The Numbers on Her Wrist

16

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I stay as close as I possibly can to Samuel as we are loaded into the black SUVs, the handcuffs on my wrists digging into my skin. I glance around the car, noting the FBI agents with their silence and expressionless features, and then close my eyes tightly as the one to my right bumps my ribs. I breathe for a second, to ignore the shot of pain and in an attempt to try to think of a way out; I stop myself short; there's isn't one.

This is the FBI.

I finally open my eyes again, my stare settling on Sam, who is separated from me by only one of the agents. His skin is sticky and pale, gleaming sweat dripping down his brow as he fiddles with the handcuffs, and his lips are pursed together tightly. He catches my gaze and meets my eyes- but he only holds the stare for a few seconds. Then, he bows his head and shakes it slowly, seemingly disappointed in himself.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" One of the men behind us, in the back seat, is speaking to Sam with a questioning finger shaking in front of my best friend's face. "I swear I have seen you somewhere before." Samuel only lifts his eyes, his voice tone deadly and quick. "No, sir. I have never made a habit of associating myself with FBI agents."

I am curious to the hostility for a second, but then I remember what he has told me of his past.

It looks as though the man behind us is about to retort, but his partner elbows him quickly, silencing him before he even gets the chance to speak.

I lean my head back on the seat's headrest, finally able to relax, but I feel the blood that is dripping down my cheek and below my nose. I groan inwardly, not wanting to speak to the men until absolutely necessary, but I speak up anyways. "Can I have something to wipe this away?" One or two of them glance up, but none of them move to help me.

I sigh, "Fine, you're the ones who are going to have blood all over your nice chairs." The driver and the agent in the passenger front seat exchange a fast glance, the latter mumbling as he takes out a white handkerchief. "Here," he passes it to me, and as my hands curl around it gently, I am careful not to touch his glove.

I press the soft fabric to my face, tilting my head back once again, hoping that I can stop the bleeding. The SUV falls silent again, Sam repositioning into a more comfortable stance. I clear my throat, hating the awkward quiet that lingers over us. "Where are you taking us?"

The man between my friend and I answer quietly, in an almost matter-of-fact tone. "The FBI headquarters- in New York City."

My next question has an obvious answer: "Why?"

This causes the agent to laugh lightly, looking to me strangely as he responds despite the clear explanation. "To be interrogated and put into the system. Then, we will decide if there is anything other than street fighting that we will need to charge you with." I shake my head slowly, wiping away a streak of blood from my cheek, and glancing down at my torn knuckles and scraped up sides; I always seem to be hurt worse than I originally believe.

I tug on my jacket that is barely draped over my shoulders, "Then what?"

He turns to reply again, but stops himself and takes a shallow breath; I wonder if he would respond without the others here.

The car hits a bump, the shock sending an ache throughout my torso. I suck in air sharply- forcing me to forestall a cough- and grip the handkerchief tighter. "Can you be a little more careful? We are just a tad bit roughed up."

The driver chuckles and locks at me through the rear-view mirror, remarking almost condescendingly, "You wouldn't be beat up if you obeyed the law better." I smirk and allow a drop of sweat to roll off the end of my nose- despite my shivering. "I wouldn't be a street fighter if you protected our world better."