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Untouchable Billionaires

Too many unknowns

Chapter 1

Sitting with a black burlap sack covering your head can be quite disconcerting and disorienting. As such an example is a Federal Detainee known as Unknown Subject ID#151, from hereon known as USID151.

The feeling of a vehicle stopping can be sickening, USID151 is car sick, the sound of the vehicle door slides open. 

USID151, thinking, it seems like a van, I am inside a van. 

“Alright, get up, mind your head, now dear.”

The sound of the voice is female, a British accent. “Watch your step.”

USID151, safely out of the van now. The black burlap sack is removed, and the light outside hurts the eyes, that it makes the eyes squint. 

“Hmfp…” the muffled sound of USID151. Then turns around and sees forest, trees with no leaves, the temperature is cold. 

Armed escorts all in black garb with the black ski masks, they take USID151 inside some worn out building and into some interrogation room.

“Sit down, and put your hands on the table.”

This guard was tall around six two, buffed, but his voice was tiny, like that cartoon Speedy Gonzalez.

He handcuffs USID151 to the table that has been bolted down to the floor and welded to some metal protrusion down under.

Whilst still looking down on the table, a folder is dropped on the table.

“Linda Cunningham.” 

She looks up and sees a male person, and he is not wearing any mask.

This must be the boss, and wow he looks like Mr. Rogers.

He opens up, smiling, like Mr. Rogers.

“It’s nice of you to drop by.” 

“Hmph, mmmm, nnnn…”

“Ah, my apologies, can someone remove the tape on her mouth please.”

The male who looks like Mr. Rogers from the 1970s TV show ‘Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood’ orders the squad.

‘Shriffp!’ The sound of the tape being removed.

“Mr. Rogers!”

“Uh, no, not by a long shot, but close, Roger Dalton, at your service.”

“At your service? Is tying me up a service too?”

“Typical of you millennials, I thought we’d be getting somewhere there for a while. I am not sure if I should even be flattered by calling me Mr. Rogers, but curious at how you know that show.”

“My dad is such a fan, he has them in those old VHS machines,” she smiles.

I hope he can tell me what I am doing here, but I’d better shut for now, he seems weird.

“So which is it?”

“Which? What?”

“When you called me Mr. Rogers, what did you feel, or think?”

“Like I am in a Twilight zone. He was like a hero you see and he made me feel calm or warm? Deep down. So I thought, How is he even alive? I thought he died around 2003.”

“Okay, let me get down to business then. Do you know why you are even here?”

Thinking that she can wiggle herself out, that is what she is always good at.

“No, I do not understand. I’ve been shuffled from one place to the other for days. I don’t even know what day it is.”

She looks up around her, looking at the ceiling at the sides at the mirror. Cameras and some sort of cameras aiming at her.

Cameras from the sides, all sides even down the table. Some are close up, and three are all glued to her eyes.

Behind the mirror, people monitor her action, looking for a tiny slip, a tiny flinch, to see if she is truthful or not. One of the hidden figures, a woman takes her seat and talks to the microphone with a British accent.

“The Twilight zone Roger, flattering you,” Angela Parkinson advises Roger ”the last part, that was truthful, but there is a hint of deceitfulness. For now it looks and sounds like she is trying to wiggle this one out.”

Roger looks at her, then turns towards the door where the armed guards are standing outside. “Can I have her items please?”

The door opens, a guard with a black box enters and gives it to Roger.

Roger opens it and takes out a smartphone, and a burner phone.

“Which one should I turn on?”

Playing it coy, she asks. “Are those mine?”

The phones have names on them, the smartphone has a cover with a sticker on it, and it says Connie Flores, and the other has Flora Daniels.

“I said CHOOSE ONE!” said Roger with a firm voice, “stop playing games so that I can really start.”

“Am I under arrest?”

Roger without saying a word, raises each phone one at a time.

“Don’t I get an attorney?” Linda is still resisting.

“You’d probably need a phone to get one now do you?”

“Okay, okay that one?” gesturing with her head towards the smartphone.

Roger turns it on and shows her the screen, with the date that is the day that the Federal authorities took her in.

“Now where are you off to this time, Linda?” He gives the smartphone to her.

While still handcuffed she unlocks the phone, and makes an attempt to call… no signal.

“What is this?”

Roger takes the phone away from her, and fiddles with it, removes the lock from the phone.

“Is there anything in here that I should know of? Your resistance is futile Linda.”

She realizes that her unlocking the phone only gave her out. Her aliases won’t hide her this time. She analyzes her situation, sizing up what is now in front of her.

Where the hell am I? Who are these guys? How did they know my real name? So many questions Linda. They must be the government you know, they know everything.

After a long pause, that seems like an eternity. She gives up, in futility. 

“Who are you guys? I know you will not tell me where the hell I am. At least tell me who and what I am in for or something. Like what is ‘USA’? I do not think that stands for United States of A.”

“I got to hand it to you Linda, you are perceptive, you are not ordinary. USA means Unknown Subject Agency. We are a Federal agency.”

“How come I have never ever heard of you guys before?”

“Knowledgeable the least, we are not that kind of agency, that ones that are publicly known.”

“Are you guys even legit?”

“If you are having doubts would you want me to turn you over to the FBI instead?”

“Why am I here again? You must need something from me.”

“Ah, indeed, you need us, we know about Bob.”

“You mean, Willie?”

“Or that, Willie, William Blakeman, we know, you’d be hustling him for money. Hence the burner phone. And we know of the others, how long was your run anyway?”

Roger signals for the documents with his fingers. A guard comes in and hands over a box of documents. On top of the box is a folder. Roger opens the folder first.

“My apologies, I do not mean to insult you, you are not a millennial after all.”

“I’d say you’ll have more mistakes, are you sure you have the right person here?”

“Of course we do.” Roger continues to brush through her files.

At the back of the mirror, the British accent lady announces to the rest of the observers.

“She is questioning Roger,” she turns around and faces them, “we need to replace Roger in there. There are far too many unknowns with her.”

“Who then might you suggest Chair?” A male voice responds, “are you suggesting you replace him, professor Kingsley?”

Professor Anita Kingsley, she is not exactly a professor from any universities, however in this club she is, and she is an authority in modern Psychology.

“Yes, but not exactly I,” she turns around to face the interview room, “we need someone she can tango with.”

“Let Roger do this, just tell him what you think Kingsley,” the Chair comments, her electric wheelchair moving forward to the observation table, “we cannot show our inconsistencies now. As you say too many unknowns. There are too many variables.”

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