Higgins

by C. G. Cooper

  HIGGINS

  The Interrogators Book 1

  C. G. Cooper

  with Karen Rought

  “HIGGINS”

  Book 1 of The Interrogators

  By C. G. Cooper

  with Karen Rought

  Copyright © 2019 C. G. Cooper Entertainment, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction prohibited

  >> GET A FREE COPY OF THE CORPS JUSTICE PREQUEL SHORT STORY, GOD-SPEED, JUST FOR SUBSCRIBING AT CG-COOPER.COM <<

  Make sure you subscribe because every month we choose one lucky reader to receive all my books for life!

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations and events are all products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual events or real persons are completely coincidental.

  This novel contains violence and profanity. Readers beware.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Also by C. G. Cooper

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  October 1983

  The darkness and its stink of copper and mold swallowed the single feeble light which hung from the ceiling. The bulb was caged by wire and cast harsh shadows across the walls–and the man trapped between them.

  Plastic zip-ties bound his wrists, digging so tightly into his skin that blood dripped down his hands and off the tip of his pinky fingers onto the floor. His ankles were strapped to the legs of the chair in a similar fashion, but at least his dirty jeans were thick enough to stop the plastic from rubbing. He had very little to be thankful for at the moment, but at least he had that.

  The metal door opposite him groaned as it opened. He pictured some CIA hack in charge of maintaining the rust on door hinges—probably a ten-dollar-an-hour peon from the Office of Intimidation Technology or something like that. He couldn’t help but chuckle at his thoughts, as delirious as they were.

  He’d decided he wouldn’t look these men in the eye anymore. And so, when his captor took three long strides across the room and stood before him, the man in the chair kept his gaze fixed on the shiny black shoes. Designer Italian loafers. He’d owned a pair as nice as those once—when he’d been free to wear them.

  The man kept his head down but let his eyes move over this captor’s body – from the designer loafers to the leather belt, and the pristine white shirt. Completing the outfit was a black bulletproof vest. He tilted his head up slightly, maintaining the subservient pose of a broken man that he knew his captors expected. His eyes fell on the captor’s face. A nose like a freak fungus. Foster Grant shades. And the smile. One of those toothy, skinned-back corpse grins, showing no mirth. Nothing but cold unchecked fury. And death.

  He realized then that it was his chuckling at his own inner thoughts that had sealed his fate with this well-tailored sadist. The shaded man reared one arm back. A glint of brass around his knuckles caught the light for a moment. He held it there, delighting in the protraction of the moment. He flinched once. The man in the chair flinched back. Then the arm lowered, and the grin widened. The prisoner knew what was coming next, which, is what the sadist relied on. The arm went up with a swift upwards arc, then came down, struck, and cut him across the front of his face, jarring the skull beneath it. The world pitched, and he crashed to the ground.

  He stole a hazy glance at his captor. There was a smile of faux pity there.

  “Oh, that was a little rough, wasn’t it?” A voice like oily soap whispered. “Need a hand, Amir?”

  Amir considered swearing at the sadist but thought better and clammed up. The sharp-dressed man laughed and turned back toward the door, nodding at two men in black who’d been watching the scene play out from the hallway. These two men strode forward and righted the chair, not worrying about being gentle. Once Amir was situated back in the middle of the room, they retreated behind him. Amir felt them waiting there, staring. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

  The man in charge squatted in front of Amir and lifted his chin up with a knuckle, like he was a lost child.

  “Amir,” he said flatly. “Amir, listen to me. I’d like to make a deal with you, but first, I need some information. Call it... insurance... that you’re the right guy to negotiate with. Amir, what’s happening in Beirut?”

  He remained silent.

  “We’ve heard the whispers,” said the man, as if this was game-changing information.

  Amir blinked the blood from his eyes. He was trembling in his chair. In an attempt to spit a glob out onto the man’s shoes, his jaw faltered, and the stringy mass dribbled pathetically down his chin. He could feel a deep bruise blossoming across the left side of his face. He had trouble holding his head up.

  “Wrong answer.” The man brought his arm back for another crack at Amir’s face. Same routine. Hold it. Flinch. Not once, but twice, and then once more. And then the arm came down again in the same spot as before. A jolt of pain radiated from the spot like a shock wave. The chair wobbled but didn’t fall over.

  The man breathed heavily through his nose for a moment. “How much longer do you think you can last? I’ve been told to do whatever it takes to get the information we need.”

  There was no more calculation left in Amir’s shattered mind. Yes, he’d only been here two days – or was it three? But time really didn’t matter anymore than the space he occupied during it. “I would rather die,” he said. His voice was quiet, trembling. He could only hope the conviction of his defiance came through loud and clear.

