Forced to Kill nm-2

by Andrew Peterson

  Fueled by a desire to save herself and Nathan, she groped her way into his bedroom and noticed the bottom of her feet stung. She must’ve stepped on some broken glass. She found a necktie in his closet and a washcloth in his bathroom. She set her Glock on the bathroom counter, folded the washcloth into a small square, and covered her forearm wound. Using her other hand and her teeth, she cinched the necktie to secure the washcloth in place, careful not to make it too tight. Back in the den, she tried to rouse Nathan, but got no response.

  Steeling herself against the pain in her forearm and feet, she hooked her arms under his shoulders and dragged him toward the door leading into the garage. She cried out as the torn muscles in her left arm ripped even more. She bit her lip and kept going, but the slate floor in front of the garage door was covered with broken glass and debris. She found a push broom in the garage and swept a corridor through the mess, then used the broom to prop open the door.

  She dragged Nathan across the threshold, but quickly decided that dead-lifting him into his Mustang would be impossible. At six-foot-five, 240 pounds, he felt like solid iron. She’d never be able to do it.

  The hand on her shoulder made her yelp in fear.

  She whipped around, ready for a fight.

  “Harvey!”

  “I’ve got him. How bad is your arm?”

  “How did you-”

  “Later. How bad is your arm?”

  “I think it’s okay, just bleeding a lot.”

  “Does Nathan have any kind of spinal wound?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She marveled at how easily Harvey lifted him off the garage floor and carried him out to the driveway.

  “Holly, cover us.”

  She crouched with her Glock and faced the dark garage. She stole a look over her shoulder as Harvey examined Nathan’s scalp wound and took his pulse. He poked Nathan in the shoulder. Hard. Nathan stirred a little and moaned. She recalled from her first-responder medical training that Harvey had just performed part of a Glasgow coma scale assessment.

  Harvey looked up. “Stay alert, Holly. He should be okay. How many attacked you?”

  “Four. One got away.”

  “Wait here. I’m going to retrieve their weapons. You okay?”

  “Nathan said there’s a severed finger in the den. He wants me to take it.”

  “I’ll get it. Where are your spare mags?”

  “The bedroom on the nightstand.”

  “Nathan’s gun?”

  “Near the den.”

  Harvey pulled his Sig from the small of his back. “I’ll be right back. You sure you’re one hundred percent?”

  She nodded.

  “If anyone other than me comes back through this garage, shoot to kill. Clear?”

  “Clear.”

  She heard sirens approaching and figured they had less than two minutes before the scene swarmed with SDPD.

  “My clothes are in the hall closet.”

  “No problem. I’ll be right back. Your defensive area is the front of the house. I’ve got everything else.”

  “Understood.”

  Thirty seconds later Harvey returned, carrying three MP5 assault pistols, her spare magazines, clip holster, and thankfully, her clothes and shoes. He set the weapons down. “I’ll cover us while you get dressed.”

  She wasted no time. Next, she clipped her service weapon holster to her belt and changed magazines in the gun. “Good to go,” she said.

  “I’m going to stash these guns in my trunk. I’ll give you a warbling whistle just before I reappear. Give me about thirty seconds.”

  She watched Harvey disappear down the sidewalk. Alone now, with Nathan at her feet, she reflected on what just happened. It seemed surreal, like a Dali painting. She had a difficult time believing it had actually happened. Sure, she was an FBI agent, but she wasn’t SWAT trained, and she’d never fired her weapon in anger, let alone killed anyone. Had she really just fought a vicious firefight against four mercenaries armed with submachine guns? She wanted to pinch herself. It seemed crazy. Everything happened so fast. Given the circumstances, she thought she did pretty well. It seemed little consolation. Nathan was lying on the concrete, bleeding from a head wound.

  Keeping her mind focused, she kept scanning Nathan’s front yard and the surrounding neighborhood for threats. A few people had turned on porch lights. The wail of approaching sirens was much closer. She heard Harvey’s whistle and called out, “Clear.”

  Harvey appeared from behind a hedge separating Nathan’s property with its neighbor to the east. He hustled up to her position. “I think you should have your FBI badge out when the cavalry gets here. We’ve got less than thirty seconds. No sudden movements. We’ll let the first officer on scene take control. Let’s put our weapons on the deck and step back from them.”

  The police cruiser arrived in a big hurry with its siren howling and light bar flashing. The officer killed the siren, parked in the middle of the street and climbed out, his weapon already drawn.

  “You’re on,” Harvey whispered.

