The cabin is situated in the middle of nowhere. The perfect place to conduct negotiations. For the poor motherfucker tied to the chair, though, it's anything but perfect. There aren't going to be any negotiations with him.
The only light in the cabin is from lit two candles in the middle of atable where Trey, the aforementioned motherfucker, sits. I stand in the shadows and watch as Reuben stands over him, asking him exactly what I want asked.
Reuben's a baby, really. All of nineteen, this little bit of interrogation is him getting his dick wet. Hell, if the government can do it and get awaywith it, we sure as hell can. Besides, we're doing the government a favor. We're saying no to drugs.
Trey's a middle-level shit that works for a psycho named Rafael. Rafael's my competition. Thinks he's fucking bad-ass.
I can already see the tears in the eyes of this poor bastard that had the unfortunate luck to run into us outside the McDonald's.
The questions are simple. I just want to know three simple things: which ship, which can on the ship the drugs are in and when the ship is coming in.
I figured we'd try the easy approach first. Just tell us. When he decidesnot to, Reuben looks up at me. We figured this would happen. Or at least Idid. I nod. I see Reuben's eyes question me and I nod again.
Reuben takes one of Trey's hands and starts to flatten it out against thetable in front of him. He pulls a knife out and lets Trey see it and then hehesitates. Reuben isn't going to do it.
I move forward and grab the knife from him and pin Trey's hand to the table with it. One of the candles falls over and hits the floor. I snuff it with my boot.
Trey screams like a bitch in labor. There's whimpering that goes on a while and the tears are still flowing freely. Reuben's crying, too. I can hear him sniffling, even if I can't really see him in the half light.
"Which ship, what can, when?" I say to the guy. My voice is calm and even.
Trey gives it up so easily. I thank him and shoot him in the face. I watch Reuben flinch when I do it. Then I shoot him, too.
Reuben's face, what I can see of it, has a questioning look on it.
"That was your problem, Reuben," I tell him, as his body sags to the floor."Too many questions, not enough action."
BIO: Christopher Grant is the owner and editor of A Twist Of Noir, a crime and noir fiction site. His fiction appeared at the now-defunct Muzzle FlashFiction. The rest can be found at Powder Burn Flash.