I did knock on that door for a job. Starvation is like the feeling of addiction and most people would do a lot worse to settle the nagging pain in their hollow stomach. It’s clear Axel has never been in such despair that he could possibly understand what lengths someone will go through to eat and acquire shelter. While living this way for the last couple years, after growing up moderately well off, I can't say I've ever known anyone who would willingly walk into a situation like I'm in, but I can't blame all of this on desperation either. I got myself into this situation, and now I'm paying the consequences for it. Even the smart girls who seem to have it all, can make mistakes.

Axel opens another closet in our vicinity and reaches in for something. "How much longer until you’re done assaulting people for the day?" I ask as he retrieves a navy blue jacket. He pulls it over his shoulders and zips it up halfway.

"Soon enough," he responds, simply.

"Is that your I'm-trying-to-look-normal jacket for when you go home to your wife and kids?" I ask.

He offers me a passing smirk, then turns back toward the room Norm is confined in. With a swift movement of unlocking the door, Axel steps back inside while showcasing three big yellow letters spelling out "ATF" on the back of his jacket. "I don't have a family, Harley, but thanks for the ass-umption."

A pit in my stomach engorges, causing me an unsettling discomfort. I certainly don’t care about his marital status anymore. Now, I’m more concerned with the likelihood of this being a step up. Did the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms lure me here to see if I'd persuade a woman to kill herself? Or, worse, watch to see if I’d follow two brutal men who are committing every type of felony I can think of?

Before I can even start blurting out some sort of backpedal to an ATF agent, Norm begins to move and squirm in the chair he's still tied to. Axel is quick to hover back over him, and I close my eyes in preparation for another pounding I don't want to see. Wait … if Axel is really an ATF agent, would he be beating the pulp out of someone tied to a chair?

"Mr. Santiago, you're lucky we got to you in time," Axel asserts in a way that demands the respect of this man. He's also speaking English instead of Spanish now. What the hell?

"¿Qué? What da fuck you talkin' about, hombre? Where da hell am I?" With a slur to his words and a groggy haze in his eyes, Norm fights against all his restraints as if he’s becoming reacquainted with the fact that he’s detained.

"My name is Agent Rawel. Twelve hours ago, your own cartel captured you from death row," he says. "They brought you to a warehouse that looked very much like this and convinced you that you have some information they need—information they need before your execution."

"Fuck you, man," Norm seethes.

"Funny," Axel says. "That's the same thing you had just said to them as we breached the room and saw one of them knock you out."

Norm struggles against the chair again, obviously feeling the pain in his wrists and ankles from the tight restraints. "De knocked me out?" Norm asks through struggling laughter.

Axel paces around to the back of Norm's chair and glances at me, squinting with a questioning look. Am I'm supposed to understand any of what he's doing or what's going on? With no response from me other than the confusion likely written across my face, Axel's foot comes up and catches the guy right in the back of his head, forcing him into another unconscious state. It seemed easier this time, especially since Axel didn't hit him nearly as hard.

Axel doesn’t say anything to me as he leaves the room once again. I follow, watching him head right back to the closet where he removes the ATF coat, then fixes the pleats in his folded sleeves.

He's brainwashing this guy.

"Back to the Spanish accent now?" I ask, breaking my five minutes of silence.

"Too predictable?" he asks, with that same sinful half-smirk he's offered a couple of times in the past hour.

"Is it safe to assume you're not with the ATF?" I lament with an unamused raised brow.

Axel grins as he leans back against the wall. "Such a smarty-pants," he says, in a stupid-sounding, sardonic tone, speaking to me as if I were a child.

"You know, there are more efficient ways of brainwashing him, right?" I say, mimicking his pole-in the ass sophistication. Axel glances at me with a blank stare, like he's desperately trying to hide the fact that he's constructing his next comment. "Plus, I suspect that one more blow to this guy's head—after you're done sweet talking him like a Spaniard—he'll have some permanent damage and you'll lose your subject." I might be offering too much assistance here, but I get a kick out of this crap.

"What type of degree did you say you had?" Axel asks, his interest obviously piqued.

"Medical," I lie. He's not getting any more information out of me until I find out what the hell this business is.