Forced to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  He picked a guard’s radio, turned the volume to zero, and clipped it to his waist pack under the ghillie suit. Using his NV goggles, he moved in a low crouch along the base of the wall toward the west end, where it turned 90 degrees to the south at the property corner. From there he paralleled the wall through a landscaped area of ferns and small palms. Close to the house, he pivoted his NV goggles up. He no longer needed them. Dozens of small, solar powered landscaping lights lined the walkway.

  Without raising any suspicion, he wanted to lure the third bodyguard into the rear yard. There were two exits out to the pool area, the sliding glass doors in the middle of the house and a side door just ahead. He wasn’t sure how much time he had. If the third bodyguard had seen his friends head down to the wall before disappearing out of camera shot, he’d be coming out to investigate why they hadn’t returned.

  Doing his best imitation of bodyguard two’s accent, he intermittently hit the transmit button while talking. “Can you bring me out a pack of cigarettes?”

  The response came a few seconds later. “Repeat. You were broken and unreadable.”

  He said the same thing again, but added, “Dropped the radio.”

  The tone was annoyed. “Be right there.”

  The sliding glass doors or the side door? He waited a few seconds before hustling up to the rear wall of the house. All bets were off if the interior guard hadn’t immediately stepped away from the bank of television screens. His sprint toward the house would’ve been seen.

  Ramsland would know soon enough.

  If his mark appeared at the sliding glass doors, he’d have a twenty-five-yard shot. Not impossible, but he’d have to shoot center mass. He wouldn’t risk a head shot. It made tactical sense to halve the distance. Ramsland crouched below the windows and moved along the wall toward the sliding glass doors.

  His answer arrived.

  The side door opened and closed behind him.

  He pivoted 180 degrees and steadied his Beretta at the corner of the house.

  A 350-pound man in flip-flops, Bermuda shorts, and a white tank top stepped around the corner, made eye contact, and froze.

  He painted the laser on the man’s forehead and pulled the trigger. A red hole replaced the red dot. Like an expertly cut tree, the big man fell. He twitched on the ground for several seconds before lying still.

  Three shots. Three kills.

  He abandoned the radio he’d taken from the first guard and eased past the downed man.

  At the side door he shucked off his ghillie suit and backpack and visualized the interior layout. This door led into a den connected to a library with a large central living room and kitchen beyond. Five bedrooms, each with its own private bathroom, occupied the west wing, served by a wide hall. The security room with the bank of cameras was in the first bedroom on the right side of the hall. A guest bathroom occupied the same wall. And the door to the basement was hidden in a small coat closet off the central hall leading into the living room.

  Time became critical. Ramsland didn’t know how long it would take for his target to notice the absence of his men, or if he was even home. All bets were off in that case. Too many questions with no answers. Only one way to find out.

  He reached for the handle.

  ***

  Montez entered the living room and turned toward the hall leading to the bedrooms. “Raul. I need your help. Now.”

  No answer.

  “Raul? Are you in there?”

  Silence.

  He walked over to the security room. Empty. So was the guest bathroom. Montez looked at the bank of monitors and saw no sign of his men. He knew Raul smoked. Maybe he’d gone out to the pool with the others. The cameras couldn’t see the area immediately next to the house where they usually lit up. Looking back and forth, he strode through the living room and peered out the sliding glass doors. Nothing.

  Uneasy at finding himself alone, he grabbed a small device that looked like a TV remote from the coffee table. He returned to the sliding glass doors and scanned the rear yard.

  Where were they? Probably walking the Dobermans. He’d trained them to vary their routes to avoid establishing a pattern. And they definitely weren’t supposed to walk both dogs at the same time. He sighed. Good help was hard to find—at least help he trusted.

  ***

  The study, dimly lit from a banker’s light on the desk, made Ramsland edgy. He didn’t like interior work. It was well outside his comfort zone. Sharp lines, smooth surfaces, and square forms were everywhere. He’d considered cutting the power, but that would immediately alert his target to danger. Normal citizens considered a power outage a pain in the rear, but a trained spook had a completely different reaction.

  He eased to the double doors leading into the living room and heard a male voice say something he couldn’t hear clearly.

  A few seconds later, he heard the same voice again. “Raul. I need your help. Now.”

  Ramsland flattened himself against the jamb and froze. Was this his target and was he coming in here? The voice held a command tone, but that didn’t prove anything. He needed visual confirmation.

  Just outside the study’s door, an indoor palm occupied a large ceramic pot. The base of the palm was surrounded by peat moss material, but the pot was too low to use for cover. He sidestepped toward the open side of the double doors and, inch by inch, peered around the corner. At the same instant he confirmed this man was his target, the man turned from the sliding glass windows and looked in his direction.

  He pulled back. Had he been fast enough?

  ***

  Montez pivoted away from the window.

  As he did, he saw movement in the study.

  He drew his pistol and, using his best lighthearted voice, said, “Raul, come out of there. I’m in no mood for a drill tonight.”

