“I don’t know!” He shakes his head. “They don’t tell me anything. I don’t have any real information. I just do what I’m told.”
He starts sobbing. A cry bursts from his lips, sending flecks of spit everywhere. It looks like he’s foaming at the mouth.
He starts rocking back and forth, his chair scraping the hard cement floor with the motion.
“He’s losing it,” Matvei says, coming forward. “We might’ve given him too much of the sodium thiopental.”
“Murray, stay with me, motherfuck—Oh, goddammit!”
As I’m speaking, he falls back, going down with the chair. It shatters on impact in the most unfortunate way possible—allowing him to get on his feet.
I’m not worried. I know I can take the man.
But as it turns out, that doesn’t even factor in. Because Murray doesn’t make any attempt to attack
