Forced to Kill

puncture holes, joining dozens of tiny glass shards that he hadn’t been able to dislodge.

Work through it. Mind over matter.

Up ahead on the right, he saw an area that would become a problem if Montez diverted in its direction. It looked to be a series of dimly-lit walkways through tropical landscaping, small in scale but rife with hiding places. If Montez went in there, all bets were off.

Then he heard it. A distant police siren. How long before it arrived? Two minutes? He didn’t know. But the approaching siren changed the dynamics. He no longer thought Montez would waste time setting up an ambush in this area. If he were Montez, he’d want to put as much separation between himself and the Bahia Hotel as possible. So be it. He’d match him stride for stride. Endurance would be the key.

But his feet were becoming more than a problem-much more-a crisis. How long before the pain overwhelmed him? Harv was right, he wasn’t superhuman and couldn’t simply disconnect the pain. Or could he?

Chapter 40

Grunting, Harvey peeled the duct tape binding his ankles with his left hand. His right arm wouldn’t respond and he hoped the nerve bundle wasn’t irreparably damaged.

He sensed a presence behind him.

“I called nine-one-one.”

He looked toward the hotel room. A woman in a white bathrobe stood in the broken-out sliding-glass door.

“Ma’am, it’s best if you stay in your room.”

“I was an ER nurse for eleven years.”

“I can’t ask you to get involved.”

She stepped over the broken glass. “You’re dressed in SWAT gear. Are you a police officer?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not.”

“Good guy or bad guy?”

He managed a smile. “Depends on whose side you’re on.”

“I’d better control that bleeding for you.”

“There’s a trauma bag in the trunk of my car. I’ll get it.”

Ignoring the fire in his shoulder, Harv hurried toward his Mercedes. Halfway there he pulled his phone and made a call.

Nathan couldn’t close the distance. His feet were slowing him down and Montez appeared to be in good physical shape.

Twenty yards further ahead, the driveway forked. If Montez chose right, that would take him past the main entrance, with more light and the potential of being seen. Predictably, Montez veered left toward Gleason Road and disappeared from sight.

That forced Nathan to slow down and check the blind spot before continuing. Putting on the brakes made his feet even worse, but he had no choice. He crouched down and moved forward through a small landscaped area near an entrance gate. No sign of Montez. Gun first, he sprinted to the corner of the structure and used the cover of a large palm to peer toward West Mission Bay Drive.

Damn it. Montez continued running at full tilt, now more than a hundred yards ahead. And the police siren sounded closer. Not police. Fire department. He heard the distinctive blast of an engine’s air horn. Fire was better, they wouldn’t have guns. He knew something of procedure and believed they’d have to stage away until SDPD arrived. If Montez also knew that, he might take time to set up an ambush. Steeling himself, he began running again.

Nathan’s foot pain had reached critical mass. Some of the cuts had clearly opened wider during the run, making the pain crippling. Frustration flared and with it, anger. And a long-suppressed memory of being bullwhipped in front of a crowd of weeping women and children. The blind hatred at being helpless to stop it had consumed his soul, like fire on flesh. It was then that the other first emerged, subverting his conscious self and quite literally saving his sanity, and probably his life.

The other.

He sensed its malevolent presence threatening to surface. He felt himself yield, needing its help. But at what cost? Despising himself for being weak, he closed his eyes and gave into fourteen years of built-up frustration, shame, and rage.

And wondered if he’d just sold his soul.

Chapter 41

Deep in the Nicaraguan jungle, Nathan hangs at the brink of insanity. All he has left is hatred. At everything. At earth. At sky. At all things, living or dead.

Crack.

Sixteen.

The bite of the lash becomes venomous. Each crack of the whip hardens his hatred. He clings to it like a life raft-separating him from an ocean of infinite agony.

Eight feet of braided catgut strikes again.

Crack.

Seventeen.

Oblivious to his torn feet, Nathan pursued Montez across the empty expanse of West Mission Bay Drive.

Its siren and air horn blaring, a fire engine rounded the corner from Mission Boulevard. Its engine roared. A second, more distant siren joined the din. Probably police.

The whipping continues at ten-second intervals.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Time drifts. The other had taken him away... for how long? How many lashes had he taken? He lost count at twenty-eight.

He opens his eyes and catches a glimpse of Montez leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. Montez yawns in mock boredom and nods runt boy over. They speak in hushed whispers for a few seconds. Maybe runt boy needs a rest, his arm must be tired from the exertion.

Nathan feels liquid running down his legs. He hopes this is the end.

Nathan saw Montez reach an expanse of grass and veer toward a loose group of palms. Closing the distance, he easily kept Montez in sight. His prey was silhouetted against the multicolored lights of the amusement complex beyond.

Time drifts again.

Montez’s calm voice brings him back. “Why don’t you just tell me your name? What possible harm could it cause? Why go through all this needless suffering?”

He doesn’t respond.

Montez snaps a finger.

He closes his eyes, expecting a blinding crack. It doesn’t come.