Interrogated

"Army? Why are they here?" I ask, confused.

"You tell me," Dr. Ramorez snaps, irritation lacing his voice.

"Me?" I echo. "Why me?"

Instead of answering, he strides toward the room where I had my bullet removed. Curiosity gets the best of me, so I follow.

"My guess is that they put some kind of tracking device in this," he mutters, holding the extracted bullet under a magnifying glass.

I frown. I'm not entirely convinced, but it's the only explanation that makes sense right now.

"Uncle, they're barging in! The troops are waiting for your order to attack!" Roberto rushes in, panic in his voice.

"Tell them to—"

"No!" I cut in.

Both Roberto and Dr. Ramorez turn to me.

"If your theory is right, then I'm the one they're after," I say firmly. "Don't sacrifice those kids. I'll surrender myself to them."

"They'll still storm this place anyway!" Roberto argues.

"Not if I give them a good story," I reply with a reassuring smile.

Dr. Ramorez sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. Finally, he turns to Roberto. "Tell the troops to step back and get to the bunker."

"But, Uncle—"

"Do it."

Roberto hesitates, his eyes lingering on me for a few seconds before he runs off to deliver the order.

Dr. Ramorez faces me again. "Are you going to be alright?"

I let out a dry chuckle. "Let's hope luck is still on my side."

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" I yell, limping out of the base with both hands raised above my head.

A sharp command is barked in Spanish. Their leader, most likely, telling them to hold fire.

I move slowly into an open field, my posture slouched just enough to appear weak. Around a dozen soldiers stand before me, all pointing their guns directly at me.

"Thank God you're here!" I exclaim, playing my part. "Those rascals, they… they—"

"¡Bájalo! (Drop it!)" the leader shouts.

"What? No Spanish—English! English!" I stammer, keeping my face as clueless as possible.

"¡Bájalo!"* he repeats, this time more forceful, gesturing toward my helmet.

I blink in feigned confusion. "This? You want this?" I touch my helmet.

"¡Bájalo!"* He shouts even louder, clearly running out of patience.

"Okay, okay!" I say, tossing the helmet toward him.

"¡Cuidado!"

The moment my helmet hits the ground, half the soldiers—including their leader—dive for cover, expecting an explosion.

I barely suppress a grin.

For a second, I could escape. But if I did, they'd just keep searching the area—and eventually, they might find Dr. Ramorez and the kids.

So instead, I just stand there and watch them make fools of themselves.

Once the leader realizes my helmet isn't a bomb, his face twists in anger.

"¡Ponte de rodillas!" he barks.

I tilt my head. "No Spanish… no Spanish!" I play dumb.

Frustrated, he jabs his gun hard against my wounded shoulder, forcing me down to my knees.

I wince but keep my mouth shut, not wanting to give away my injury.

"English, please," I mutter. "I don't—"

He cuts me off with a brutal whack to the back of my head.

My vision bursts into static.

My body slumps forward.

Darkness creeps at the edges of my mind, but I fight to stay conscious.

Rough hands yank my arms behind my back. I feel the cold bite of metal cuffs locking around my wrists before a black sack is shoved over my head.

Then, they drag me.

Judging by the height of the step up, I assume I'm thrown into the back of a truck.

The leader barks another order, and soon, I feel more soldiers climb in, surrounding me.

The engine roars to life.

I cross my fingers, praying they don't find Dr. Ramorez or the kids. If they're safe, then all I need to worry about is my escape.

But I'll think about that later.

Right now, my head is throbbing too much to focus.

-

The ride lasts almost an hour.

So, wherever we're going, it's far—definitely not the same location where I got shot.

The truck finally comes to a stop.

I hear boots shuffle around me before someone yanks me up and shoves me forward.

Even with the black sack covering my head, I can tell we're moving indoors—the shift in brightness, the slight echo of footsteps against a hard floor.

Concrete, most likely.

My arms are yanked forward, and I feel something cold wrap around my wrists. Chains.

A low whirring sound follows.

A second later—

My feet leave the ground.

Shit.

They're hanging me.

I grab the iron bar my wrists are shackled to and pull myself up slightly, distributing my weight evenly across my upper body.

If I don't, my muscles will collapse under my own weight.

I know this.

Somehow, I know this.

Like always, I have no idea where I learned these survival instincts.

I just know.

"Who are you?"

The voice is sharp, cutting through the haze of pain like a blade.

"Tom Brady," I answer, giving him the name in my fake passport.

The man chuckles. "Really?"

"I can prove it… if only my bag hadn't been stolen by those rascals," I add, selling my lie. I intentionally left my bag and phone with Dr. Ramorez—I need to make them believe I was robbed by Roberto and his friends.

"Why are you here?"

"I… I'm looking for my fiancée," I say, launching into the story I've prepared. "She… disappeared two months ago. Then, a week ago, someone told me they saw her here. So I came to find her. I rented a vehicle, met that damn kid, and at first, I thought he was taking me to her last known location. But instead, he led me to the middle of nowhere. His friends were waiting—dozens of them. Then they robbed me. Took everything."

The leader listens, eyes studying me.

