Page 127 of Debt of My Soul

Leaning forward, both arms on the table, I say, “None of your damn business. This meeting is over.”

The chair I’m in whines as it slides back, and I stride for the door, ignoring the “Agent Parker” coming out of the man’s mouth.

“You know it’s protocol.” Wilson chuckles as I slam the door shut.

“I don’t care. I’m done with this. I hate being in the office.”

The Jackson Drug Enforcement Agency offices are old and moldy. Priority for upgrades is low on the list for the small offices of Mississippi.

I’m hours away from Ruin and it’s driving me wild not being able to go talk to Fleur.

Agent Wilson follows me to the bullpen where I grab a file folder of paperwork needing my signature off of my temporary desk. Most field agents aren’t in the office much, and I’ve been in here a grand total of two times.

Pausing, I open the desk drawer and pull out my badge. The textured letters are rough under my thumb as I brush it.

“Does it feel weird … being here, able to converse as Agent Parker?”

Nodding, I keep my eyes glued on the shiny, like new badge and slide it into my jean’s pocket.

“Come on, I’ll grab you a cup of vending machine coffee before we hit the bunks for the night.”

A headache blooms behind my eyes and I rip off the shirt I slept in and exchange it for a plain black T-shirt from the drug store.

Since I’m currently stuck in this building until I’m cleared, I had to ask one of the office admins to gather me some supplies.

I swipe my wallet, gun, and badge off the small nightstand next to the bunk and open the door. I glance at the clock on the stark white walls of the hallway: 7:00 a.m.

I wonder what Fleur is doing. I’m sure my grandmother is shoving baked goods down her throat.

The desire to steal someone’s phone and call Old Hillside eats at me. My phone’s been confiscated until I’ve completed my debrief and psych evaluations. Apparently, over four years under deep cover makes you more of a risk instead of a loyal agent giving away years of your life.

Hell, bureaucracy sucks.

I use the last of my one-dollar bills to grab a granola bar from an ancient vending machine and end up spitting it out in the trash when it’s harder than a rock.

“You’re needed in the observation room for Darrin’s questioning.” Agent Hunter jogs up beside me and slaps me on the shoulder. “Oh, and everyone knows all the food in the machine is expired. Better steer clear.”

He laughs and I flick him off, making him laugh even harder. I wander the mostly empty halls until I reach the observation room. Agent Wilson and his FBI counterpart stand there. Two tech guys are set up with their equipment in the corner, ready to read body language and record audio. The see-through window is tinted, taking up the entire length of the one wall.

Darrin sits in an orange jumper, hands cuffed to the table. Both ankles are clasped in manacles as well.

He stares straight ahead, both of those eyes meeting mine even though I know he can’t see me.

“That man is creepy,” the FBI agent murmurs.

The door to the interrogation room opens and our boss walks in. His silver beard is trimmed short, and his black suit is already wrinkled before lunch.

The questioning starts simple. What’s your name? When were you born? He answers it all, but the interrogation slams to a halt when the questions about the compound come into play. Information about the Cartel or Raven, he won’t give up.

Darrin’s mouth is sealed shut until he says, “I want to talk to Liam. I’ll only talk to him.”

Figures. But I guess that’s why I’m here.

My boss stands, exits the room, and I meet him in the hall.

“We need the Cartel information, names up the chain in the network, and anything he can give us on Raven.”

My stomach sours at Raven’s name. Yeah, I want Raven’s information, too. I nod, rolling my neck and entering the room.

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