Forced to Kill (15 page)

“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 effective tool to use against spineless subjects, while humiliation tended to be most effective against the strong-willed. Obstinate, stubborn subjects were without doubt the most challenging, but at the same time, the most rewarding.

He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time for this self-indulgence.

Control remained his. He had Dalton’s family securely guarded in a secret location, and they’d stay that way for as long as he needed them. And when they weren’t needed anymore?

He took another hit of beer and smiled.

Chapter 21

Where was he?

Daylight filtered in through vertical blinds.
A hospital room
.

Nathan sensed a presence in the room and tried to focus. Slowly, the image materialized into a woman with graying blond hair and blue eyes behind glasses. Grangeland? No, she didn’t wear glasses and the hair wasn’t right.

“I’m Dr. Rosson. You’re in a hospital room recovering from surgery. How do you feel, Mr. McBride?”

“Thirsty. Please, call me Nathan.”

She handed him a cup of water with a straw. “Not too much, okay?”

He took a sip. “Thank you. How long have I been out?”

“Off and on for eight hours.”

“Eight hours.”

“The first half was mostly from anesthesia recovery. We kept waking you for neurological tests.”

“They kept asking me questions and looking at my eyes.”

“It’s part of monitoring your level of consciousness. The bullet missed your skull by an eyelash, but it carved a three-inch groove through your scalp. I cut clean edges and stapled the two margins together. It’s similar to a brow lift that a plastic surgeon performs. Your left sideburn will be a little higher than the right, but it won’t be that noticeable. You also sustained a simple concussion, but there’s nothing simple about it. Do you feel any nausea?”

“Not at all. Good thing the bullet hit me in the head, I could’ve been seriously injured.”

She half laughed. “You
are
seriously injured. I’ve seen my share of gunshot wounds. You’re fortunate to be alive. Guardian angel?”

“Dumb luck.”

“Let me know if you begin to experience any nausea, dizziness, visual problems, or prolonged headaches, okay?”

He stared at the ceiling while she listened to his heart and lungs.

“Deep breath, please…. Again…. One more time….” She tucked the stethoscope into her coat pocket.

“You have some unusual scars on your body. May I assume you didn’t get them learning to eat with a knife and fork?”

He managed a smiled. “Yes, that’s a fair assumption.”

She waited for more.

“I lost a bet.”

“Naturally. You have visitors. Feel up to having some company? I get the distinct impression they’re pretty important. One of them is a United States senator from New Mexico.”

“No kidding?”

“He seemed quite concerned when I spoke to him a few minutes ago. He must have grilled me for five minutes about your condition.”

“What makes you think the others are VIPs?”

“Let’s just say this hospital looks as though the president’s here to take a tour. Lots of business suits with bulges, if you catch my drift.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“You must be a very important person yourself.”

“Nope, just an everyday joe.”

“Right….”

“Trust me, I’m nobody special.”

Dr. Rosson smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “Well, Mr. Nobody Special, I’m going to bring in your guests.”

“You’ve got nice bedside manner, Doctor.”

“Thank you. Think you can avoid any gunfights for the next few weeks?”

“Absolutely.”

“You sure about the visitors?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because that senator I mentioned? He’s extremely worried about you. Like a father might be about his son.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Your eyes.”

“It’s not common knowledge. Will you keep it that way?”

“Of course.”

“Is Harvey out there too?”

“Mr. Fontana? He’s done everything but pitch a tent outside your door.”

“Yeah, that’s Harv, all right. How’s Holly Simpson doing?”

“She’ll be fine. She’s outside with Mr. Fontana.”

“I need to use the head.” He swung his legs out of the bed and sat up. The world spun.

“Slowly, please.”

“I’m okay.”

“Navy or Marines?”

“What makes you think I was in the service?”

“You said
head
, not ‘bathroom.’”

“Marines.”

“I’ll bet you could tell a few campfire stories.”

“A few.”

Dr. Rosson grasped his arm firmly as he stood. “Any dizziness?”

“I’m okay.” It wasn’t entirely true, but he wasn’t going to say anything that might prolong his stay.

“I want you sit down when you use the toilet. Use the rails to steady yourself. I’ll be right out here, okay?”

