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I open my mouth, shutting it again when I remember I’m not supposed to say anything.
Luis chuckles. “I’ll take that as I yes.”
Fuck it, I’m giving this asshole a piece of my mind.
I take a deep breath, but I’m cut off by a sudden explosion of glass from beside me.
36
Pasha
Do they really think that a flimsy pair of handcuffs would stop me from jumping out of my seat and breaking their necks? If I wanted to, I could commandeer this entire police station on my own and kill every last one of these motherfuckers for inconveniencing me.
I wouldn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for anyone here. I never had any to begin with, and I certainly don’t have any now that they’ve arrested me on some bogus charges.
Someone must’ve tipped off the FBI with false information about drug trafficking, and I can only think of one person who hates me enough to do something like that.
Anatoly. I’m going to kill that punk when I see him again.
A light hangs from the ceiling of the stale interrogation room at the police headquarters. The FBI have this place on lockdown, and two agents in blue jackets are sitting across from me, trying to pry information out of me that simply doesn’t exist.
There are no drugs on that plane. For the first time in my life, I’m innocent.
I lean back in my seat, holding my cuffed hands out in front of me in a show of guiltlessness. “There’s nothing I can tell you. I’m sure this will get resolved soon, but until then, I think I’d like a cigar.”
“Cigarettes are for talkers,” one of the agents replies. He’s the more talkative one. Thebadcop, if you will. The other one just gives me a look of pity, like I should go along with the bad cop so that I can have my smoke.
“I didn’t ask for a cigarette, dickhead,” I growl, pulling my hands apart and snapping the links between the handcuffs like they’re made of tin foil.
Both agents jump out of their chairs, reaching for their stun guns like that would stop me from killing them both. I have half a mind to teach them a permanent lesson, but I don’t want to add any extra charges to my docket. Murder is a lot harder for a judge to quietly drop than drug trafficking.
“Don’t get too spooked,” I say, raising my hands as stun guns are pointed at me. “Cuff me with something more substantial this time, maybe. Or stop being such pussies. Your choice.”
“Cuff him,” the bad cop tells the other one, nodding at me.
The other cop hesitates, his hands shaking as he tries to figure out what to do.
“Don’t be scared,” I say with a smirk, holding out my hands. “Cuff me again. I promise I won’t break them this time.”
“Cuff him!” the bad cop urges again.
The good cop, obedient boy that he is, puts his stun gun away and pulls out a pair of handcuffs exactly like the ones I just broke. I stifle a groan. These guys must really be idiots. This isn’t even a challenge for me anymore. It’s just fucking boring.
I sigh as he slaps the cuffs on my wrists, tightening them extra this time, as though that will prevent me from breaking them. If anything, it’ll make it easier.
“How about a smoke now?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.
“Talkers get to smoke,” the bad cop reiterates.
I chuckle. “I am talking.”
“Talk about the drugs.”
“Which ones? Cocaine? Fentanyl? Heroin? Weed?”
“The ones on the plane,” he grumbles as both of them sit down again.
I frown, pouting my lips a bit as though I’m trying hard to remember what I had on board. “Ah, you’re talking about the paracetamol. I know it isn’t commonplace in the United States, but the Europeans seem to love it. Great for headaches.”
