Forced to Kill

“I wasn’t afraid. I knew Nathan would protect me.”

“He has that effect. Did you guys use the hiding place in the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got one too. Big enough to hold my entire family. Come on, let’s get your arm stitched up.”

Chapter 20

Alone in the dark. The way Montez liked it. The darkness felt warm, like an embrace from an old friend. He stood up from the sofa and stepped out to the deck. After firing up a Cohiba, he leaned his head back and let the smoke meander out of his mouth. He liked this cabin. Liked its view of Bass Lake and its proximity to Yosemite National Park. Yosemite held a special place in his heart. He liked its waterfalls and towering granite walls. He found the park beautiful and fascinating-maybe he’d purchase property here someday, maybe even this cabin.

Arturo’s surveillance in Bullfrog Bay had yielded positive results. He congratulated himself for having the foresight to leave someone behind to watch the old fool’s houseboat. It had been too risky to clean up the site of Kramer’s interrogation, but worthwhile leaving a set of eyes and ears for any follow-up snoops. And sure enough, an FBI agent and a couple of hard-looking thugs had poked their noses into things. The tail numbers of the helicopter led to a company in San Diego called First Security, Inc. The owners of record were Nathan McBride and Harvey Fontana. Getting home addresses had proven to be a problem. There were no public records on either of them. Nothing. His right-hand man, Arturo, had suggested pursuing the airport angle, specifically the leased hangar where the helicopter was kept at Montgomery Field. Arturo’s insight had been brilliant. A late-night burglary yielded a file containing pay dirt: A credit application, complete with personal information that included a residential address for someone named Nathan McBride.

Montez wished he knew more than just the man’s name. Who was Nathan McBride? What was his story? And why was he involved? Maybe First Security was a shell company. McBride could be a covert intelligence agent. Probably was. He hoped tonight’s operation would lead to some answers. His men had orders to take McBride alive if possible. But if things went south, they were to kill him, conduct a quick search of his house, and get out. He had little doubt Nathan McBride would be a challenging interrogation subject and-

The trill of his cell interrupted his thoughts. He checked the number and answered. “I’ll call you back on the landline in fifteen seconds.” He placed his cigar in an ashtray and went inside. On the keypad of the small encryption unit connected to the cabin’s phone, he entered a numeric sequence and waited for the confirming beep. Satisfied, he dialed his man back and asked, “Are you secure?”

“Yes.”

“Report.”

“We were ambushed. It smelled like a tip-off.”

“Specify.”

“I think the target knew we were coming and set a trap for us.”

“Damage?”

“This guy was good. He killed my team armed with only a handgun. I lost half a finger.”

“Why do you think you were set up? You knew the man owned a security company. Didn’t you see an alarm system?”

“We didn’t see or hear anything except for a security keypad next to the front door, but it wasn’t armed.”

“It wasn’t armed?”

“No, sir. It was dark, no lights at all. I’m pretty sure the target was hiding in the kitchen. I heard a second handgun, a large caliber.”

“The target wasn’t alone?”

“No, sir.”

“Who was with him?

“A woman. I only got a brief glance.”

“A woman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re sure about the second handgun?”

“There were two distinct discharge sounds. One was suppressed, the other wasn’t.”

Montez paused. “Could the target have been firing both guns?”

“I heard him call for cover fire.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“He said, ‘Holly, cover fire.’ Whoever Holly is, I’m pretty sure it was one of her rounds that took my finger off.”

“Holly, eh? Okay, good work. Are you at the safe house?”

“Yes.”

“Stay where you are until you hear from me again. I’ll make sure your finger is cared for.”

“Thank you, sir.”

This development was unfortunate. He should have known this target might prove too difficult for his men to take alive, but they should’ve at least succeeded in killing him.

One thing was certain. A very serious man was hunting him, all because of the botched Kramer disposal. He shook his head, thinking back to Lake Powell. What were the odds? It had to be thousands-to-one. The dump site for Kramer had been remote and, quite frankly, a logical spot. He couldn’t have known anyone would see it, especially at that late hour. He hadn’t been careless, just unlucky.

What’s done was done. No complex plan was ever executed flawlessly. What was the American expression? Shit happens? For now, Montez remained in control, but he needed to implement the next phase of his plan and grab Kramer’s contact, Duane Dalton. If he played his cards right, he’d ensure his financial and personal security into the foreseeable future. The 500 grand being squeezed out of Dalton would merely be a down payment. His sights were on a much bigger number. Twenty million. Perhaps more. Real money.

He retrieved a beer from the refrigerator.

If all went well, he’d have Dalton soon. Although he now believed Dalton himself hadn’t ordered the assassination attempt in Tobago, he needed to be 100 percent sure. Extracting that information would be relatively straightforward and simple, especially since he had the man’s ex-wife and daughters as leverage. But he didn’t have an unlimited amount of time. How long could he safely stay in the United States? A week? Maybe ten days? The FBI had ample resources. Sooner or later they’d catch up with him. The failed attempt to capture McBride meant he’d need to accelerate his plans. He’d have to conduct an expedited interrogation of Dalton. He’d performed many quick interrogations during his career because most of them had to be fairly brisk. Information was usually time sensitive. It was rare to have as much time as he wanted. Rare, but satisfying. Rushing an interrogation was like swigging down an expensive bottle of wine. Such experiences were meant to be savored, especially that magical moment when a victim breaks down and sobs, not from the pain, but from knowing they’ve been beaten spiritually. Such was the fruit of unconditional victory and it tasted good.

Montez knew he was many things, but a sexual deviant wasn’t one of them. He’d never interrogated a single victim-male or female-with sexual torture. The mere threat usually did the trick. Such sloppy techniques were conducted by rank amateurs with sick, perverse minds. The true art of interrogation didn’t employ sexual humiliation. It involved the systematic peeling away of a victim’s layers of comfort and control until the naked core was exposed. Only then was total victory achieved. Such skills were extremely rare. Only a handful of people in the world possessed them.

Montez hated mediocrity, hated it with a passion. He had no tolerance for lazy slobs who drifted through life doing the minimum to get by. Interrogating rat-bags like that offered little or no challenge at all. Like children, they broke quickly under pressure. He’d only interrogated children a few times and in each case it had been easy. Nothing physical had been needed. Fear alone sufficed, as it often does, even with adults. Fear was the most