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Agents Andrew Nashida and Babatunde Orroye grabbed Jericho by the shoulders and pushed him out of Cassata's shack. It didn't take a genius to figure out this whole thing was a setup right from the beginning. Nashida was smart enough to know Jericho would fall for Joey Amato's sob story. He was also intelligent enough to understand Jericho would have done his homework to know Amato's story was legit.
Jericho couldn't help but wonder what they had on Amato to get him to cooperate. A normal man doesn't allow anyone, not even the FBI, to use his child's death as a setup for anything.
To Jericho's surprise, Parker Cassata didn't look like he was being treated like an FBI ally either. Cassata was also led out of the small shack with the ugly blue siding. His hands were cuffed, too. This was an awfully big production to catch just one dude. It actually made him a little proud.
"Look, man, I'm really hungry and I just got off work. I was super nervous, and he took my damn baloney. Can I please get something to eat?" Cassata whined like a six-year-old who didn't want to go to school.
"Shut the fuck up!" one of the FBI boys, an Agent Riggler, said as he pushed Cassata in the back.
It didn't look like Cassata was working with them at all. Dummy just had to play patsy. Think about that. Cassata had been up here for close to two months living a life of freedom, but it was all a smokescreen. That was cold, even to a guy like Jericho.
Another one of the agents put their hand on Jericho's head, pushing down his locks as he escorted him into the back of a black Chevy Traverse. If not for the cuffs, Jericho would have killed him on principle alone for touching his hair.
Jericho looked out the window into the darkness of the cold Alaskan night. "Hey, you really can see Russia from out here!"
"Shut the fuck up," Riggler said again. Apparently, he only knew one sentence.
As Jericho leaned back in the seat, the stinging realization set in. He was beaten. Maybe worse than ever before. Of course, that didn't mean he had to stay beaten.
The back-passenger side door opened and Agent Nashida slid inside, taking a seat next to the humbled hired gun. Jericho looked to the front and realized there was no driver behind the wheel. That meant it was probably conversation time. Yipee.
"Well, Mr. Jericho, nice to see you again."
"Agent Nakamura. What's it been, five, six months?"
"Nashida," he said with a scowl.
"My bad. Soooo, what brings you to Nightmute?"
"You don't know when to stop talking, do you?"
"I get myself in trouble sometimes."
"True. You certainly got yourself in trouble back in St. Louis. Did a whole lot of damage at the Chase hotel. Hurt a lot of people, too."
"If I told you I was under the influence of a tiny, evil worm, would that clear things up?"
Nashida shook his head. Either he didn't believe in the Nightcrawler or chose to ignore the strange reality. Couldn't blame him for that one. But that means Chris Shane did his job. Good work, kid.
"Mr. Jericho, I hope you understand the severity of the situation."
"Don't call me, Mr. Jericho. That's not my name."
"What is your name?"
"Don Fujii."
Nashida ignored the remark. "Well, whatever you want to be called will start with a nice long serial number from now on."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
Orroye opened the driver's side door and turned the ignition. Fortunately, it was only a two-minute drive back to the airport. So at least they could make this quick.