She climbed off the desk and arched her back with a wince. After the day’s double raids, her spine was a sore and angry beast. Now she was about to interrogate a woman who, under the worst circumstances, could snap it like a breadstick.
The Charleston outpost was a small operation—seventeen employees in an old brick building that stood alone on a tree-lined hill. The hallways were lit by antiquated filament bulbs and stacked with dusty radio equipment. The local Deps specialized in solving broadcast crimes, everything from the illegal transmission of foreign film and video (“mudding”) to the hijacking of lumivision signals for the purposes of mischief (“surping”).
The most wanted felon in the office was a legendary figure known only as Surpdog. At least twice a month, the mysterious assailant would preempt a random broadcast with fifty-four seconds of guerrilla video, an ever-changing montage of beautiful images from other nations. After eighteen years and 452 surpings, all the agents knew about their target was that he hated American isolationism and was extremely good at covering his tracks. Melissa liked Surpdog’s message. She hoped the Deps never caught him, if he even was a he.
She stopped at the door to the makeshift interrogation room and blew a heavy breath. Howard eyed her cautiously.
“Be careful in there. We don’t know those machines will work.”
“I appreciate the concern, Howard. I’ll be fine. Say, when’s your birthday?”
“Uh, February 10th. Why?”
When she was a field agent, Melissa didn’t do much hobnobbing with her peers. Now that she was a supervisor, she figured she’d have to start asking people how their weekends were. She’d have to give them cards on their birthdays.
“No matter.”
She cleared her throat, adjusted her skirt, then opened the door to her eminent guest.
Amanda sat on a worn brown sofa, the only conventional piece of furniture in the large room. Her wrists and ankles were fastened to the floor by thick metal chains, giving her just enough slack to sit upright. She wore a dark blue jumpsuit with the DP-9 logo emblazoned across the right breast, plus a grated metal collar that wasn’t tethered to anything. A quartet of slim mechanical towers surrounded her in a perfect square formation. Each one was six feet tall and filled with humming blue bulbs. They reminded Amanda of bug zappers.
Melissa pulled a folding chair to the center of the room. The two women studied each other.
“Well, here we are,” said Melissa.
“Here we are,” Amanda echoed.
“You like the new color?”
“What?”
“Your hair. That was quite a change, going from red to black.”
Amanda blinked distractedly. “Oh. Yeah. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you like it better black?”
“I don’t know why you’re asking me about my hair.”
“It’s just an icebreaker.”
“Well, congrats. You made me more nervous.”
Amanda still reeled from the knockout gas. She had no idea of time or place. For all she knew, she was in some government black site in central Asia. Or maybe she’d died and gone to a strange little corner of Hell, where all the demons were beautiful and droll.
Melissa flipped through a stack of color printouts. “And your physical state?”
“Queasy. My ears are ringing like murder.”
“Normal side effects of the gas. You’ll recover in an hour or two.”
“I feel like none of this is happening. Like this is all a dream.”
“That could also be a side effect,” Melissa said. “Or possibly just denial. In either case, I assure you you’re not dreaming. Unless I’m the one in denial.”
Amanda eyed her in leery wonder. She’d spent many nights imagining her interrogation at the hands of federal agents. This woman couldn’t have been further from her expectations.
“Where are we?”
“West Virginia,” Melissa replied. “Roughly eighty miles from your place of capture. Do you know my name?”
“No. How the hell would I?”
“I thought maybe Theo told you. He seemed to know it.”
“Is he here? How is he?”
Melissa chewed her lip in contemplation. It was too soon to start bartering for information. Amanda could use a good faith token.
“He’s on his way here. He was taken to a hospital for tests. From what I’m told, he’s been given painkillers and is now sleeping like an infant.”
Amanda let out a dismal chuckle. Melissa cocked her head at her. “What?”
“Nothing. That’s all I wanted. I just wanted him to get some relief.”
“Well, that you accomplished. I’m Melissa Masaad, the DP-9 agent in charge of this investigation. I’ve been eager to meet you for quite some time.”
“No doubt,” said Amanda. “Where are you from? I can’t place the accent.”
“I’m North Sudanese, formally educated in British schools.”
“How long have you been here?”
“About two years,” she replied, with a provocative glance. “You?”