"Why did you trespass into our territory?"

"I didn't know it was your territory!" I insist. "I was just trying to avoid the chaos in the city! The kid told me to—"

The door creaks open. Someone steps inside, whispering something in Spanish. I can't make out the words, but the tone is urgent.

A second later, heavy boots approach me.

Then—

RIP.

My shirt is torn open.

I immediately know what they're looking for.

"You're lying!"

"I'm not!" I snap back, though my gut clenches. Damn. I should've slept in the truck so my wound had time to heal.

"The bullet in your helmet," the leader says slowly. "It's one of ours. And it has blood on it."

I stay silent.

The man presses a finger directly into my wound.

A sharp jolt of pain rips through me. I wince but clench my jaw shut.

"This… this is where we hit you. Someone took the bullet out. Someone stitched you up."

He waits. I say nothing.

"Who was it?"

"No one," I mutter. "I did it myself."

"Liar!"

A fist slams into my stomach.

Pain explodes through my ribs.

"Who did you meet?"

"No one."

Another punch. This one is harder—sharp enough to knock the air from my lungs.

"The fact that you won't tell us proves this person is important."

"Or maybe… there is no—UGHH!"

Another hit.

Then another.

And another.

Fists hammer into my chest, my ribs, my gut. I keep my mouth shut, but my body writhes under the assault. A particularly vicious punch slams into my jaw, sending white noise through my skull.

"Who?"

I don't answer.

More blows land, rattling my insides, threatening to break something.

"¡Detener!"*

A sharp voice cuts through the beating.

The leader steps back, watching as I cough violently, my body screaming in agony. Some of those punches went deep—I can feel it in my lungs.

These guys know how to torture.

"Still not talking?" the leader muses.

I only respond with a ragged cough, spitting blood onto the ground.

He sighs. "Alright, then… tráelo aquí."

I hear the squeak of wheels as someone pushes a trolley into the room.

The sack is ripped off my head.

I squint as the bright light burns my eyes.

A metal tray sits atop the trolley, lined with syringes and a heart-rate monitor.

The leader picks up one of the syringes, already filled with liquid.

"This is the strongest truth serum we have," he announces.

I suppress a grimace.

I know this method.

Somehow, even if I don't remember where, I know I've been through this before.

"I have nothing to hide," I say, my voice hoarse. I spit more blood onto the floor.

The leader grins. "Then you have nothing to fear."

Someone ties a leather belt around my lower arm, tight, until my veins bulge.

I flinch as the needle pierces my skin.

Seconds later, the liquid flows into my bloodstream.

Thirty seconds after that—

My heartbeat spikes.

My head swims.

The room starts to tilt.

The leader's voice reaches me from a distance, like he's speaking from the end of a tunnel.

"What is your name?"

"Tom…" I mumble.

My chest tightens.

The squeezing pain is unbearable.

I choke out, "Bennet."

Even I am surprised when the name escapes my lips.

The leader chuckles. "Bennet. Not Brady, huh?"

I shake my head instinctively.

My heart relaxes instantly.

"See, Bennet, the beauty of this serum is that even if you don't tell the truth—we know when you're lying."

I grit my teeth.

"You know how a lie detector works, right? When someone lies, their heart rate spikes. This serum amplifies that effect—hundreds of times over. If you lie, your heart will feel like it's being crushed."

My forehead beads with sweat.

"So… where do you come from, Bennet?"

"Country A."

"What is your fiancée's name?"

Even thinking about the fact that I don't have a fiancée makes my chest seize.

"Jennifer…" I blurt out. "McCourtney."

The pressure immediately fades.

Not my fiancée. But she should have been.

The leader smirks. "She disappeared?"

"Yes," I answer. From my life.

"Why are you here?"

"Looking for—"

The moment I try to say Ramorez, my heart clamps down, crushing me from the inside out.

A drop of sweat rolls off my nose.

I can't say it.

"Looking for what?"

I swallow hard. "The truth."

"About?"

"My past."

"Your past?"

I nod firmly.

The leader sighs. "Who took the bullet out of you?"

"I did," I lie.

A blinding pain shreds through my heart.

I groan—I can't hide it this time.

"I'll ask again. Who treated your wound?"

"No one," I manage through clenched teeth.

More agony.

The leader smirks. "Tough guy, huh?"

He motions to his men.

Another syringe.

Shit.

"Can I have some water?" I ask, panting. Stalling.

"After we're done questioning you."

"Who treated your wound?"

"N—ARRGH!"

The pain doubles, my heart convulsing violently.

"A doctor," I finally blurt out. "A doctor!"

The leader gestures, and a soldier shoves a glass of water toward me.

I gulp it down like a dying man.

"How did you find the doctor?"

"I didn't. He found me."

"What is the doctor's name?"

I shake my head. "I don't know."

The cramping returns.

"What is the doctor's name, Bennet?"

I physically can't answer. The pain is too much.

"Still refusing?" The leader clicks his tongue. "Stubborn."*

He lifts a third syringe.

My blood runs cold.

"This last injection might kill you, Bennet. But you leave me no choice."

"No…" I mumble weakly.

But the needle plunges into my skin.