Chris Hewitt: Shadow RecruitSomebody’s pulling me close to the ground. I can hear, but I can’t see.
The immortal words of Carlito Brigante, there, but right now they apply equally to me. I am being pulled close to the ground - dragged along a corridor by two burly goons who keep telling me to shut up every time I ask where we are - and I can hear, but I can’t see, thanks to the hood they’ve thrust over my head. The black isn’t quite of the pitch variety, but it’s damn close, and my breathing is very loud. Probably because I’m breathing quite fast. You tend to breathe quite fast when two burly goons drag you out of a car and pull a hood over your hood, just the capper to a day during which I’ve been stalked, chased, shot at and kidnapped.
They drag me into a room. It’s deathly quiet. They plonk me into a chair. Silence. All there is is my breathing. Then they whip the hood off and, after my eyes have adjusted to the shining light, I see the evil mastermind behind the whole nefarious scheme.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
A typical Monday for me goes something like this. I wake up, I potter around the flat for a bit, I get dressed and go into work where we have an issue meeting at 10am.
This is not a typical Monday.