Identity - Rewritten

Chapter Thirty-Eight

December 2013

Blue light from the backlit aquarium is the only thing illuminating the room, and to the man kneeling a few feet in front of her, Smoke is nothing more than a silhouette. It serves the purpose of both theatrics and mystery, so she doesn't bother to turn on any other lights. She doesn't need to see the man's face in clear detail anyway: she already knows what he looks like.

Hands flush with the cherry wood, Smoke leans back a little more against the edge of her desk, feet firm on the light carpet below her. The man is silent; he almost escaped capture, but her men had gotten to him in the end. He was good, but not good enough.

The two goons Smoke has stationed by the door are watching carefully, waiting for her next command. The whole room is caught up in the suspense, waiting for her next move, her next word.

She revels in the power of that.

"Your name is Charlie Beckett. You have three sisters, two nieces, and four nephews. Your mother is in assisted living in upstate New York, and your father and step-mother are on vacation in Cuba. Tell me what I want to know, or I'll have them all killed."

The man– Beckett– stares at Smoke for a moment before responding, the look on his face the look of a man who's quickly running out of options. "I don't understand. My identity is redacted– how did you–"

Smoke cuts him off with a hand, and a simple wave of her fingers. "I'm going to get bored very quickly by your questions, Agent Beckett. That's for me to know, and for you not to find out, simply because I really don't care enough to tell you." She takes a step forward, watching as the Agent flinches before he can think better of it. A slow, cruel smile eclipses Smoke's lips.

"What do you want from me?" Beckett's voice is level even though Smoke can see the fear in his eyes.

She leans down a little, so that the Agent can get a better view of her face; it would be nice for him to remember her as she is: a beautiful angel of death.

She pauses for a moment, and takes a few breaths in this uncomfortable proximity. "I know that someone in your organization keeps a highly illegal file, with the names, current aliases, and mission statuses of your colleagues. I know that that person is compiling it to sell to the highest bidder. I know that you're helping them, and I know that you're not the one in charge. I need to know who that person is." Smoke pauses, and allows a few seconds for the agent to process this. "My bid, Charlie Beckett, is your life."

Beckett's face pales, and Smoke watches him as he looks to her, and then his bindings– assessing his options. Wondering if he should risk trying to escape. She doesn't like that at all.

Smoke looks up toward her lackeys, gesturing for one to come over with the simple crook of a finger. In seconds, Beckett has the barrel of a glock pressed against his temple.

"I'm not asking," Smoke says, unimpressed.

Beckett's mouth gapes like a fish's, and he says nothing.

"Who is it, Agent?" Smoke is quickly losing his patience; she glances very obviously at the delicate gold watch on her wrist. "Who's compiling the list? Where can I find them?"

The agent shakes his head, face resolute.

Smoke sighs, and straightens up. "I didn't want to have to do this the hard way, Charlie, but you leave me no choice." She gestures to the man holding the gun to Beckett's head, and holsters the gun and curls his large, meaty hand around the man's neck instead. He begins to squeeze, and the agent's eyes roll back in his head as he claws at the hand choking him to no avail.