, and left me alone. I’ve been here ever since—no sign of anyone.

  Standard operating procedure when you need information from someone is to leave them on their own for a while. People tend to get nervous and paranoid, which over time leads to them feeling guilty. So when you finally go and talk to them, they’ve worked themselves up into such a state that they’ll tell you everything.

  But this isn’t my first visit to an interrogation room, either as a prisoner or as the one asking the questions. I relax back into my chair and close my eyes, knowing that in these situations, patience is always the best way forward. Nothing I can do to improve matters, so I’ll wait and let things play out for now. I’m here for a reason—even if I don’t know what that reason is.

  And that’s the thing getting to me. I know I’m good enough that they can’t possibly have any real evidence against me for a crime. I’m one of the best contract killers in the world. When I carry out my hits, I’m like a ghost. To the criminal underworld, I’m a legend. But in the eyes of any law enforcement agencies, I’m just a myth—a story told to new recruits to scare them. They have nothing on me, I’m sure of it. Which begs the question: how did they know where to find me?

  I look at the one-way mirror and wonder who’s behind it looking back at me. There’s always somebody behind these things. I study my reflection. I need a shave—that’s for sure. My ice-blue eyes stare back at me, looking as tired as I feel.

  It’s my own fault for having a few beers last night…

  Despite the lack of sleep and the mild hangover, I’m actually in pretty great shape, both physically and mentally. The last year has been both productive and profitable. Overall, I’m feeling better than I have done in a long time.

  I briefly look at the scar underneath my left eye that runs down my cheek. My mind flashes back to that portable cabin in the Nevada desert twelve months ago. Ironically, I was sitting in a chair in restraints then as well…

  Nothing good ever comes from me being tied up...

  I sigh and begin drumming my fingers on the desk to break the silence. I hate not knowing what’s going on.

  After another few minutes, the door opens, and two men walk in. The one who enters first is the younger of the two. He’s a black guy, probably late twenties. He has short, dark hair and is clean-shaven, wearing a suit an
d tie with the jacket open. He walks over to the table, placing his cup of coffee and a document folder carefully on the surface before sitting in the seat opposite me. He’s fresh-faced and very serious—I’m guessing he’s quite new to the job and keen to impress.

  His colleague remains standing near the door as he closes it behind him. He’s a little older and looks slightly more cynical than the first guy. Like me, he needs a shave, bordering on the scruffy side of fashionable with his beard. He doesn’t have a suit jacket on, and he's rolled his shirtsleeves up. He leans against the wall with his arms folded, staring at me.

  A doomed-to-fail attempt at intimidation.

  I’ve always found it amusing when people underestimate me and assume I’m just like everyone else.

  I look at the young and enthusiastic man in front of me, who’s trying his best not to look terrified as he briefly reads the file he brought in with him. After a few moments he closes it, looking at his watch and then at me.

  “Interview started at fourteen thirty-nine hours. Special Agents Wallis and Johnson present. For the record, Adrian… Hell, can you confirm that you've been informed of your legal rights and that you understood them?”

  I nod once, but say nothing.

  Silence is nearly always the best strategy when you’re under arrest. Pick any one of the million metaphors that exist to prove it. If you say nothing, it puts you in control. The authorities can’t do anything if you don’t talk, and more often than not, they’ll crack before you do. Let them form their own opinions. Speak only when necessary.

  I know what you’re thinking—I’m going to find this really hard. And you’re right. I’m resisting the urge to have some fun with Bert and Ernie over here. But I have to play this smart. I still don’t know why I’m here, which means as things stand, they know more than I do.

  “For the benefit of the audio recording, Adrian Hell nodded,” he says. He looks over his shoulder at his colleague, who nods back at him. He turns to me again.

  “So let’s begin. Adrian, my name is Special Agent Tom Wallis. I’d like to start by establishing why you’re in the city of San Francisco.”

  I look at him, then at his colleague, who must be Special Agent Johnson. I clench my jaw as I run through everything in my head. I obviously have a cover story in place—it would be downright amateurish of me not to have everything planned and every angle covered before I carry out a hit. But I need to be sure of every detail before I speak, for my own piece of mind. Something’s not right. Must be something here I’ve missed, because they arrested me the moment I stepped outside City Hall…

  I’m still confident they don’t have any real evidence against me. I’ve spent too many years learning how to be too good to leave any. But that doesn’t explain how they knew where to find me or what they want.

  “Staying silent isn’t as beneficial as you might think, Adrian,” says Wallis after a few moments. “Tell us why you’re in San Francisco.”

  I stay quiet a moment longer before answering.

  “I’m here on business,” I say.

  “What kind of business?”

  “My own.”

  “What were you doing at City Hall?” asks Johnson, as he walks over and rests his hands on the table next to his colleague.

  “Sight-seeing.”

  “There are better things to see around here than City Hall,” says Wallis.

  “Just wanted to see everything that this place had to offer, that’s all,” I reply with a shrug, looking at each one of them in turn. “Why do you care anyway?”

  “We care about the safety of the people who live here,” says Johnson, with a hint of disdain.

  “How very noble of you. You want a medal or something?”

  “Are you not curious how we know who you are?”

  “You don’t know who I am.”

  “We know exactly who you are,” says Wallis, tapping his left index finger on the file that he brought in with him. “Let me show you.”