  Raul didn’t come out.

  A U.S. Marine did, wearing tactical gear and body armor. He recognized the combat utility uniform.

  Montez crouched down, closed his eyes, and simultaneously pressed two buttons on the remote.

  Six interior palm trees exploded, including one by the study door.

  The flash-bang grenades detonated with thunderous concussions and blinding light.

  The soldier dropped to one knee and fired his weapon.

  The sliding glass door behind Montez shattered.

  Knowing his opponent couldn’t see or hear his movements, Montez leapt over the leather couch, flattened himself into a prone position, and pulled the trigger. A forty-caliber armor-piercing bullet plowed into the soldier’s shoulder.

  The soldier grunted and gained his feet. Still blinded by the flash-bangs, he ran head-on into the closed library door and bounced back. He whipped around and emptied the remainder of his magazine from one side of the room to the other.

  All shots missed high.

  Montez fired again, nailing the chest cavity. Remarkably, the Marine didn’t go down. He watched in awe as the soldier ejected the spent magazine and reached for another. This man was damned good, and tough. A shame to kill him. He wondered how this assassin would hold up under a controlled interrogation. Montez sent a third bullet before the soldier could slam the next magazine home.

  That one did it.

  The Marine slumped into a sitting position against the closed door and began breathing in quick, shallow puffs, like an overworked dog. A cough revealed blood.

  Montez silently approached and kicked the handgun out of his opponent’s hand. It clattered away on the wood floor. Sadly, he wouldn’t have time to question this man at any length. He retrieved a syringe from the refrigerator, pushed it into the soldier’s neck, and injected the thiopental. The soldier tried to bat it away, but too late. He watched an expression of calmness take the man’s face.

  “To ease your pain. Are you alone?”

  No response.

  He backed up and took a knee. “My men, you killed them?”

  Again, nothing.

  “Do you speak Englis
h?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have perhaps… one minute of life remaining. Don’t be too hard on yourself, you couldn’t have predicted the flash-bangs. Do you have a wife? Children?”

  “Pregnant, our first.”

  “Has your vision returned yet?”

  He nodded.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “I didn’t—” The soldier coughed up more blood and closed his eyes.

  “Didn’t what?”

  “The dogs. I didn’t kill them.”

  “You have a soft heart for dogs?”

  The soldier nodded.

  Montez told a white lie. “I will find a good home for them.” He backed up a step. “My men, killing them… you did what you had to. Just as I did with you.”

  Anger flared, not at this assassin before him, but at the savage betrayal he represented. Whoever ordered this would pay dearly.

  Finding them wouldn’t be easy, but at least he knew where to start.

  Chapter 2

  Holly Simpson, Special Agent in Charge of Sacramento’s FBI field office, shook her head. How had this happened? And more importantly, when? Good grief, her office looked like a giant paper recycle bin. Tomorrow she’d have her assistant help organize this clutter. But where to start? Her desk and filing cabinets were covered with stacks of interoffice memos, printed email, NCIC reports, crime scene photographs, and unopened mail. The result? An unsightly mess. Well, all this was about to change. Starting tomorrow.

  Something else concerned her as well, something she’d seen this morning, half circles under her eyes and the distinct beginnings of crow’s-feet. Were they there last year, when she turned forty? She supposed her dark hair and hazel eyes helped a little. Thank goodness for small favors. In fairness, she attributed some, if not all of her accelerated aging, to the tragic bombing of her field office that had claimed twenty-one lives and ended the careers of seventeen others. She’d nearly been killed herself. A few more foot-pounds of pressure from whatever had struck her head and she would’ve been dead instead of contemplating her messy office. All things being equal, she preferred the latter.

  Holly looked at the clock on her computer. 9:08 pm. What am I still doing here? She opened her email for the twentieth time today and started with her personal account. Nothing from Nathan. How long now? A week? Don’t dwell on it. He’s just busy with his security company. It doesn’t mean anything.

  Halfway through her inbox she zeroed in on a BAU memo from Quantico. She double-clicked the message, read the note, and scrolled down to the attached photographs.

  She put a hand to her mouth. “Nathan.…”

  ***

  Nathan McBride stretched his six-five, 240-pound frame and yawned. His entire body felt sore from three hours of rototilling five hundred pounds of mulch into his flower beds. He’d also made the mistake of removing his shirt without applying enough sunscreen. The resulting sunburn enriched the diamond-like pattern of scars on his skin—grisly souvenirs from his captivity and torture in Nicaragua fourteen years ago. Making matters even worse, his captor hadn’t spared his face. People who looked at him, if they got past the initial shock, saw a giant N carved into his expression. Those scars couldn’t be covered up. A plastic surgeon had improved things, but anyone with Coke-bottle vision or better couldn’t miss them.