  “Unfortunately for you, killing you is the one thing I’m not allowed to do.” There was a manic gleam in the man’s eyes. “Fortunately for me, I’ve got lots of toys to test out that will make you wish you were dead. We’ll get our answers one way or another.”

  Amir looked directly into the man’s eyes. He took a deep, shuddering breath. His voice was a fraction louder. “Never.”

  The interrogator looked unconcerned. “You have a lot to learn, Amir.”

  “The only thing you can teach me is what it feels like to die. My death will be honorable. I will not betray my brothers.”

  The man worked his jaw before barking out, “Bring the bag.”

  “Sir,” one of the guards said. Amir still couldn’t see him. “I don’t think he can take much more.”

  “That’s not what I told you,” the interrogator said without lifting his eyes from Amir’s drooping body.

  “Sir,” the other man said, still hidden in shadow. “He can’t take it.”

  The agent’s head snapped up. He glared at both of them, and in that moment, Amir realized that he had yet to see this man’s fury fully unleashed. When he
took a step forward, it was not toward the soldiers, but toward Amir.

  His captor punctuated his words with blows to Amir’s face. “He’ll take” – punch – “whatever” – punch – “I give him” – punch.

  The last blow missed Amir’s cheek and landed on his chin. His head snapped to the side and there was a resounding crack before the chair tipped over, and he once again thudded to the floor. A numbing sensation ran down Amir’s body. Even if he had the strength to move, he wouldn’t be able to. The room clouded over.

  “Check him,” the interrogator barked.

  One of the guards only hesitated for a fraction of a second, then stooped down and righted the chair again. When Amir’s body was upright once more, his head hung loose. He knew his body should be screaming in pain, but there was nothing but peace. He could feel his heart slowing down. It wouldn’t be too much longer now. The room wavered in and out of focus.

  The second soldier asked, “What do we do now?”

  “He wouldn’t give us answers. Not our problem he was too weak to take a couple of punches.”

  The guard took a deep breath, as if to say something, but thought better of it.

  “Spit it out,” the interrogator said.

  “Higher’s gonna want answers.”

  “So, we give them answers,” the sharp-dressed man shot back. “We were told to do whatever it took. We did.”

  “You did,” the other man said. There was an uncomfortable shuffling of feet.

  Amir’s punisher strode forward. When he spoke, his voice was off to the right, though it was distant. Much more distant than it should’ve been.

  “We did. We were all part of this, yourself included. I’ve got no time for holier-than-thou attitudes. You want to have a job when we get home? You’d better know who your friends are.”

  The other man had the gall to laugh. “You’re not my friend, man. The only person you look out for is yourself. I’d be an idiot to think otherwise.” There was the sound of movement and another sharp laugh. “What, you gonna hit me now? That’s a lot harder to explain than whaling on some Iranian terrorist.”

  “You don’t want to be on my shit list.”

  “I’m not trying to get in your way, man. But you’re gonna have some explaining to do. There’s already been talk of shutting us down.” The other man scoffed. “Not like I have feelings for these shitheads either, but how do you think the director is going to handle this? All three of our asses will be out on the street. Someone’s got to be made an example of. You think it’s going to be the big man? Nah, it’s going to be one of the little guys. One of us.”

  The room was fading fast now. Amir found it hard to breathe, but he couldn’t feel anything, not even fear. In the back of his mind he knew he wasn’t long for this life, but he was so tired. All he wanted to do was sleep. Paradise beckoned.

  “Clean this up,” his captor said. “I’ll handle the director.”

  As they went to detach Amir from his bonds, an explosion rocked the dungeon-like room, nearly sending the three agency men to the floor.

  “What the hell was that?” one of them asked.

  Someone – the interrogator? – said, “Shit! We’re too late!”

  Amir felt his body floating. Paradise was just ahead. He could smell the incense from the bricks, spires, and minarets of its fortress. He exhaled his final breath knowing he had not betrayed his brothers.

  Chapter Two

  April 1985

  Dr. Alvin Higgins ignored the stares as he strode through the halls of CIA Headquarters. These were all young men fitted for suits, not the other way around. Everyone here walked with a certain familiarity with how one was supposed to walk. Higgins was used to feeling like a fish out of water. His name was too pompous. His jackets too tweed. His observations too astute.

