I wake up strapped to a table. I examine the room. I see a row of windows to my left and they're all mirrored. One-way glass.

"Okay. You got me. You gonna say hi yet?" I shout.

The door in the corner throws open and a doctor walks in, followed by three security guards. None of them say anything. The doctor just walks over to a tray and holds up a syringe. He injects it into a cup and holds it up, the glass reflecting in the light. He flicks the syringe, a couple of drops of liquid shooting out. He comes over and wraps a big rubber band around my arm. He looks intently at a vein bulging out of my bicep. He aims the syringe at it, slowly injecting the seven-inch needle into me. I cry out in pain, and the three security guards hold me down so the doc could finish his work. He slowly injected the fluid into my bloodstream, and I felt intense pressure on my arm.

Once he was done, he pulled out the syringe and placed it back on the tray.

"What did you just put in me?" I ask, still panting from the pain. He walks over and takes off that rubber band.

"A drug called three-quinuclidinyl benzilate will make you tell the truth. It will also make you delirious and tired. So, when you wake up, you're going to tell us everything you know as to what happened with George Tucker. So, nighty-night, sleepy head."

My vision began to blur and I started feeling extremely groggy and tired. The four men exited the room and I was trying my hardest to stay awake. But I eventually slipped into a deep slumber.

Eight hours later...

I open my eyes, my vision still blurry from the drug. I look around, trying to make sense of what's around me. My blurred vision makes it hard to tell what's what. This time, I count nine people in the room. Six guards, two doctors, and one very, very familiar pain in my [bleep].

"You're awake, I see," Parkinson says. "Now, you're going to tell me everything that happened with Tucker. So, you weren't successful. What happened to my men?"

"They all died. It was a trap. Like lambs to slaughter," I said.  I was surprised as to what I was saying. It's like magic; I'm just compelled to do what he wants.

"How were you the only one to make it out alive?" he asks.

"I was thrown at a wall. I managed to survive, which he didn't seem to notice. He was too busy killing everyone you sent out there. I ran out the door while he was distracted," I answered.

We went on like this for what seemed like hours. I gave him every detail of the mission and my time in hiding.

"Well, Mr. Franklin, I've just got one more question for ya. Was this, the hiding, going rogue, killing my men... was it worth it?" he asked.

"Yes. And I enjoyed every second of it, you son of a bi--"

A punch came hard across my face. I looked him in the eyes and spat blood all over him from a cut in my cheek.

"You're a coward. You're all cowards. You lock me in this room, strap me to a table. And you call yourselves protectors of our country. What do those badges and medals mean to you, huh? WHAT DO THEY MEAN?!" I scream.

Parkinson wipes the blood off his face and walks towards the door. Before leaving, he turns around and looks at me.

"You best think about why you're in this room, boy. You'll be in here a while. You'll never see the sun again." He opens the door and turns to one of the men.

"Go crazy," he said, grinning. He left the room and slammed the door. The man pulls out a baton and presses a button on it. The end of it shocks with electricity, and he approaches me with some pretty hurtful looks.