“No problem, Doctor.”

Inside the bathroom he used the mirror to examine the wound. It looked just as Dr. Rosson had described. A three-inch long incision—closed with a dozen, quarter-inch-long staples—marred his head just forward of his left ear. Surprisingly, his hair wasn’t shaved around the wound. He’d have to ask about that sometime. Overall, it didn’t look too bad. Then again, compared to his scarred face, what would?

As instructed, he sat down to relieve himself and sighed. In hindsight, it had been foolish, perhaps even reckless, to spend the night in his Clairemont house. He should’ve stayed in La Jolla with Holly. Whoever attacked him probably knew about his La Jolla home as well. The end result would’ve been the same, except that his La Jolla home would be trashed rather than Clairemont. All things being equal, he preferred the latter. The thought of armed thugs breaking into his La Jolla home one really frosted him. They would’ve had to kill Grant and Sherman—there’d be no other way to get past his dogs. Maybe they
had
killed his dogs. What if they’d gone there first?

“You okay in there?”

“I’ll be right out.” He washed his hands and ran a warm washcloth over his face.

Dr. Rosson helped him get back into bed.

“I’d like to leave as soon as possible. No offense.”

“None taken. I’ll sign your release, but only on the condition you take it easy for a few weeks. I’m serious. If you jar your brain again.…”

“Understood.”

“No driving for a few days either.”

That wouldn’t be a problem. Nathan disliked driving anyway. “Thank you for patching me up, Doctor.”

Alone, he looked at the IV plugged into his wrist and waited. Whoever was out there would be walking through the door in moments.

Chapter 22

Senator Stone McBride entered his room and shut the door. Nathan’s father radiated confidence and leadership, even with a concerned expression, although today his usual suit and tie had been replaced with tan slacks and a cobalt sweater.

Nathan smiled to ease the tension.

“How are you feeling?”

“All things being equal, not too bad. Thanks for coming. How’s Mom?”

“She wanted to be here, but her hip is still bothering her. She’s a nervous wreck, though. Truth be told, so am I.”

“I’ll call her later.”

“She’d like that. You okay?”

 “My La Jolla home, my dogs—”

Stone held up a hand. “They’re okay, but they proved to be a bit of a problem. They wouldn’t let anyone get out of their vehicles. Harvey took care of it. He imprinted the two federal agents to them.”

“FBI?”

“They’re watching your house as we speak.”

“Who else is out there?”

“I’ll let you see for yourself.” Stone opened the door a crack and nodded.

Two people in dark business suits stepped in. One man. One woman. They were roughly the same height, but the woman looked ten years younger. Nathan knew she was in her early fifties. Attractive and alluring. Perhaps it was her eyes. He liked her, but wouldn’t give that up. Both had graying hair and both looked all business. The woman’s hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Stone closed the door.

Nathan pushed himself up to a more upright sitting position. He felt somewhat insecure dressed only in a hospital gown. “To what do I owe this honor?”

The man said, “I take it you recognize one or both of us?”

He did. Standing in front of him were two presidential appointees. Director Ethan Lansing of the FBI and CIA Director Rebecca Cantrell. Cantrell stepped forward and offered her hand. Warm, but firm. Lansing also shook hands.

“You didn’t bring balloons.”

Cantrell smiled.

“I’d like to have Harvey and SAC Simpson present, please.”

Cantrell looked at Lansing, who shook his head no.

Nathan leaned back and looked out the window. “Well, thank you both for coming.”

“Nathan, please,” Stone said. “Directors Cantrell and Lansing have included me because I gave them my word this discussion would be kept confidential. Please hear them out.”

Cantrell said, “You were shot in the head last night. How about a compromise? Since Mr. Fontana has the same DOD security clearance as you, I’ll allow him to participate. But for national security reasons, SAC Simpson can’t be part of this discussion.”

National security reasons? What was Montez up to?

Stone stepped out and returned a few seconds later with Harvey in tow.

“How’re you feeling, partner?”

“I’m okay. What’s one more scar?”

Cantrell continued. “Our people didn’t attack you last night.”

“I didn’t think they had. Are any of our vehicles or homes bugged?”