American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 75 Interrogation
Sainte-Anne Hospital, Paris, France.

Michael Bryce slowly regained consciousness amidst the smell of disinfectant. The AAA-rated bodyguard, who bore a striking resemblance to a comedian, lay on the hospital bed, fine beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

His consciousness felt like it had experienced a long fall, first a feeling of weightlessness as if falling off a cliff, then a "bang" as it crashed into the suddenly appearing sea. The icy seawater spun his body around, and just as the dizziness was about to make him vomit, he suddenly sank into the deep sea.

In the dark depths of the sea, a strange light approached him. The light grew brighter and brighter until it "whooshed" into his head. In an instant, Michael regained control of his body, followed by a sharp pain in his lower back.

Michael let out a weak groan and slowly opened his heavy eyelids. In the blinding white light, the hospital ceiling gradually came into view, and the fluorescent tubes cast halos of light in his field of vision. He turned his neck with difficulty, and the metal bed frame made a faint creak.

A policeman in uniform was dozing off, leaning back in a chair by the bed, his hat pulled low, obscuring half his face.

Michael tried to move his limbs, and suddenly heard a sharp metallic clang on his right wrist. A shiny pair of handcuffs was firmly locked to the bed frame.

“What the fuck,” Michael muttered to himself, staring at the handcuffs. His hoarse voice startled even himself.

The clanging of metal startled the dozing policeman.

The other person jumped to his feet, his right hand on his sidearm and his left hand on the walkie-talkie on his shoulder: "Calling command center, the suspect in the ward has regained consciousness. Repeat, the suspect has regained consciousness."

Michael's eyes widened as he scanned the empty hospital room. Apart from himself, handcuffed to the bed, there wasn't a single other patient there. Clearly, he was the conscious suspect.

His chapped lips trembled: "What happened? What...what's wrong with me?"

The handcuffs rattled as he moved agitatedly: "Why are you locking me up? Where's my client? How is he?"

The police officer didn't answer, but just stared at him warily, his fingers still on his holster. Hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.

French National Security Agents entered the ward, and Michael immediately recognized his girlfriend Amelia in the crowd—a typical French woman, a National Security Agent, and the woman he deeply loved.

“Amelia, what happened?” Michael asked.

Amelia, her face grim, stood in a corner of the room, while the other agents surrounded the hospital bed. The accompanying officers were asked to leave the room, leaving only Michael and the security personnel.

The lead agent was a man in his forties with prominent forehead wrinkles.

He braced himself on the armrests of the hospital bed and got straight to the point: "Let me introduce myself, I'm from the French National Public Security Bureau. You can call me C, or Charlie. We need to talk. Considering your relationship with Amelia, I hope our conversation won't turn into anything unpleasant."

Michael turned his gaze to Amelia, but she simply stared back at him with a serious expression, saying nothing.

Charlie glanced up at Amelia, then fixed his gaze on Michael again: "Do you have any siblings? Any other relatives in France? Anyone who looks like you?"

Michael tried to recall: "No."

Charlie pursed his lips and nodded, then pulled a photograph from his pocket. It showed a bullet: "So, can you explain why there was a bullet with your fingerprint in the magazine of the gun used to assassinate the Indian businessman?"

Michael was completely bewildered: "I don't know. How is my client?" Charlie straightened up, looking down at him expressionlessly: "I swear allegiance to France, do you understand?"

“I really don’t know anything.” Michael was still in a state of confusion: “I didn’t assassinate my client. I was at the airport at the time.”

Charlie winked at the person next to him, who immediately grabbed Michael's still-mobile right hand: "Answer my question, why are your fingerprints on the bullet of the murder weapon?"

“I don’t know, I swear!” Michael realized something was wrong.

Before he could finish speaking, Charlie suddenly covered Michael's mouth and nose with his hand and pressed down hard. Michael's entire head sank into the pillow, and a violent feeling of suffocation and fear instantly overwhelmed him. He began to struggle desperately.

Feeling intensely suffocated, Michael struggled violently on the hospital bed like a fish dragged ashore. Blood began to seep from the wound on his waist, quickly spreading a crimson stain on the white sheets.

The combined torment of blood loss and suffocation made Michael's vision blur, and the fear of death washed over him like a tidal wave. Just as he was about to lose consciousness, Charlie let go.

Michael suddenly arched his back, gasping for breath like a drowning person being rescued. Each breath aggravated the wound on his waist, and the intense pain kept his mind unusually clear.

"Want to continue, Michael?" Charlie looked down at him, his voice icy. "With the medical facilities in this hospital, we could play with you all day. Your wound is bleeding; do you want to die in this hospital bed?"

Michael coughed violently, the pain jolting his nerves, when suddenly a name flashed through his mind: "Franklin! Franklin!"

Charlie immediately pressed, "What Franklin? Dollars? Did you take bribes to assassinate the Indian businessman?"

"No! I didn't!" Michael quickly denied.

Charlie didn't give him time to think, pressing, "Nothing? Answer me, Michael! Who is Franklin? Did he pay you to assassinate a client? Were you really the one who attacked the agent?"

“There was a client named Franklin,” Michael explained hastily. “Just a few days before I was assigned to provide security for an Indian client, he hired me as his bodyguard. He said he was British and had come to France on business but was being targeted by his enemies. He should have left by now.”

Without warning, Charlie covered Michael's mouth and nose again. This time, he used more force, his knuckles digging deep into Michael's cheek.

"Ugh! Ugh!" Michael's struggles grew weaker and weaker, stars began to flash before his eyes, and his ears were filled with a sharp ringing.

He nodded vigorously, indicating his willingness to cooperate.

Charlie pressed down for another seven or eight seconds before releasing his grip. Michael lay paralyzed on the bed, coughing violently, each breath carrying the metallic taste of blood.

“Speak,” Charlie said coldly. “Tell me everything you know.”

His gaze was fixed on Michael's pale face: "Let's resolve this amicably, so as not to affect your good impression of the NSA, and not to put Amelia in a difficult position, okay, Michael?"

Michael coughed and nodded: "I'll tell you everything, just ask."

(End of this chapter)