on, you’ll be totally dependent on me. For everything. I’ll control when you eat, drink, sleep, use the bathroom,
“You’re shit under my boot, Montez.”
“I see you know my name. How interesting. We’ll be discussing that soon. Arturo, please tape this man’s mouth.”
Montez watched in fascination as the man whipped his head back and forth, making it impossible for Arturo to plant the strip. With casual indifference, he gave Fontana a second jolt to the side of his neck, shorter this time. That did the trick. Arturo had no trouble applying the tape.
He dragged the bound man deeper into the landscaping. “Your friend is out in the water, no? He’s planning to board the yacht? Good. I have three men standing by with shark gaffs to bring him aboard. I’m afraid he’ll be somewhat damaged from the retrieval, but with a little luck, his wounds won’t be immediately fatal. I’ll need to speak with him as well. I must admit to a certain amount of curiosity about the two of you.” He turned. “Arturo, please bring the van.”
His man jogged down Gleason Road toward the main entrance to the Bahia.
“I’m curious to know if it was you or your friend who survived the assault at the Clairemont house. You don’t look so much like a McBride, so I’m guessing it was your partner. I must also confess to a certain amount of admiration for him. Armed with only a handgun, he defeated four of my men. I’m also planning to interrogate someone named, Holly?”
This hiding spot offered excellent concealment, but he didn’t intend to stay long. It would be just his luck to have a couple of drunk Americans stumble by. Arturo would arrive with the van soon and they’d leave this area. He looked across the water at the yacht. The other man, McBride, would be in the custody of his men by now, and they had strict orders not to kill him. Montez’s only regret at the moment was that he wouldn’t be there when the Daltons took the plunge. Montez looked up as headlights swept the opposite side of the road. Arturo, returning with the van.
Several hundred meters distant, the headlights went dark. Arturo was well trained. Montez watched his man pull over to the curb, climb out, and hurry toward the rear of the van.
Chapter 39
The rear doors of the van opened.
“Lights out, dirtbag.”
Crouched just inside, Nathan Daniel McBride swiped his Predator across the man’s throat.
He sheathed the knife, jumped out, and sprinted toward Harv.
The man standing over his friend reacted quickly and pulled a handgun.
Harv’s body illuminated in the flash from the discharge.
So did the shooter’s face.
Montez saw Arturo clutch his throat, fall to the grass, and curl into the fetal position.
A huge, shirtless man appeared and sprinted toward him with a gun in his hand. Montez didn’t have a clear shot-the small palms screened the advancing man.
But Mr. Fontana was a different story.
He took aim at Fontana and pulled the trigger. The bound man reacted quickly, twisting away, but not in time. The armor piercing bullet slammed into his shoulder, just inside his body armor.
“
From the corner of his eye, he saw Montez charge the glass doors of a hotel room, shooting as he ran. Three deafening shots cracked the air. The tempered glass shattered.
Montez burst through and disappeared into the blackness beyond.
Nathan drew his knife and spent a few precious seconds cutting the tape that bound Harv’s wrists. He saw blood flowing from a shoulder wound and ripped the tape from his friend’s mouth.
“Nathan. How did you-”
“Where’s your Sig?”
“Montez tossed it over there.” Harv angled his head to the left.
Nathan retrieved Harv’s suppressed weapon. “Are you okay?”
Harv grimaced. “Take your phone. My front pocket. Go get that son of a bitch.”
“You can count on it.” Nathan cut his own Sig free from his ankle and handed it to Harv. He wanted Harv’s dry gun. Then, crouching low, began his pursuit.
He knew broken glass awaited his feet, but he hurdled the hedge and stormed into the room anyway.
Hundreds of tiny glass shards shredded his bare flesh. The carpet helped a little, but not enough.
He sensed motion in the bed to his right, but ignored it. Straight ahead, the room’s front door loomed. Wide open. For some reason it was jammed open, allowing orange light to slice across the carpet.
Nathan stopped, sensing a trap. A quick trip to the closet gained him a shirt on a hanger. He tossed it out the hall door so the shirt bloused wide, keeping its form.
Montez’s gun boomed. The sound hammered every building in the area like a mass wake-up call.
Certain the shot had come from the left, Nathan crouched down and peered around the corner at knee level.
Nathan couldn’t risk shooting from this distance, even with the laser sight. There were too many unknowns for a stray bullet.
His feet stinging and slick with blood, he took off in pursuit.
Montez ran at a full sprint, knowing he’d finally come face to face with the mysterious Mr. McBride. He cursed himself for the shot he’d just wasted. He had no spare magazines for an extended firefight. Not that he’d want to challenge McBride to gunplay. His adversary was skilled
Nathan ignored the increasing pain on the soles of his feet and concentrated on the reward of catching Montez. Keeping him in sight might become a challenge. There were too many places to hide inside this hotel complex, too many places to set up ambushes. Blind corners. Bushes. Trees. Fences. Walls. You name it. Each one offered a bushwhacking opportunity. He’d have to guard against running head-on into the muzzle of Montez’s pistol.
Montez’s shots had been loud enough the wake the dead. No doubt the police were already on the way. And if Harv had called 911, fire and medical were also on the move. If he were Montez, he’d want to clear the immediate area-in a big hurry.
The spots mounted on the eaves of the hotel rooms provided plenty of light, even at 0300 hours. He estimated Montez had a fifty-yard head start. Manageable, but it would be better to halve the distance. At twenty- five yards he might be able to stop and take a wounding shot. The laser sight would make it easier, but taking careful aim after a prolonged sprint wouldn’t be ideal.
But damn it. The fire in his feet was worsening, verging on unbearable. Grit had already worked into the
