The nylon lines about him flexed. The chair creaked. His belly ached. His hair pulled. He shifted. Resettled. Thus far, the hiccups were probably the worst part of this nightmare. And these jerks had given them to him. He lowered his chin and looked balefully at the gent sitting opposite him, dressed in beige-colored camouflage, a sub-machinegun across his thighs. The smile on his face was directed toward Sam’s discomfort. Especially the hair. They’d made fun of it. Somebody joked that he was pretty easy to catch with such long locks. Another guy mentioned how his hair might sound hot in a magazine article, but it sure wasn’t helping him now, was it? And somebody had added that it really made him look feminine, too. They shouldn’t have given him that truth serum stuff. He would have told them what he knew. He hadn’t done anything. He wasn’t anybody. This was all a mistake. Heck. He hadn’t even known a bunch of morons operated a secret base just outside of Detroit.
