They Call Me...Montey Greene

Chapter Fifty Nine

ALUMINUM CHAIRS on either side of an aluminum table, a windowless room minus that two way mirror and a clock on the wall. The man who responded to the name Montey Greene found himself sitting in a room similar to the one he sat in when he was detained by customs in Milan, Italy. The only addition was the handcuffs around his wrist.—the nightmare that he thought was ending had only gotten worse.

As much as he wanted to believe Juan Carlos that all he had to do was deliver that miniature flash-drive to some guy named Raul and all would be right within his world, his inner most instincts knew it was too good to be true.

What better way to get rid of the person who had seemingly fallen into your circle of alleged drug trafficking by inadvertently saving your daughter's life and had witnessed your friend murder a top federal agent of another country, albeit in self-defense? You selling him on the very thing he cherishes, and when you get him to buy into it, set him up with a trunk load of dope.

The supposedly sensitive information on the USB drive, the special cellphone, the crazy password and this Raul character who actually turned out to be a woman was all some bullshit. He was still kicking himself for not checking the trunk of the car, but then again why would he have. It was no different than renting or borrowing a friend's car; who in the hell checks the trunk on general principle?

He could only imagine how many kilos were stashed back there. But judging from what he saw when the arresting agent walked him by the wine colored Maserati with guns stashed in secret door panels he knew he was probably gonna get thrown under the bing.

Flip the coin and Montey had an entirely different perspective.

Why would Juan Carlos go through such an elaborate scheme when he could have just as easily done away with him in numerous ways on numerous occasions in Milan, especially when Montey was laid up unconscious in the man's house for three to four days? Montey was pretty sure that if Juan Carlos wanted to dispose of him he could have just as easily arranged it so he never woke up from his comatose state, for lord knows that would have been a helluva lot quicker and cleaner not to mention Juan Carlos would still be a couple of million dollars richer.

All in all Montey was confused and hurt, but most of all he was pissed. Not just because he knew someone played him, but because ever since he'd gotten shot there were holes in the information streams that fed his memory. Every time he snatched an image from the corner pockets of his mind to fill them with, the imagery would dissolve before he achieved clarity as to what it was.

On the other side of the two-way mirror stood Agent Henry Dillion, a Caucasian man in his late-50's with a sturdy build evidenced by the biceps and muscular chest squeezing through the short sleeve shirt that he wore. He held a thick file folder under his tattooed arm, and feverishly worked the chomped down cigar he liked to keep in his mouth as he studied Montey's body language intensely.

Dillion ran his fingers through the grey hair bordering the brown dyed biomaterial sprouting from his follicles and asked the younger agent standing next to him, "How long has this been going on Quinones?"

"A couple of hours."

"And he hasn't said anything?"

"Not one word."

Just then Montey raised his head from the table and stared into the two-way mirror.

"Why in the hell is he still in cuffs?"

The younger Hispanic agent flinched when he answered, "A precautionary measure."

"A precautionary measure? Un-cuff him, now!"

The young agent started to call over his lapel mic-radio for assistance.

"Don't tell me you don't have a key?"

"I do but—"

"If you don't get your ass in there and un-cuff that man," the head agent scolded as he damn near pushed the young agent through the door.

Agent Dillion watched through the window as Agent Quinones removed the cuffs from Montey's wrist and exited the room.

"What's the ETA on Brody he asked Quinones as he looked at his watch.

"No word as of yet, sir."

Agent Dillion contemplated his next move, removed his tie and unbuttoned the first two buttons on his short sleeve shirt, "Call Peterson down here."

Agent Quinones went to the mic-radio on his lapel again and paused.

"What are you waiting for?"

"Just bracing myself for you to push me again sir."

Agent Dillion threw Quinones a look that had the younger agent fiddling with his two-way radio device.

A few heartbeats later Agent Peterson came rushing down the hall.

"I'm going in there. Make sure you record this thing and bring us some water." Then Agent Henry Dillion stormed off into the interrogation room with that thick file underneath his arm.