shitless of
a_ter
shitless of this guy."
Francisco blinked a couple of times. "I knew something was wrong . . ."
McKee snorted. "You said a fuckin' mouthful. Look, this guy's about, oh, fortyish, Hispanic, I mean real Hispanic. You've got a Hispanic name, but you sound, I don't know, California? Nevada?"
Francisco bristled silently, but said nothing. McKee did have a reason to hate him. Insults weren't much compared to being forcibly drugged and interrogated.
McKee watched him narrowly through glittering eyes. "Hit a sore spot, huh, doc? You're a lousy spy, Valdez. Maybe you're not one of his, after all. Just following orders, like Lieutenant Calley. Look, all I meant, was, this guy talks and looks like South American drug money. Not a pampered Long Beach medical school graduate. And whoever he is, he's giving the orders on this base. Wherever the hell that is. I still don't know where I am."
Francisco thought about telling him, then thought better.
McKee caught Francisco's eye. "Huh. Nobody'll tell me anything. And let me tell you, that puts a real bad cramp in my gut. This civvie didn't even tell me his name, much less where this wonderful accommodation," he gestured at the cell, "happens to be located."
Francisco opened his mouth to ask a question, then shut it again. He wondered with a sudden chill if there were listening devices in this cell.
McKee held his gaze for a moment, then crossed his arms and looked disgusted. "Like I said," he muttered, "nobody tells me jack shit."
"McKee," Francisco finally said, "where have you been for the last five years?"
The man shivered and dropped his gaze. "You tell me, doc."
This was going nowhere. Talking to a lunatic probably hadn't been the brightest idea he'd ever formulated. Francisco rummaged for the medication he'd promised. "Let me just give you something