Black List by Will Jordan

surroundings.
    His first impression was one of intense light searing his retinas. A pair of powerful electric lamps were pointed right at him, no doubt intended to blind and disorient him. In his confused state, it took him a few seconds to realize they were headlights, probably belonging to the very van that had brought him here.
    His eyes streaming, Alex blinked several times in the harsh electric light as he tried to focus on his surroundings.
    The exact dimensions of the room were hard to determine, as he could see little beyond the glare of the powerful headlights. However, the floor provided a little more of a clue as to this room’s purpose. Concrete, rough-poured and cracked in places, as if there was no need to finish it properly. A warehouse or storage silo perhaps.
    The only other items in view were resting on the ground a few yards away. The first was a simple steel bucket, its frame dented as if it had seen heavy use. It appeared to be filled with some kind of liquid, as he could see it shimmering in the electric lights.
    And beside it, laid there as if it were a sacred artefact to be revered, was a sledge hammer. A big, serious-looking thing with a long wooden handle and a flat, uncompromisingly square head that must have weighed five or six pounds all by itself. Alex’s heart skipped a beat, and he had to forcibly swallow down the bile that threatened to rise up in his throat.
    ‘You want to know the secret to torturing people? I’ll give you a hint – it’s not cruelty,’ a voice remarked from somewhere close behind. American, smooth and deep, with a hint of a New England accent. Again Alex smelled coffee. ‘It’s restraint. Precision. Sure, we could break out the hacksaws and start slicing pieces off you, but what’s the point in that? It’s messy as shit. Chances are you’d pass out from the pain and blood loss before you could tell us anything useful, then we’d have to mess around with adrenaline shots and heart monitors. It’s just not worth the effort. No, you’d be amazed what a couple of good strikes with a sledge hammer can do.’
    Alex shuddered in horror as he imagined the fragile bones of his hand shattering under the impact of several pounds of solid steel, no doubt wielded with expert precision. Then, suddenly, he heard perhaps the last thing he’d been expecting – laughter. Not sinister or mocking, but genuine amusement at what was apparently a funny joke.
    A shadow passed in front of the electric light, and Alex looked up as an unlikely looking figure wandered into view.
    He wasn’t sure if he’d been expecting a brutish thug dressed in paramilitary gear or some cold, sinister looking G-man in a pristine suit. Either way, the figure now standing before him was about as far from a professional interrogator as he could have imagined.
    Dressed in a navy blue polo shirt open at the neck, beige cargo trousers and suede loafers, the man looked like he’d walked right out of some country club lunch meeting. He was even holding a takeaway cup of coffee that steamed in the cool air. His face was clean-shaven and youthful, his short dark hair neatly parted in a Harvard crew cut.
    All things considered, he looked an awful lot better than Alex felt at that moment.
    ‘Relax, bro. I was just fucking with you,’ he said, taking a sip of coffee as he chortled in amusement. ‘Some guys like to go for the Hannibal Lecter approach, really put the shits up people. Others like to go in screaming and swinging fists right off the bat. Me? Not my style. I just tell it like it is, let people make up their own minds.’
    Alex frowned, feeling more out of his depth than ever. ‘What do you mean?’
    His captor wasn’t laughing any more, but he was still wearing an amused smirk as he folded his arms and surveyed Alex for several seconds.
    ‘My name’s Frank,’ he began. ‘Yes, I work for the CIA. And yes, that’s my real name. I’m from Hartford, Connecticut and I’ve been with the Agency