It was one of the three CIA clowns who had brought them down to the sublevel. In the fluorescent-lit room, Top had lost all track of time, so he and Gaucho spent the hours glancing at each other occasionally, because they couldn’t speak through the gags. Movement was impeded since they were shackled to chairs bolted to the floor. The guy monitoring them didn’t say a word, just walked up to Gaucho, grabbing him by the beard, and punched him in the sternum. Gaucho doubled over, the chains of his shackles clanging. As Gaucho let out a stifled moan, Top pulled against his restraints, and tried to say, “Come and hit me,” but the words never got past the gag. “Ah, the big boy wants some too!” The guy stepped in front of Top, his once-serious face replaced with a smile. He eased out of his suit coat, folding it neatly and setting it aside. “How about you, big ape? You tell me where you want it.” Top stuck out his chin. “Ooh, you’re a tough guy. You know, you never should have messed with Wiley, because when you tangle with Wiley, you have to deal with me.”
