“Just read it.”
It looks like your basic FBI wanted poster you’d see on TV, except it doesn’t say ‘wanted,’ it says ‘person of interest.’ And that phrase conjures up only one image since the 9/11 attacks. Terrorists. I look up at Gage and raise an eyebrow.
He pans his hands out in an innocent shrug. “Just read it.”
I continue. It’s all about Ronin. Height—so very, very tall. I snicker to myself. Weight—buffed the f**k out. Eye color—electrifying. Age—young. He’s only nineteen in this dossier. “Well, these are his general stats which I am already very familiar with. And his picture just makes me want to kiss the photo.” I look up with a smirk.
“You’re laughing now, but wait.”
I glare over at Gage and toss the paper back to him. “I’m just not interested. I don’t care what he did in the past or why the FBI thinks he’s important. It’s over. He’s a good guy. I love him. I’m thinking having his blue-eyed babies might be a good idea in about ten years.”
“Ronin Sean Flynn, age nineteen—”
“I said I’m not interested. Besides, that was years ago if he was just nineteen.”
“—picked up for human trafficking, cocaine distribution, grand larceny—”
My heart about beats out of my chest at the first charge. Human trafficking? “No! That’s not him. He didn’t do that stuff.” This is some kind of joke, for the show or something? I look around wildly.
“Rook, I swear to God, OK? The f**king FBI handed me these papers not two hours ago, they wanted me to tell you so you don’t get caught up in this, they would like you to talk to them—”
I grab my bag and bolt out the door, leaving Gage there with his stack of bullshit papers that might be ripping apart my whole world right now. I look around. Are they watching me? I stop in front of my truck, scanning the dark parking lot.
Nothing. No one out here at all.
I get in and take a few deep breaths. This is not my Ronin. Whatever those papers said, it’s a lie. He’s not involved in that kind of stuff, I know it. No man as gentle as him could possibly be involved in that stuff. I pull out of the parking lot, trying my best not to speed so I don’t get pulled over, and head east towards College Ave.
Shit. Who the f**k can I ask about this?
Why don’t I have any friends?
I chew on my cheek as I think. I have Elise, Spencer, Ford, Antoine, Ronin. That’s it. My whole f**king circle of friends could possibly be involved.
Except one, maybe.
Veronica.
I know for a fact that Spencer is a commitment-phobe, so even if some of this stuff with them is true—and I’m not even thinking it is yet, but even if it was—I don’t think Veronica would be involved. Spencer refuses to even call her his girlfriend.
I turn left on College and head up towards downtown to her tattoo shop. It’s Monday night so the place might not even be open. But it’s all I have right now.
Veronica, the girl who endured the agonizing pain of a bullet-induced scrape across her hip, called my ex an ass-faced bastard, and probably saved me from being dragged back to my own personal hell in Chicago, is as good as I’ve got as far as second opinions go.
Chapter Twenty-Nine - RONIN
So this is how it works.
Listen to the question, breathe. Stop. Blink. Breathe. Recite the question back to myself so that I understand every word. Answer yes or no.
That’s it.
Of course, they’re trying to make you f**k up. They ask the question a few different ways. They give you throwaway questions—which, depending on the question, may be a good time to just outright lie. Like if they ask Is your name Ronin Flynn? And you’re me? I say yes, of course, because everyone knows that’s my name. But if they ask Have you ever stolen anything? That’s a dummy question because it’s an absolute—everyone has stolen something at one time or another, even if it was by accident or whatever. It’s throwaway. So to that one I lie immediately and say no, but the needle stays calm, indicating I’m being truthful.
And then I sit back and smile.
Because I just did two things. I set up their machine to record that kind of response as truth and I lied to their faces but it didn’t record and they know it.
A good operator will know what to do with that. They’ll set me up in a pattern of repeated questions, phrased with slight variations, so that I will unconsciously lie. But I’m telling you, this is my God-given gift. Spencer paints naked girls, Ford is some evil version of Einstein, sans the bad hair and with the slight insanity issues, and I’m the sweet-talking bullshit liar.
That’s just how it is.
I can be whatever people want me to be. You want me to be guilty? I can play that part just as well as innocent. In fact, sometimes I do play guilty when I’m being questioned. That really f**king throws them off.
And none of what I’m doing is special, not really. I’m just observant, calculating, and I spent just as much time learning to turn off my emotions as I did turning them on.
“Is your name Ronin Flynn?”
I’m all hooked up to the computer now, sitting in this slightly over-warm room that will at some point in the middle of questioning turn slightly too cold, and I’m ready.
“Yes.”
“Do you live at the Chaput Studios Building in LoDo?”
“Yes.” That’s a lie, but I say it with confidence and the machine agrees with me. Our building is technically in Five Points, not Lower Downtown, but like I said, dummy questions.
