Free Truth or Die by James Patterson, Howard Roughan Page A

clearly scared to death.
    “This is from Stare Kiejkuty?” I asked.
    “Yeah.”
    The room was average-sized and well lit, albeit with no windows I could see. The chair al-Hazim was shackled to—hands and feet—was the only furniture, at least in front of the camera. There were two male voices in the background speaking English, but I couldn’t make out the conversation.
    I turned to Owen. “What are they saying?”
    “I haven’t been able to make it out,” he answered. “Keep watching, though.”
    I leaned forward for a quick peek toward the front of the tavern. I couldn’t see anyone, and no one could see us; this was truly a private screening. If I hadn’t been so intrigued, I would’ve been more aware of how surreal this all was, even by New York standards.
    What the hell am I about to see? Torture? Some sort of confession? A combination of both? Or is it D, none of the above?
    I kept watching. Seconds later, three men entered the picture. Two were in suits and ties, while the third was wearing a white medical smock. That man, presumably a doctor, was holding something as he approached al-Hazim.
    “Is that a syringe?” I asked.
    “Yes.”
    “He’s not getting a flu shot, is he?”
    Owen shook his head. “Nope.”

CHAPTER 28
    THE TWO men restrained al-Hazim, one of them gripping him in a headlock as the doctor swabbed the side of his neck with an alcohol pad. Quickly, the doctor injected the contents of the syringe into the carotid artery. All three then stepped out of frame.
    As al-Hazim simply sat there as he had before, I was about to ask Owen what was going on. That was when I heard a man clearing his throat off camera. This sound, unlike the previous conversation, I could hear perfectly.
    “What is your name?” the man asked.
    Immediately, another voice off camera translated the question into Arabic. I hadn’t suddenly learned the language—there were actually subtitles at the bottom of the frame. It was like a foreign film, albeit not the kind Claire and I would watch at the Angelika down in SoHo.
    Al-Hazim didn’t answer, and everything repeated itself. One voice asked the question again in English, the other translated it again in Arabic. And once again, al-Hazim didn’t respond.
    “Are you a member of Al Qaeda?” came the next question. The translation followed, along with the subtitles. Still, al-Hazim didn’t say a word.
    Then something strange started to happen. It was as if his chair had been electrified, although not with a sudden jolt. Rather, a slow build. His arms and legs began to shake, his face contorting. He was clearly feeling pain.
    “Are you aware of any plans by Al Qaeda to kill American citizens?” came the third question, the interrogator’s voice unchanged. It was calm, placid, even as al-Hazim began to shake uncontrollably as if he were having a violent seizure. He was in agony, and no one was laying a finger on him.
    Meanwhile, the question was repeated—louder, finally, so as to be heard above the metal cuffs around his ankles and wrists, which were now clanking and rattling incessantly against the chair.
    “Are you aware of any plans by Al Qaeda to kill American citizens?”
    If he was, al-Hazim still wasn’t saying. I wasn’t sure he could even if he wanted to, at this point. His mouth was open as if to scream, but there was no sound coming out. His eyes rolled back. He looked possessed. There was no control, not anywhere. His jumpsuit darkened around his crotch and thighs. He was urinating on himself, if not defecating.
    Suddenly, everything stopped. Like someone had pulled the plug. Al-Hazim collapsed in the chair, his body limp and lifeless.
    The doctor in the white smock reappeared and placed two fingers on the neck, exactly where he’d administered the shot. He turned and shook his head to those behind the camera. His face was as expressionless as the bartender who had poured me my whiskey.
    “Christ!” was all I could sputter at first. I was still