same position as Dylan was in, eying out the various bottles of booze next to him.
“ Who was that blond that was here earlier,” Brooks asked, without introducing himself.
David let out a quick laugh. “Yeah she's tasty, alright. Her name is Marla,” he answered, then picked up the bottle of French vodka that Dylan had brought. He took another look at the label, thinking of what kind of drink he'd have next. He looked at Brooks again, “She has a boyfriend, man. A big guy. Somebody you don't want to mess with.” Brooks smiled a big shit eating grin, “They all have boyfriends. Think that's ever stopped me before my friend.” Brooks gave the men a nod and walked out of the kitchen in search of Marla.
“That must be Brooksie. Joanne told me he was a dog,” David said with another quick laugh.
“ Well, he's not the Don Juan he pretends to be. But yeah he is a dog.”
David smiled. “I'm going to have to keep a close eye on him tonight. See how he does it.”
The two men let out a hearty laugh. “Changing the subject,” Dylan said, “That song that was just playing, that you were singing along to, that song in banned. Do you know that?” David let out an even bigger laugh than he did earlier. “Of course, man! By the Patriot Communications Act. Everyone knows that.” He then began making himself another drink. Dylan pressed the subject, “Aren't you at all worried about being arrested?” David's playful demeanor changed to a more serious tone. “You're just as guilty as I am, dude. The government doesn't care if you like the music or not. They'll arrest you for just listening to it. But don't worry. The neighbors are all cool.”
TEN
The interrogations of the latest group of terror suspects went on all day and into the evening. Deep inside Building 6 of Homeland Security headquarters, Senior Agent Mike Goodman stood with several plainclothes officers behind the one way glass mirror of the command room. The group of four men and three women were silent as they peered into the adjacent interrogation chamber.
The chamber was bare with unpainted cement brick walls and a single steel door that was just starting to rust due to the cold and dampness. A single spotlight shone over the naked male prisoner in an otherwise near pitch dark room. From the ceiling a stainless steel chain dropped down from a mechanical pulley. The prisoner hung by his hands, with leather straps securely attached. Two Homeland Security Detectives dressed in black uniforms stood to either side of the prisoner while the Senior Detective beat him with a hollow rubber baton.
The Senior Detective was a large, overweight man in his early fifties. He looked to be at the very least two hundred and eighty pounds. He scowled at the prisoner, emanating a viciousness designed to instill fear into his victim. The two junior associates were learning the ropes. One was a leathery faced man in his mid twenties with a shaved head. The other was a heavy set muscular woman in her late thirties, with closed cropped blond hair, and a tattoo of a winged serpent etched upon her the side of her neck.
Goodman was directing the interrogation from the command room that night. Usually the Detectives did the work themselves without interference from senior officers. If a command officer was overseeing the work of the Detectives, it was usually carried out by an officer at Agent level. It was rare for a Senior Agent to bother themselves with overseeing the interrogation of terror suspects. With his promotion to head of counterinsurgency in New England, Goodman was intent on overseeing all of the interrogations of the terror suspects rounded up from the college frat house a few days prior. Also, it would be a good chance to train the junior officers in interrogation techniques.
Goodman looked over the group of officers assembled before him. “The point is to make the suspect feel as helpless as possible. You always start with an hour or so of
“ Who was that blond that was here earlier,” Brooks asked, without introducing himself.
David let out a quick laugh. “Yeah she's tasty, alright. Her name is Marla,” he answered, then picked up the bottle of French vodka that Dylan had brought. He took another look at the label, thinking of what kind of drink he'd have next. He looked at Brooks again, “She has a boyfriend, man. A big guy. Somebody you don't want to mess with.” Brooks smiled a big shit eating grin, “They all have boyfriends. Think that's ever stopped me before my friend.” Brooks gave the men a nod and walked out of the kitchen in search of Marla.
“That must be Brooksie. Joanne told me he was a dog,” David said with another quick laugh.
“ Well, he's not the Don Juan he pretends to be. But yeah he is a dog.”
David smiled. “I'm going to have to keep a close eye on him tonight. See how he does it.”
The two men let out a hearty laugh. “Changing the subject,” Dylan said, “That song that was just playing, that you were singing along to, that song in banned. Do you know that?” David let out an even bigger laugh than he did earlier. “Of course, man! By the Patriot Communications Act. Everyone knows that.” He then began making himself another drink. Dylan pressed the subject, “Aren't you at all worried about being arrested?” David's playful demeanor changed to a more serious tone. “You're just as guilty as I am, dude. The government doesn't care if you like the music or not. They'll arrest you for just listening to it. But don't worry. The neighbors are all cool.”
TEN
The interrogations of the latest group of terror suspects went on all day and into the evening. Deep inside Building 6 of Homeland Security headquarters, Senior Agent Mike Goodman stood with several plainclothes officers behind the one way glass mirror of the command room. The group of four men and three women were silent as they peered into the adjacent interrogation chamber.
The chamber was bare with unpainted cement brick walls and a single steel door that was just starting to rust due to the cold and dampness. A single spotlight shone over the naked male prisoner in an otherwise near pitch dark room. From the ceiling a stainless steel chain dropped down from a mechanical pulley. The prisoner hung by his hands, with leather straps securely attached. Two Homeland Security Detectives dressed in black uniforms stood to either side of the prisoner while the Senior Detective beat him with a hollow rubber baton.
The Senior Detective was a large, overweight man in his early fifties. He looked to be at the very least two hundred and eighty pounds. He scowled at the prisoner, emanating a viciousness designed to instill fear into his victim. The two junior associates were learning the ropes. One was a leathery faced man in his mid twenties with a shaved head. The other was a heavy set muscular woman in her late thirties, with closed cropped blond hair, and a tattoo of a winged serpent etched upon her the side of her neck.
Goodman was directing the interrogation from the command room that night. Usually the Detectives did the work themselves without interference from senior officers. If a command officer was overseeing the work of the Detectives, it was usually carried out by an officer at Agent level. It was rare for a Senior Agent to bother themselves with overseeing the interrogation of terror suspects. With his promotion to head of counterinsurgency in New England, Goodman was intent on overseeing all of the interrogations of the terror suspects rounded up from the college frat house a few days prior. Also, it would be a good chance to train the junior officers in interrogation techniques.
Goodman looked over the group of officers assembled before him. “The point is to make the suspect feel as helpless as possible. You always start with an hour or so of
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