Page 136 of Carnal Urges
“Bullshit. Like the Italian philosopher?”
“Yes.”
“How random. Please, continue.”
He clasps his hands behind his back and strolls over to the metal desk, which he perches on, swinging a leg back and forth. It’s a very unmanly posture, and does nothing to raise my nonexistent level of fear.
“Miss Keller, we’re aware of your involvement with the Russian Bratva. We’re also aware of your involvement with the Irish Mob. These are indisputable facts, and well-documented, so please do me the kindness of dispensing with your ploy of innocence.”
I admire his vocabulary. That rabid-dog smile, however, I could do without.
He continues like he’s a pompous university professor giving a lecture that all his students are sleeping through. “According to the Patriot Act, I have the authority to keep you here indefinitely. As a terrorist operative and enemy combatant, you have no rights. Your entire future rests solely in my hands. Please consider all that carefully before you respond to my questions.”
He pauses to give me some time to decide if I’d like to start crying and begging.
I yawn instead.
“How did you become involved with Declan O’Donnell?”
“I have no idea who that is.”
His expression sours. It’s a feat, considering he’s got a face like a toilet bowl. He snaps his fingers, and two enormous men enter the room.
They’re both dressed in military fatigues and combat boots. They’re both the size of mountains. One of them carries a manila folder in his meaty hand, which he gives to the suit. Then they flank the mirrored glass, spread their legs, clasp their hands over their crotches, and look at me.
The one on the right licks his lips.
I bet he’s the one who does the waterboarding.
From the manila folder, the suit removes an eight-by-ten photograph. He holds it up for me to see. It’s a black-and-white shot of me and Declan getting into his giant helicopter.
“This is you.”
“Are you kidding? I’d never wear those jeans. Totally last season.”
He holds out another picture, this one of Declan and me in the kitchen the night of the ill-conceived poker party. Declan is holding my face in his hands. It looks like he’s shouting, which he was.
How creepy that they’ve been watching us. Photographing us together. It gives me chills.
Oh god. Did we have the drapes open when we had sex?
“This is you.”
“No. But whoever that poor girl is, I feel sorry for her. That guy is screaming right into her face. Looks like a lunatic, if you ask me.”
“Oh, he’s undoubtedly a lunatic,” agrees the suit, nodding. “To the best of our knowledge, he’s killed more than thirty-five men. And those are the ones we know about.”
He looks at me expectantly.
I say, “Sounds like he’s got a lot of unresolved issues. I suggest anger management classes.”
He sets the folder and photographs aside. He folds his hands in his lap. He says calmly, “Your father is a patriot. Exceptional man. Exceptional military career. It would be such a pity if he were stripped of all his honors and thrown into prison for aiding and abetting a terrorist.”
My dislike for this guy takes an elevator down to pure hatred, where it disembarks and settles in. I stare at him, all traces of humor vanished.
“Threatening my family isn’t going to work.”
“No? So you’d like your little sister, Riley, to spend some qualitytime with my associate here, Lance Corporal McAllister?” He gestures to the lip licker, who produces a lascivious grin.
