Secrets of the Crown Assassins

36

XAVIER

We walked through the dark metal halls, a gust of cold air following us. Damien squinted up at the bright white lights.

The idiot decided to wait until the last minute to wake up again. And then he had the audacity to get coffee. And dad didn't stop him.

Spoiled brat.

I pushed through the metal door at the end of the hallway, Arielle and Phoenix tailing us. We stepped into the room which we spent most of the night in.

A large one-way window took up the left wall, revealing an interrogation room on the other side. Screens lined the adjacent wall, filled with medical files and measurements of the prisoner's current state. Two doctors watched the measurements, talking to each other in whispers as they recorded the effects of the torture.

In the interrogation room, the door leading to the prison cells opened and three guards dragged the Raven prisoner inside.

The bomber carried bandages and bruises from his previous three intervals of interrogation. He limped towards the table in the center of the room. Heavy sighs echoed through the speakers as he lowered himself into the metal chair, wincing.

So far, we didn't get much information from him. We only knew that the partners who helped him bomb my mother were dead. One was run over by a car and the others we killed in the alleyway attack. I already knew that but, apparently, the Crown Fortier deemed it useful information because he allowed the prisoner three hours of rest.

I suppose it was a good thing the Crown Fortier was a fool. Otherwise, we would've been continuously torturing him with no results.

A doctor ran into the interrogation room and connected numerous sensors around the prisoner's body. I watched as the screens blinked green, connecting to the equipment. The two doctors nodded to each other in confirmation.

Useless actions. The other could clearly see that they were connected if they moved their eyes merely an inch over.

They started questioning the man, testing their faulty polygraphs with simple questions they knew the answer to.

What is your name? How old are you? Where were you born? Did you bomb the Queens? Did you kill Kingston Queen?

The answers sent anger scorching through my chest. I ignored it.

The prisoner, William Johnson, 19, looked down at the table. His head hung in wariness. He was close to breaking. Adding more physical pain would make him clam up again, revive his belief that we were evil and must be stopped. But a few gentle strokes, veiled jabs to the mind, and he would crumble.

I watched, wondering if the interrogator was smart enough to figure it out. Otherwise, we would have another one to fire, which would be a shame as we were getting considerably low in the numbers of people truly loyal to us.

There was a moment of silence in which the interrogator said nothing, and I knew why. Through the screens, I could see the tilt of the prisoner's lower lip, a habit of his whenever he was about to speak. His chest was slightly puffed, holding his breath. He was tense, hesitating.

Tell him to speak.

Edsel shook his head. "Why aren't they starting? He needs to get his supplies and start. We don't have all day."

He reached for the intercom on his armchair when my father placed a hand on his arm.

"Wait," my father said.

Arielle turned to me from my right, her eyes furrowed. She was asking me why. I nodded towards Johnson.

Watch.