  Holding her badge at arm’s length, she spoke loudly and forcefully. “FBI. Special Agent in Charge, Holly Simpson, Sacramento field office.”

  The officer’s response was predictable. He trained his service piece on them and closed to within twenty feet. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  She and Harvey complied.

  “We need a bus,” she added. “Blunt force head trauma. Semiconscious. Possibly a glancing bullet wound.”

  “Copy that,” the officer replied, “medical is already on the way.” He spoke into his lapel mike. A second cruiser arrived from the opposite direction. Two more sirens closed in.

  Holly pointed toward the house. “We’ve got three dead inside, a fourth escaped on foot. He’s armed with an assault pistol and dressed in tactical SWAT gear with a gunshot wound to his hand.”

  Keeping his weapon aimed at them, he again said, “Copy,” and relayed the info.

  Holly heard a second officer move in behind her.

  “I’d like to search you for weapons and verify your identity.”

  “No problem, Officer. My service piece is on the ground in front of me.”

  He looked at Harvey, then back to her. “He with you?”

  “Yes.”

  The cop addressed Harvey. “Your identity, please?”

  “Harvey Fontana. I own First Security, Incorporated.”

  “The company with the radio ads?”

  Harv nodded toward Nathan. “My business partner, Nathan McBride. The break-in set off an alarm that relayed to my cell phone. I wasn’t far away. That’s why I’m here. We’ve got a sensitive crime scene in there. This is an FBI-involved shooting. ”

  “Understood. First things first. Let’s get your identities verified. Then we’ll secure and protect the crime scene. I want both of you to lay facedown on the ground with your arms out to your sides. We’ll clear this up quickly.”

  She saw the officer focus on the bloody washcloth tied to her arm.

  “We’ll get you medical treatment and contact your San Diego field office and let them know what happened. Just let me confirm your identities and we’ll get this straightened out double quick.”

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  Twenty minutes later, the paramedics were sliding Nathan’s gurney into the back of the ambulance and closing the double doors. By the time they left in Harvey’s Mercedes, at least twelve SDPD cruisers had arrived on scene, interspersed with five San Diego Fire Department engines and patrol units. Three additional ambulances had also arrived. Every house within one hundred yards of ground zero was being barraged with red-and-blue stroboscopic flashes. Two news helicopters were orbiting at a safe distance while a police helicopter used its blinding spot to search the neighborhood for the missing merc. Holly was impressed by the efficiency and professionalism of the SDPD.

  She felt certain she’d hear from San Diego’s SAC tonight, probably within the hour.
What a paperwork nightmare. At least Nathan seemed stable and didn’t appear to have too serious a head injury. He’d have to undergo all kinds of tests to make sure, but she wasn’t too worried. Her throbbing arm reminded her she needed some medical attention herself. Nothing some stitches and antibiotics couldn’t handle.

  The ambulance pulled up to the emergency room’s entrance. Harvey killed the headlights and parked behind it. Nathan waved as the paramedics pulled his gurney out. She felt her chest tighten. Even strapped to a gurney with a blood-soaked bandage around his head, Nathan had a commanding presence.

  If there had been any doubt before, it was now dispelled. She loved him. How had this happened? So this was the result of letting your guard down? Now what? Should she tell him? What then? She was being too analytical and needed to trust her own words. Let’s just take things a day at a time and see what happens.

  “Holly, you still with me?”

  “It’s just… I’ve never been in a gunfight before.”

  “Sucks, doesn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.

  “It’s not like the training.”

  “Let’s get that arm stitched up. We can reflect on tonight’s events later.”

  “How do you do it?”

  “What?”

  “Keep your cool. How do you do it? I’m shaking like a leaf right now.”

  “Your adrenaline rush is wearing off. It’ll pass.” Harvey took a deep breath and sighed. “To answer your question, I’m used to it. I’ve seen my share of violence and death.”

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

  “I’ve come to terms with my past. So has Nathan. We neither dwell on it nor sweep it under the rug. You’ll get over the way you’re feeling. It’ll just take some time.”

  “I guess I’ve always known this day might come, but this isn’t how I imagined I’d feel.”

  “Holly, those men broke into Nathan’s home in the middle of the night with the intent to kill or capture both of you. It was them or you. What you’re feeling? It’s normal. It’s gonna take some time, but you’ll get through this. We’ll talk about it later. Let’s take care of that arm. I’ll bet it hurts.”

  She looked for Nathan, but he’d already been wheeled inside.

  “He’ll be okay.”

  “The gunfight,” she said slowly.

  “What about it?”

  “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 relat
ively 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.