It looks like your basic FBI wanted poster you’d see on TV, except it doesn’t say ‘wanted,’ it says ‘person of interest.’ And that phrase conjures up only one image since the 9/11 attacks. Terrorists. I look up at Gage and raise an eyebrow.
He pans his hands out in an innocent shrug. “Just read it.”
I continue. It’s all about Ronin. Height—so very, very tall. I snicker to myself. Weight—buffed the f**k out. Eye color—electrifying. Age—young. He’s only nineteen in this dossier. “Well, these are his general stats which I am already very familiar with. And his picture just makes me want to kiss the photo.” I look up with a smirk.
“You’re laughing now, but wait.”
I glare over at Gage and toss the paper back to him. “I’m just not interested. I don’t care what he did in the past or why the FBI thinks he’s important. It’s over. He’s a good guy. I love him. I’m thinking having his blue-eyed babies might be a good idea in about ten years.”
“Ronin Sean Flynn, age nineteen—”
“I said I’m not interested. Besides, that was years ago if he was just nineteen.”
“—picked up for human trafficking, cocaine distribution, grand larceny—”
My heart about beats out of my chest at the first charge. Human trafficking? “No! That’s not him. He didn’t do that stuff.” This is some kind of joke, for the show or something? I look around wildly.
“Rook, I swear to God, OK? The f**king FBI handed me these papers not two hours ago, they wanted me to tell you so you don’t get caught up in this, they would like you to talk to them—”
I grab my bag and bolt out the door, leaving Gage there with his stack of bullshit papers that might be ripping apart my whole world right now. I look around. Are they watching me? I stop in front of my truck, scanning the dark parking lot.
Nothing. No one out here at all.
I get in and take a few deep breaths. This is not my Ronin. Whatever those papers said, it’s a lie. He’s not involved in that kind of stuff, I know it. No man as gentle as him could possibly be involved in that stuff. I pull out of the parking lot, trying my best not to speed so I don’t get pulled over, and head east towards College Ave.
Shit. Who the f**k can I ask about this?
Why don’t I have any friends?
I chew on my cheek as I think. I have Elise, Spencer, Ford, Antoine, Ronin. That’s it. My whole f**king circle of friends could possibly be involved.
Except one, maybe.
Veronica.
I know for a fact that Spencer is a commitment-phobe, so even if some of this stuff with them is true—and I’m not even thinking it is yet, but even if it was—I don’t think Veronica would be involved. Spencer refuses to even call her his girlfriend.
I turn left on College and head up towards downtown to her tattoo shop. It’s Monday night so the place might not even be open. But it’s all I have right now.
Veronica, the girl who endured the agonizing pain of a bullet-induced scrape across her hip, called my ex an ass-faced bastard, and probably saved me from being dragged back to my own personal hell in Chicago, is as good as I’ve got as far as second opinions go.
Chapter Twenty-Nine - RONIN
So this is how it works.
Listen to the question, breathe. Stop. Blink. Breathe. Recite the question back to myself so that I understand every word. Answer yes or no.
That’s it.
Of course, they’re trying to make you f**k up. They ask the question a few different ways. They give you throwaway questions—which, depending on the question, may be a good time to just outright lie. Like if they ask Is your name Ronin Flynn? And you’re me? I say yes, of course, because everyone knows that’s my name. But if they ask Have you ever stolen anything? That’s a dummy question because it’s an absolute—everyone has stolen something at one time or another, even if it was by accident or whatever. It’s throwaway. So to that one I lie immediately and say no, but the needle stays calm, indicating I’m being truthful.
And then I sit back and smile.
Because I just did two things. I set up their machine to record that kind of response as truth and I lied to their faces but it didn’t record and they know it.
A good operator will know what to do with that. They’ll set me up in a pattern of repeated questions, phrased with slight variations, so that I will unconsciously lie. But I’m telling you, this is my God-given gift. Spencer paints naked girls, Ford is some evil version of Einstein, sans the bad hair and with the slight insanity issues, and I’m the sweet-talking bullshit liar.
That’s just how it is.
I can be whatever people want me to be. You want me to be guilty? I can play that part just as well as innocent. In fact, sometimes I do play guilty when I’m being questioned. That really f**king throws them off.
And none of what I’m doing is special, not really. I’m just observant, calculating, and I spent just as much time learning to turn off my emotions as I did turning them on.
“Is your name Ronin Flynn?”
I’m all hooked up to the computer now, sitting in this slightly over-warm room that will at some point in the middle of questioning turn slightly too cold, and I’m ready.
“Yes.”
“Do you live at the Chaput Studios Building in LoDo?”
“Yes.” That’s a lie, but I say it with confidence and the machine agrees with me. Our building is technically in Five Points, not Lower Downtown, but like I said, dummy questions.