  I shrug again. They don’t know a goddamn thing, but I’ll let them have their fun.

  Agent Wallis opens the file and starts reading:

  “Adrian Hell—born Adrian Hughes, February 14th, 1972 in Omaha, Nebraska. Joined the Army in 1990 and was part of Desert Shield. Your military record is a little hazy from ‘93 to ‘02, but you’re rumored to have worked in some capacity with the CIA. No details on record of any operations you may or may not have carried out during that time.

  “In 2002, after being given an honorable discharge from active military service, you moved to Pennsylvania to marry your partner of five years, Janine, with your three-year old daughter, Maria, in tow.”

  Huh… I’m actually surprised they have so much on me. They’re clearly well prepared. But they’ve made the mistake of showing me their hand straight away.

  “Why stop there?” I ask. “You were on such a roll... Please, continue.”

  Agent Wallis says nothing. I look at him, then at Agent Johnson. They exchange frustrated glances but remain silent.

  “What?” I ask.

  More silence.

  “You can’t continue, can you?” I say, smiling. “That’s all you have. You’ve got nothing on me since 2002, and everything you do have is on the military’s databases anyway and easily accessible if you know who to ask. Am I right?”

  Wallis looks down at the table in defeat, closing the file as he realizes his bluff has backfired.

  “Which means you have absolutely nothing to justify holding me here,” I continue.”Which brings us back to square one, gentlemen… What do you want with me?”

  “We want to know why you’re in the city,” says Johnson after a minute of silence.

  “And I’ve already told you, so what else do you want to know?”

  Johnson leans forward, his expression changing from attempted intimidation to genuine anger. “Well, this morning, a man died in City Hall of a suspected heart attack. Roughly around the time you were in the building.”

  “That’s a tragic coincidence,” I say, solemnly.

  “Our Forensics team is running blood tests at the moment. I wonder what they’ll find...?”

  “How should I know? Maybe that he needed to cut out fatty foods or something?”

  “Look, asshole, we might not have anything in a file, but we know who you are and what you do, alright? Everybody does. The FBI, the CIA, the NSA, Homeland Security—everybody. I don’t care if we can’t prove it. We all know it. You’re a goddamn psychopath and you should get the chair!”

  Wallis stands up and pushes Johnson away from the table. I wink at him, to wind him up further. You know me—I’m not one to pass up an opportunity to piss someone off for my own amusement.

  But what he said concerns me… I doubt everyone knows who I am and what I do, given I’m sitting in an FBI Field Office; there’s possibly some truth to it. I think back to my dealings with the Secretary of Defense last year in Nevada. I wonder if word has gotten round?

  I dismiss it for now.

  After a moment or two of whispering, seemingly happy he’s defused the situation, Wallis returns to the table. He clasps his hands in front of him and leans forward, coming across as a lot more experienced and comfortable than he probably is. I’m impressed. He looks briefly at the one-way mirror and sighs before speaking.

  “Adrian, like it or not, my colleague is right,” he says, somewhat reluctantly. “You are on several Agencies’ watch lists after your involvement in the Nevada incident last year.”

  Shit. I knew it.

  “It’s kind of an unspoken agreement that we all know what you do but keep it to ourselves because we all know we can’t prove it. You want the truth? You’re so good at what you do, it scares us. But that’s not why you’re here. You’re here because we at the FBI need your help.”

  I wasn’t expecting so much honesty, and it confuses me. What could they want my help with? Before I can say anything, there’s a knock at the door. Another agent enters, followed by a m
an in a suit with shoulder-length blonde hair and a briefcase.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but this gentleman says he’s Adrian’s lawyer, and he’s demanded access to his client before any further questioning takes place,” says the agent.

  “Jesus Christ,” mutters Johnson as he steps out of the room, shaking his head. The other agent follows.

  Wallis stands and turns to my lawyer. “I’m Special Agent Wallis,” he says. “Adrian has been formally arrested for assaulting an FBI agent.”

  My lawyer looks at me with raised eyebrows. I shrug in response.

  “But to be honest,” continues Wallis. “While that explains why he’s handcuffed, that’s not why we originally wanted to bring him in. I was just about to explain that we need his help. Consequently, I don’t think legal counsel is necessary at this time.”

  “That’s a valid opinion,” says my lawyer. “And we can discuss that in more detail once I’ve spoken with my client in confidence.”

  “I can assure you there is no need to –”

  “Did you or did you not place my client under arrest?” my lawyer says, interrupting him.

  “Well, yes,” he replies.

  “And I assume you followed procedure and read my client his rights?”

  “We did.”

  “In doing so, you advised my client of his right to legal representation, and on his behalf I am exercising that right immediately. Please clear the room and turn off any recording equipment so I can talk with Mr. Hell confidentially.”

  Wallis sighs, realizing there’s no point in arguing. He leaves the room and a moment later, the little red light on the CCTV camera goes out, signaling it’s no longer recording.

  My lawyer sits opposite me and places his briefcase on the table. I regard him for a moment. He looks younger than me, but I know for a fact he’s a few years older. I’ve not seen him in a few months, and under the circumstances, I’m very glad he's shown up. I smile at him.

  “Hey, Josh.”

  4.

  14:56

  “WHY IN GOD’S name did you assault an FBI agent?” asks Josh, sitting down opposite me. “Have you completely lost your mind?”