Fifty-four degrees was theoptimal temperature for interrogation, cold enough to be uncomfortable, but not so cold that it posed any real danger to the interviewee.
At least, that was according to the former CIA analysts Lucky Losers employed.
I stood on the other side of the two-way glass, watching as the yet-unidentified prisoner curled up in the corner of his concrete cell. Reid’s people had stripped him down, leaving him naked and shivering. By now, his fine motor control would be shot, his nose would be running, and the initial adrenaline spike would have worn off, leaving him exhausted.
Perfect.
I pressed the intercom. "Hose him down."
Two guards entered the cell. The prisoner tried to stand, making it halfway before his legs gave out. The guards grabbed him, dragged him to the center of the room, where a chair had been bolted to the floor. They zip-tied his wrists and ankles to the chair, then one of them went back for the hose.
The prisoner gasped and tried to curl away when the water hit him, but the restraints held him in place. The guards soaked him thoroughly from head to toe and then left without a word. The door sealed behind them with a heavy mechanical sound.
Now we waited.
"How long?" Maxime asked.
"Fifteen minutes." I checked my watch. "Long enough for him to understand his situation."
The observation room was barely ten feet square with two chairs bolted to the floor, a control panel, and the two-way glass. Maxime stood close enough that I could count his breaths. Close enough to catch his cologne. I'd spent eighteen months memorizing that scent during massage sessions. Having it this close now, in this confined space, made something tighten low in my gut.
I ignored it.
Through the glass, the prisoner sat dripping and shivering. Water ran down his face. His lips were taking on a blue tint.
"Former Marine," I said, keeping my voice even. "Reid's team identified the tattoos. Third Battalion, Fifth Marines, deployed to Fallujah in 2004."
"Dishonorable discharge?"
"Most likely."
Maxime shifted. His shoulder brushed mine, and heat flared where we touched. He stepped back immediately, but the damage was done. My body had noticed. My body remembered every goddamn time he'd touched me over the past eighteen months, professional and necessary and never enough.
Fuck.
I moved away from him, closer to the glass, putting distance between us. The prisoner was testing his restraints, finding them solid. Good. Let him understand there was no escape.
"He knows how to handle interrogation," I said. "He's been trained to resist."
"Everyone breaks eventually."
I glanced at Maxime. He was watching the prisoner with an expression I'd seen before. The same look he got when I was being ruthless in board meetings.
"Yes," I said. "They do."
Silence stretched between us. On the other side of the glass, the prisoner was shaking violently. His teeth chattered loudly enough to hear through the speaker. Minutes crawled past.
Five minutes. Eight. Ten.
The observation room felt smaller with each passing minute. Maxime stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect despite the hour. His suit was immaculate, everything pressed and precise. He looked like he'd stepped out of a boardroom instead of being dragged from bed at three in the morning.
But I knew better. The slight shadow of stubble on his jaw said he hadn't had time to shave, and his hair wasn’t quite as perfect as usual. The faint crease in his shirt collar meant he'd dressed in under five minutes.
I knew him too well. That was the problem.
"He's scared," Maxime said quietly.
"Good."