  The stares of these agency men were easy to ignore. As an analyst at a local police precinct, Higgins felt like some awkward anomaly. The beat cops saw him as furniture. The sergeant, a liability. After all, he was that rarity among cops – a truly detached entity. Tasked with going through testimonies and watching interrogation footage, he liked to pick people apart and find out what made them tick – cops and suspects alike. Sergeant Toomey had more than once expressed his frustration with him as he never knew whose side Higgins would come down on. And so, when the CIA began scouting local precincts for the best interrogation analysts, it was only natural that Sergeant Toomey would offer him up for the greater good of all concerned.

  “Dr. Higgins? Marvin Berke.” The monotoned man lifted his arm like it was being controlled from above with strings. He was hunched with age and sported well-worn shoes, a stained shirt with an ID that read MARVIN BERKE in overconfident letters, Coke-bottle glasses, and an unfortunate toupee. He looked like he was fresh off a quarter-century career of selling bibles door-to-door. He had probably been a part of the agency since it was founded in the late ‘40s, tasked with ferrying guests to and from their destinations, never being selected for promotion.

  Higgins thought to give the man a sympathetic smile, but it came off as more of a grimace.

  “Yeah,” said Berke. “Right this way.”

  Berke escorted him through corridors of unlabeled doors. They entered a wing of the building that was obviously still under construction. Paint-spattered swatches of plastic stretched out across large sections of the floor which Berke dutifully stepped around without a word.

  Higgins chuckled and shook his head. Leave it to the CIA to refurbish an entire wing with taxpayers’ money in order to house a unit they’d probably deny existed in the first place.

  But the anticipation of the new job quickly overrode his cynicism. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting himself into. All he knew was that he wanted it. Badly.

  The lanyard that held his guest badge itched the back of his neck. He made an unsuccessful attempt to alleviate it by adjusting its position as Berke escorted him to the double doors of the classroom.

  “You’ll like this room,” said Berke, again raising the marionette arm. “Rolling lawns just outside. Nice day too. This thing better be very interesting. You’ll most likely be staring out the windows.”

  Higgins took the offered hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  Berke scrunched up his face in disgust. “Sir?” Without another word, shuffled off toward his future.

  Three heads turned from the windows as he entered. Male, large, and intimidating. The first had a shaved head. Beady eyes. He was standing with one foot in the center of his chair. His suit was too tight.

  The second man was even bigger. Blond hair, tanned skin. He had a lightning-white scar on the back of his right hand. The third was dark-skinned. Closely cropped hair. His eyes never stopped roving. His hands were twitchy.

  He named them as he went. The Enforcer. The Surfer. The Watcher.

  All three looked at Higgins like he might be lost. The oppressive silence of the room finally snapped Higgins out of taking inventory of their appearances, gleaning any information he could from the way they dressed, the way they moved, even the way they watched him.

  Higgins ducked his head and sat down in one of the chairs in the back. Better to observe from a distance.

  Right on cue, the Surfer swiveled around in his seat and said, “Accounting is on the next floor, pal.”

  “Three floors up,” said Higgins. “If the sign in the lobby is correct, that is.”

  The surfer’s eyes narrowed, but he wore a playful smile. “It’s your funeral.”

  Higgins settled in his seat and kept the three men in his sight as he watched more people file in, mostly by themselves. Nearly all of them appeared to be agents. He sensed a comradery between them – with one-word comments that elicited laughs from others, implying a shared history. As merely a consultant, he would have to work even harder to earn even a modicum of respect. He did a quick survey of body language and mentally tagged those who might give him some trouble like the Surfer.

  A chill began a cour
se down his back, but he shrugged it off. Higgins surmised that many of these agents had already proven themselves in the field. He wasn’t built for that. He never had an interest in that kind of lifestyle. The great missions for him involved code-cracking the human mind and all its modes of communication. He knew he wasn’t the only one preparing for a new breed of warfare. The last year or so had proven that everyone needed to be ready. In Higgins’s mind, Beirut was just the beginning. That’s why they were here.

  He continued his people-watching and noted the wildcards in the mix. It was clear that out of the thirty-odd people in the room, he was the sore thumb here. Everyone looked like they could pack up and hit the pavement in five. Alvin Higgins looked like he was late for a symposium on moral philosophy.

  He felt the change in the room when she entered.

  Dark hair in a neat bun. Pencil skirt and blouse immaculate. She stared at the back wall, avoiding eye contact with everyone, until she sat stiffly in the same row as Higgins. She was the only woman there, a fact of which she seemed keenly aware. A muffled comment from the front of the room tickled out a chorus of rude chuckles.

  Two more stragglers came in and sat down in the front before a group of seasoned agents waltzed through the door. The first was Joseph Decker, the one who’d taken a chance on Higgins. He was the oldest in the room. Decker wore a sweater instead of a jacket. It made him look collegiate and approachable. He had a quick smile and sharp eyes.