“Well, if you know so much about me, why the hell are you pounding my face in?” Jason said.

“We need to be certain that you're not holding back. We need to be certain that you're telling us everything you know,” the voice growled.

Jason was having trouble remembering very much right now, so he decided to clarify things a little. “Tell you everything about what? If you keep rattling my brain around inside my skull, pretty soon, I'm going to forget my own name and start pissing my pants when I cough.”

A whisper of feet from behind him and a sharp open-handed slap to the back of his head was accompanied by, “Less of your funny yap-yap, taxi man.” Jason turned to explain how he felt about being slapped like that using very colorful language, but the figure had already disappeared back into the shadows of the room.

“Listen, guys, if you just tell me what you want to know, I'll be on my way, and you can get back to the terrorist clothing and minimalist lighting convention you're running here. How does that sound?”

He was sure he heard a snort of laughter from somewhere in the room. Then again, it might have been inside his own head. That happened sometimes.

“Mr. Armstrong, if you want to walk out of this room in one piece, we want to know every single goddamned thing you know about William Heller,” the main voice said.

The words 'Oh shit, on shit, oh shit' flashed on and off like faulty neon signs inside Jason's mind.

First, the crazy old man, and his stories, and now, these guys.

This had not been a good month. No, sir. Not a good month at all, and it didn't look like it was going to improve any time soon.