"So, what's the backstory here?" I ask.
"I can't tell you everything, but Mason Philips was practicing unlawful methods of interrogation, most of which were intended for high-profile scenarios. With the help of his apprentices, he developed a new method referred to as Darkest Perception. It's a form of music torture with the use of techniques that cause over-stimulation of the brain. Phillips tested this method on forty people, tweaking it slightly each time, but using them as if they were all disposable. As a result, they all died from complications. The technique can, in fact, be tweaked to work appropriately, but the way he was conducting the testing was highly illegal. What’s worse, is some of the information about Darkest Perception got leaked, and there are copycats trying to replicate what they assume is music torture. It went viral until we could get most of the popular videos shut down, but we believe there are still some videos on YouTube that will cause some damage, even if used properly. In any case, the effect from those videos is nothing in comparison to the original ensemble, but the documentation and MP3 file needs to be confiscated and kept away from the public before more damage is done."
"Shit," is all I can come up with. Phillips. The guy always seemed like a loose cannon, and now that I’m hearing this information, I can picture him accidentally murdering innocent people. I suppose mad scientists are known for that shit too.
"As mentioned, the woman you will be searching for holds the knowledge conceived by Phillips. It's a serious danger to civilians. We cannot simply arrest her as an accomplice because she was never caught in the official act of murder with Phillips, nor do we have proof that she was a part of the development of the technique. If we do obtain proof—the files—from her, however, she will be put away with Phillips. All we know right now is that man was smart enough to keep those testing incidents private and secluded from his apprentices. Regardless of what she has knowledge of, she knows too much and might have been brainwashed to do whatever is necessary to protect his documentation and files."
"Understood," I tell him. I watch as Agent Roberts slides his hand into the inside of his coat pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, then places it down on the table and slides it over to me. "Why me?"
"You shared a class with this woman," he tells me. "In fact, we’ve been tipped off by an unknown source that you were friends with her."
"In high school?" I ask, knowing I went to five different high schools in four years.
"No, at Boston University."
I laugh because I was never a student at BU. "That couldn't have been me."
"You sat through a semester of classes with Dr. Phillips as part of his treatment, correct?"
I almost forgot. It was at the beginning of my sentence and only for a semester. "Right, yeah, I was in one class."
"You sat beside her," Agent Roberts continues. "Isabelle Hammel."
I've always assumed the government knows what they want to know, but how the hell would they know who I was sitting next to in that class? How long have they been watching me? Her. Jesus. Who even knew we were friends?
"Isabelle, I remember her very well." How could I forget her?
He wants me to fucking destroy her life.
She was this adorable nerd, but also one of those suburban rich girls who probably grew up using dollar bills as toilet paper. I spent the entire semester envious of her, as well as, admiring every attribute she encompassed. I'm not sure I was ever forced to inhale the scent of an expensive flowery perfume so many days in a row, but it became intoxicating. She became intoxicating—a far reach for a scrub like me to own even a second of her attention, but we were friends throughout the duration of the class. I would have liked there to be more between us, but I was still owned by the state during that time.
"Good, then I assume you won't have much trouble locating her," Agent Roberts continues.
My mouth says, "No, sir, I won't have any trouble," but my head is seizing with regretful thoughts. I could never hurt her, or turn her in for that matter. I can’t imagine she took part in what she’s being accused of. They must be mistaking her for someone else.
"Your weekly salary will be ten grand. You'll have a driver, and we'll grant you residence in this hotel on the penthouse floor. We have a contract with Hotel Long Wharf."
Finding it difficult to swallow, I chug down the glass of water sitting in front of me that I hadn't noticed until right this second. "Okay," I garble.
"Isabelle Hammel is in hiding, so I realize this won't be a simple job. We will give you the time you need to locate her and do what needs to be done after we train you to handle any particular situations that may arise."
As I finish the last drop of my water and place my empty glass down, thoughts and questions consume me. "I have no resources to find her," I tell him, keeping my situation vague, though I'm sure he's aware of everything my life has become.
"We need some paperwork from you——signatures, the necessities to formalize your position as a private mercenary for the U.S. Government, then you will be protected and covered under our jurisdiction." Agent Roberts hasn't had a change of expression since the moment we sat down at this table. It's as if nerves don't affect him—as if he's numb to all kinds of secrecy and underground projects.
I open the piece of paper he handed to me, finding Isabelle's name written across the top. The woman in the black and white picture is the person I remember, with her long, barrel-curled hair, piercing eyes, and a body any man would kill to touch. It was as if she had to try and fit the role of looking studious, so she would wear these dark-rimmed reading glasses that only added to her sex appeal. Yet, at the same time, I had a suspicion she had no clue that men were ogling her daily. I don’t think she had much interest in the idea of a social life like most college girls do.
"I believe her appearance may have changed slightly since you've seen her last. We can't say for sure, but it's important to keep the thought in mind."
"Of course," I tell him.
"We will supply you with the technology you need, as well."
"I have one last request," I tell him, not even feeling as though I'm pressing my luck. "I want a partner."
"Everett McGovern," he says, obviously knowing my only relationship outside of my previous confinement.
"Yes," I agree.
"Done," he says. "Tomorrow morning at seven, please meet us here in the lobby and we will set you up with the resources needed to begin. You can plan on being consumed by training for a couple of months, which will include other small projects for you to build upon your technique, confidence and knowledge on methods of interrogation. I’m also aware of the psychology courses you’ve attended as a part of your rehab program this last year, which will come in handy. Oh, and of course, all test cases you work on in the interim, while searching for Isabelle Hammel, will only be for the greater good. It’s important to remember that."
"Yes, sir," I reply so easily, agreeing to destroy the life of a girl I once hoped would notice me long enough to just ask my name.
19
Harley
Sitting on a private jet is a new one for me. I'm knee to knee with Axel and sitting beside Everett. The tension is more than my nerves can handle at the moment, in combination with flying. Neither of them have divulged information surrounding the reason we're traveling to D.C. I just know it’s the last place I want to be, especially seeing as Axel knows too much about me. I need get away from them.