Deep Down Under

Chapter 26

Justizanstalt Josefstadt Prison, Vienna, 11: 26 am

Silvestre curled up into a ball at the isolated corner of his prison cell, tears welling up in his eyes. He was too traumatised to speak. A plate of food, which was fresh only an hour ago, was now a rotten mess. It had been devoured by all the rats scampering around in his confined cell, where no one could understand him, feel him, just spit on him like he was some old ragged piece of dirt.

Like they'll ever understand.

The Doppler Effect told him that people were approaching. He didn't want to undergo the torture he went through when he was just captured. The memory of the brutality they treated him with was burned to his mind; there was no way of ever forgetting that terrifying experience.

The door creaked open slowly, timidly but it spoke with hostility, forcing Silvestre to curl deeper inside. He prepared himself for the oncoming onslaught.

A dark figure took the place of the door; Silvestre was sure that the figure's eyes were staring at him although he couldn't see it himself. The figure shed his shadowy coat as he stepped forward, allowing the sunlight to illuminate his face.

"Please...don't," Silvestre whimpered, hoping that the authorities would show some amount of mercy.

The man's dark shade and goatee instilled fear into his mind, compelling the hair on the end of his neck to stand up.

"We need you for interrogation, so get up bloody fast," he ordered with his British accent.

He continued, "My name is Broderick, I'm not here to hurt you, I'm from Interpol." His calm words avowed Silvestre to unfurl himself and expose his bare chest to the hard, cold air.

A prison jumpsuit was thrown on his face. He was relieved to wear warm, dry clothes. He quickly wore them and let out a sigh of relief.

Silvestre got up and followed Broderick to wherever he was going to take him, possibly an interrogation room. He glanced at himself through a mirror he passed through while walking down a broad corridor. The feeling of disgust prevailed in his mind, the whole situation was ironic. He became the one thing he swore never to become. A criminal. An outlaw.

He remembered that he wasn't the only one. Men of peace had created engines of war. In an effort to end war and death, J. Robert Oppenheimer created the nuclear bomb, which only caused more war and death.

Everybody creates the thing they fear.

It was a line every knew but always fell prey to it; no matter how much you tried to avoid it, you would eventually end up doing what you feared most. In one way or another.

Broderick swiftly swung open a door which led to a room encased in mirrors, but Silvestre knew that from the other side the police officials could clearly see through. He had never imagined how it felt to be on the other side of that pane, now he had an idea.

Inside were five other people with him. He was sure that one of them was an Interpol officer who had called him the other day. The rest, he didn't even want to think about.

One of them raised his hand, offering a handshake, "I'm LaRusso. I had called you the other day. Please take a seat."

Silvestre didn't return the handshake and just plopped onto the chair. His spinal cord felt better as he hadn't sat on a chair for over a day.

Broderick placed a suitcase, which he hadn't noticed before on the table in front of him.

"Once I get my lawyer, you'll be sorry you ever arrested me," grumbled one of the other men, who seemed to be Indian.