  He hit the power button on the TV’s remote and relished the silence. Despite the dark nature of the movie, he’d enjoyed it. Stephen King’s The Shining. Definitely gory in places, but a necessary evil. And the ending had been terrific. The little boy kept his wits about him and outsmarted his possessed father. At least the good guys got away. If only the real world worked like that.…

  His cell rang.

  “Nathan, it’s me.”

  “Hi Holly.”

  “Something’s come up. Something you need to see.”

  He half laughed. “Okay.…”

  “How soon can you get here? It’s serious.”

  He heard it in her voice. “I can be there in five hours. I’ll land at Sac Exec. Same place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Holly, what’s going on?”

  “Please, just get here as fast as you can.”

  “Are you in some kind of danger?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.”

  “Holly.…”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I’m on my way.”

  In the bathroom he splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth, and made a head call. He retrieved his ready-to-go travel bag from the hall closet and clipped his phone to his belt. Sixty seconds after hanging up, he was arming the security system and walking out the door into his garage. He didn’t like the way Holly sounded. Desperate, almost frightened. What could’ve rattled her like that? She was a veteran law enforcement officer and a special agent in charge for the FBI. He doubted much could rattle her. And yet that’s exactly how she’d sounded.

  Whatever was on her mind, it was important enough to ask him to drop everything and fly four hundred nautical miles at night. He considered the logistics. Night flight wasn’t his preferred mode of helicopter travel. Following the I-5 corridor north would make the flight a little safer, but if his aircraft lost power, all bets were off.

  He backed his Mustang out of the garage and looked at dashboard clock. 9:12 pm. He’d better call Harv. If his closest friend and business partner ever discovered he’d flown through the Los Angeles basin—alone at night—there’d be hell to pay.

  “Hi, Nathan.” Harv’s baritone resonated so deep, it survived the cellular hatchet job.

  “Sorry to call so late.”

  “Not at all. What’s going on?”

  “Holly just called. Said I need to get up there right away.”

  “From your tone, I take it this isn’t a social call.”

  “She sounded scared, Harv.”

  “Of what?”

  “She didn’t want to say over the phone. You and Holly aren’t, you know, pulling a fast one on me?”

  “No.”

  “I’m on my way over to Monty right now. I’m flying up there.”

  “Not without me you aren’t.”

  “Harv, it’s the middle of the night. You’ve got a family.”

  “And your point?”

  Nathan wouldn’t win this round. In truth, he’d known this would happen, and two sets of eyes when flying were better than one, especially at night. “Can you get a weather brief into Sac Exec via Fresno?”

  “No problem.”

  “I’ll land at the polo fields at Via de la Valle. It’s pitch-black out there.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Do we need any special equipment?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll throw a duffel bag together with some basics. See you in forty minutes.”

  ***

  Nathan made a flawless approach to the polo fields. The Bell 407 helicopter made a boatload of noise, but he wasn’t worried about getting cited. No one on the bluff would be able to read his tail numbers, even with field glasses. Besides, what real harm was he doing to anyone? Were ninety seconds of helicopter noise really such a monumental crime to the neighborhood?

  He set the ship down and reduced the throttle. Harv materialized out of the blackness with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. No matter how many times he saw his friend, Nathan marveled at the man’s ease of movement, especially when running. Had it not been for his size, topping six feet by a good inch, Harv could’ve been a gymnast. He and Nathan were the same age and they both kept themselves in top physical shape.

  He felt the helicopter shudder slightly as Harv tossed the duffel into the luggage compartment. Fifteen seconds later, he applied power. When the helicopter became light on the skids he executed a maximum performance takeoff. At 200 AGL he flipped on the navs and beacon and flew west toward I-5.

  Harv secured his helmet and plugged in the audio jack.

  Nathan continued to climb and turned north, p
aralleling the freeway. He made sure to stay well right of the centerline. The airspace above freeways served as helicopter flight routes.

  Harv folded his aeronautical chart into a twelve-inch square and clipped it to his right kneeboard. “We’ll have to use the twenty-four-hour self-serve pumps at Fresno.”

  “I know where they are.”

  A comfortable silence expanded between them for a time.

  “I’ve been thinking about Holly’s call,” Harv said at last.

  “Me too. I don’t like it. I wish she’d given me, I don’t know… something.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s got to be important. It could have something to do with your father’s Senate committee.”

  “Yeah, I thought about that, but she would’ve told me.”

  “I’m glad you’re back on speaking terms with him. He running for another term?”

  “What’s six more years to a career politician?”

  “Are you okay with it?”

  “And if I’m not?”

  Harv didn’t respond.

  Nathan dialed Palomar Field’s frequencies into the NavCom—they’d be entering Palomar’s airspace in a few minutes and were required to make contact.

  “How’ve you been sleeping?” Harv asked.

  “Not great.”

  “Holly?”

  “She deserves a commitment.”

  “I think it’s safe to say she’s not looking for that.”

  “It just feels like I’m preventing her from finding someone else.”

  “If she felt that way, she’d tell you.”

  Nathan scanned the sky, looking for aircraft beacons.