Читать книгу Incite - Джеймс Фрей, James Frey, Nils Johnson-Shelton - Страница 6

“So that was your first murder?”

“No. It was my first kill,” I respond. “It wasn’t planned. I’m not a murderer. I killed him, but I’m not … it’s not what you think.”

He sits down across from me at the table in the corner by the hotel window. My left wrist is handcuffed to the armrest, but it’s an old wooden chair, and when I lean back, the arm comes out of joint. I haven’t tried to push back far enough to get my handcuff off the arm yet. I have to be ready to roll when I do that. I only have one shot at escape.

“How is that not murder?” he asks, his face a mask.

“It was self-defense.” My heart is in my chest. I can’t even tell if I’m bluffing anymore, or if it’s the truth.

“You had just killed two other men. Was that self-defense too?”

“I didn’t kill two men.”

“Your friends did.” The agent—I don’t know if he’s CIA or FBI or what—stands up from his chair and paces the room. I don’t know what to say to him. All I know is that I’ve got to get out of here, fast. The team is counting on me. We don’t have much time.

“The cop,” I say, thinking fast, “had just shot my friend in the chest.”

“Your friend was shot in the chest while you were robbing a store at gunpoint. You face charges of grand larceny, assault with a deadly weapon, and murder, and that doesn’t begin to address what you’re doing here in Germany.”

He is the only agent here—alone and stupid. He’s from the US consulate, and he clearly has no idea who he’s dealing with. He thinks I’m just a run-of-the-mill terrorist. But I’m not. I’m Zero line. What we are doing is so much bigger than one local cop’s life. So much bigger than an FBI agent. So much bigger than me. He’s wasting my time, and time is the one thing we need on our side.

“Listen,” I say, “can I use the bathroom? You’ve had me handcuffed here for two hours.” I’ve also scanned the place for anything I can use to escape. It’s no prison—it’s a hotel. Someone slept in the bed last night. It’s probably this agent’s personal room.

He stares at me through narrowed eyes. “I’ll let you get up when you’re finished answering my questions.” He leans forward, trying to intimidate me. “Why are you in Munich? What’s your plan here?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“We’re not in the United States,” he says. “Different rules.”

“Different rules?” I say, nervously laughing a little bit. “You’re an American, I’m an American. The Constitution guarantees my rights.”

“Here’s the passenger manifest from your flight. I’m going to read through the names, and you’re going to tell me who else is in your group.”

“Seriously?” I say, and laugh. “You have no idea what is going on. No idea.”

“I know that you are part of a terrorist group. That you’re here to make a political statement at the Olympics.”

“I’m not a terrorist. I didn’t have any friends on the plane. I’m not here to make a political statement,” I say flatly and truthfully.

“I don’t believe you, kid.”

While the agent talks, I lean back in my chair. The armrest isn’t moving enough. The joint is loose, but the back of the chair hits the wall, and I’m not able to squeeze the handcuff out through the gap. I grip the armrest, try to guess its weight.

He’s sitting again, and his chair is scooted all the way in to the table.

“I know you’re not here alone. Who else from the plane is working with you? I’m not going to ask again.”

“You’re wasting my time,” I say. “I need to get out of here. I don’t have time.”

I grip the arm of the chair with my handcuffed left hand.

“If it’s so important, why won’t you tell me what it is?”

I shove the table with my right hand, tipping it into the agent’s stomach. I leap to my feet, yank up the chair, and smash it into him. It loses some of its momentum as it scrapes against the wall, but I’m still able to bring it down on him hard. The chair breaks as it hits his shoulder and the table, but the armrest is still in my hand. I beat him across the face with it until he goes down. He’s dazed, and I scramble out from behind the table and pieces of broken chair.

He goes for his gun, slowly pushing the broken chair away. He’s bleeding from his head—a lot. I hit him again with the armrest and then give him a right hook. He’s not struggling anymore, and I grab his pistol from his holster.

I pull the broken armrest out of the handcuff and kneel down next to him to find his keys. I grab them just as he tries to throw a weak punch. It catches me off guard, and I stumble back slightly. But I have his keys and gun, and I hold the pistol in my left hand while I unlock the cuffs.

He looks up at me, his eyes barely open. “Who are you?”

“I’m Zero line. This is Endgame. I’m in Munich to save the world.”