"Good day to you, Cindy," Smith said as he stepped out of the office building and onto the busy streets of Manhattan.
"Well, that was…" Smith began, but he stopped abruptly as he bumped into something solid. He turned and found himself facing a large man.
"Excuse me, sir, I did not see you," he said, picking up the briefcase he had dropped. When he lifted his head again, the man had not moved. He stood exactly where he had been, staring at Smith with an unnervingly cold gaze.
Smith raised an eyebrow and instinctively took a step back. The man remained motionless, his eyes fixed on him.
Avoiding the stranger's stare, Smith quickened his pace, almost leaping forward. Every few steps he glanced over his shoulder. The man was still standing in the exact same spot, his head now slightly tilted in Smith's direction.
A shiver crawled down Smith's spine. Sweat gathered on his forehead as he walked even faster. Only when he descended into the subway did the tension loosen. He shook his head and waited for the train to arrive.
After a few minutes the train screeched to a halt, its brakes scraping loudly against the rails. The doors slid open and flocks of passengers poured out. Smith waited, looked over his shoulder one last time in search of the strange man, and entered the train.
He sighed and muttered several curses when he realized his delay had cost him a seat. Resigned, he grabbed a railing and braced himself as the train began to move.
He checked his watch and blinked.
"Already eight?" he said louder than intended, startled by the time. His wife would not take this lightly. He looked up again, and his gaze met another pair of eyes watching him intently from the far end of the compartment.
At first Smith dismissed it, though uneasily. But when he looked again a few seconds later, the same eyes locked onto his.
His breathing quickened. His pupils widened. Sweat trickled down his temples. He started moving through the crowd, slow and deliberate.
"Excuse me," he murmured as he passed a woman.
"Sorry," he said while gently pushing aside a man reading a newspaper.
He suddenly stumbled, nearly falling, but managed to grab a metal pole just in time. He glanced down and saw the foot of an older man, fast asleep, stretched across the aisle.
Smith's head snapped up again, remembering exactly why he was hurrying.
"No one," he said out loud, causing the woman beside him to cast a strange look at him.
He pressed his palm against his forehead and rubbed it anxiously, his eyes wide.
"Am I going crazy?" he muttered and sank into an empty seat he had not noticed before. Next to him sat a man in an elegant suit. His hat cast a shadow over most of his face. Smith lowered his gaze and noticed a silver ring on the man's ring finger, uniquely crafted and gleaming faintly in the dim train lights.
The man unfolded a newspaper and began reading without a word.
What Smith did not notice was the secretive gaze the man beside him kept casting his way. The same man had been standing not far off, ordering a hot dog, when Smith had exited the office. He had watched Smith run through the train earlier, and he was watching him now.
Smith's thoughts were racing too fast to question the atmosphere around him. He only wanted to get home, lock the door behind him, and breathe.
Then...the train stopped. Smith stepped out quickly, eager to disappear into the crowd. None of the men followed immediately. They gave him distance. Then two men exited the train, a second before the doors closed, walking side by side. From a different compartment of the train another man joined them...
Smith unlocked the door to his apartment half an hour later, his hands trembling slightly. He threw his bag onto the floor and exhaled in frustration. His day had been a disaster. He walked into the living room.
That was when he froze.
Three men were already inside, standing quietly in the dim light.
The man in the center folded his newspaper and placed it onto the table. Only then did Smith recognize him. It was the same man who had been at the end of the train, the one reading calmly while everyone else rushed past. The familiar silver ring reflecting the dim lamp burning above them.
Paul stepped forward.
"We need to talk about Klausemann," he said.
When Smith heard that name he finally moved. Panic shot through him. He grabbed the nearest decoration, a heavy wooden figure, and hurled it toward Paul before stumbling backward and rushing for the door. His breath came fast, his hands shaking as he reached the handle.
He glanced over his shoulder. Paul and the other two men had not even risen from their seats. They simply watched him.
Smith yanked the door open and ran straight into a solid figure. A hand clamped around his throat instantly.
"Huh… le… stp…" Smith choked, his voice muffled under the pressure crushing his windpipe. His feet left the ground as he kicked desperately against the man's unmoving body. The grip did not loosen. The stranger lifted him effortlessly and carried him back inside as if he weighed nothing.
With a single motion he threw Smith onto the floor. The impact knocked the air out of him.
"Stay." the man said, his voice low, marked by a slight German accent.
Smith lay there, gasping, the room spinning. Only now did he understand the terrifying truth.
"You are the officer from yesterday..." he mumbled, eyes wide with disbelief.
Paul only smiled faintly. He did not answer.
"No." Smith shook his head violently, forcing air into his still hoarse throat. "You are no officers. You are no police at all, are you?"
"You already know the answer." Paul replied, finally rising from the couch and stepping closer to the kneeling Smith.
"Your wife made you some soup for dinner, Smith." Paul said quietly, his voice almost sad.
"My wife..." Smith whispered. Then his entire body tensed as if struck by a current. He had completely forgotten his family in all the panic. "My wife! My kids! What have you done to them!" he shouted, desperation breaking his voice.
"Shushh." The man behind Paul lifted a finger to his lips. He stepped forward into the light, revealing himself as Heydrich. "They are sleeping already. We do not want to wake them up, do we?"
Smith tried to jerk free, but the strong hands on his shoulders held him down like iron clamps. He bit his jaw, then his lips, rage and helplessness mixing into something nauseating.
"What do you want!" he finally cried.
"As I said. Where is Klausemann. And do not come up with this McCauny nonsense." Paul answered.
Heydrich added in a low voice. "Or your lawyer."
Smith looked around the room with a long, broken sigh. There was no exit. No chance to run. No hope of overpowering any of them.
"What do you want to know about him? And yes, I know him. But I will only tell you something if my family is safe." Smith said. His eyebrows lifted, a last attempt to bargain with the little power he had left.
Paul and Heydrich exchanged a triumphant glance before Paul leaned in slightly.
"Your family is safe. You have my word. Do you know his location or his affiliation?" Paul asked, his voice steady, expectant.
"Look, I am not part of that organisation. I was only affiliated with Klausemann briefly..." Smith began, but Paul cut him off.
"What organisation?" Paul asked, a deep crease forming on his forehead.
"Well..." Smith hesitated under the expectant eyes of all three men. His throat clicked as he swallowed. "The CIA."
"CIA?" Heydrich repeated, one eyebrow lifting. "Never heard of it."
But Paul and Werner, who had been standing in the background, exchanged a look. It was brief, but the kind of look that drains the color from your face. Smith could not tell whether they were horrified or whether the look itself was horrifying. Something cold settled deep in his stomach.
Although I felt things were starting to become clearer, the fog seemed to thicken once again. Yet at the edge of the haze, a silhouette appeared, someone I hope I will not recognize, Paul thought, sinking deeper into his thoughts...
"Where is Klausemann now...?"Paul mumbled still shaken.
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