by Brett Baker
“You might want to try a different approach with him,” I suggested.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Good luck with the congressman. I’ll let you know how it goes with Mount.”
“Does it say something about me that I’d rather be in your shoes right now? What kind of idiot would rather talk to a cold-blooded killer than a congressman?”
“Come on, Mia. You know as well as I do that often there’s little difference between the two.”
“I guess not,” I said. “We’ll talk soon.”
“I hope so,” Davis said.
I hung up the phone and tried to imagine the various outcomes of Davis’s encounter with Mount. Although Davis seemed a competent agent, Mount had built a reputation as one of the most dangerous targets in the world. I thought Davis getting killed and Davis capturing Mount were equally as likely.
I hoped for better odds in my meeting with Green.
30
Chapter 30
Davis Arlen made it to St. George in record time. The drive from Barstow, through Baker, California, and on to Las Vegas is notoriously fast. The wide-open spaces allow drivers to stretch out their accelerator foot, which is completely cramped while inching through Los Angeles traffic. Although Davis hadn’t come from L.A., he took advantage of the racecar-like pace set by those cars eager to make up for time spent crawling. Even the hustle and bustle of Vegas didn’t impede the interstate traffic, and Davis buzzed through without slowing down. St. George is another two hours beyond Vegas, but Davis had cut that time to under an hour-and-a-half.
No Roost existed in St. George, so Davis had to reach Polestar indirectly. He had orders to stop at a particular phone booth just off exit 5 of interstate 15, and wait for instructions. He arrived early and had to wait in the phone booth for almost twenty minutes before the phone rang. He answered on the second ring, and without any attempt at small talk, a voice directed him toward a white rock with a brown spot on it in the rock garden adjacent to the parking lot where the phone booth was located. Davis found the rock. Placed on the ground beneath the rock was a white envelope. He opened the envelope and found a piece of paper with a North Carolina-based phone number written on it. Davis brought the paper back to the phone booth, dialed the number, and waited for an answer.
“Classic Slice. Pizza so good you’ll smile.”
“Uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you. I think I’ve dialed the wrong number.”
“Suit yourself,” the man on the other end said, and hung up.
Davis dialed again and the same man answered and said the same thing. Davis repeated the number to ensure that he’d dialed right. “That’s us,” the man said. “You’ve dialed right. We’ve got a special today. It’s called the St. George. Would you like to hear more about it?”
“Uh, yeah. As a matter of fact I would.” Davis felt some relief.
“Hold on.”
Davis waited thirty seconds, then a minute, and then three or four minutes. No one returned to the phone. He was just about to hang up when an old-sounding woman spoke up. “Classic Slice. I hear you’re interested in the St. George special?”
“I am,” Davis said. “Very interested.”
“All right. It’s a sixteen-inch pie. Lots of cheese. Goes great with a good movie. What’s your favorite movie?”
Davis smiled and said, ““Nine-seventeen green on the Euphrates.”
“I thought so,” the woman said.
“But as good as our pizza is, I think you’ll find even better pizza two exits ahead. Park on the west side of the building, right underneath the sporting goods sign. Red Honda. Backseat.”
The phone hung up without giving Davis a chance to respond. Communication in the middle of a mission often followed a minimalist, efficient, curt pattern, and not paying sufficient attention during such communication had been a fatal mistake for an agent on more than one occasion. Davis knew this though, so he made sure to pay particular attention to every word spoken.
He returned to his car and looked around to ensure that no one had seen him in the phone booth, or at least that no one who saw him in the phone booth suspected anything. No one seemed to pay particular attention, so he drove way, merged onto I-15 once again, and kept an eye on his rearview mirror.
Two exits down the road, at the top of the exit ramp, he saw the sign for the sporting goods store. He turned right, and quickly saw the pizza place. He pulled into the parking lot, located the red Honda parked beneath the sign, and as he parked the car he noticed a person sitting in the back seat. Davis didn’t move. He waited in the driver’s seat for a couple of minutes before the man in the Honda got out and walked around the front of his car and leaned in toward Davis’s window.
Davis pushed the button to roll down the window and the man said, “Your man’s inside. Tall, brown hair, blue jeans, a bright green shirt. He’s with another man, almost as tall as him, dressed business casual. They’ve been in there about an hour. Should be coming out any time. They’re staying in the hotel across the street.” The man pointed to a four-story Hampton Inn. “He’s in room 319, west side of the building, right at the top of the shortest palm tree on that side. Access to all exterior doors requires a key at all times, except for the main lobby. I’m exhausted, so don’t count on me. He’s got no idea we’re here, as far as I know.”
“Thanks,” Davis said. “Are they in the same room or separate rooms?”
“Separate. His buddy’s down the hall, around the corner. I forget the number. Too damn tired.”
Davis nodded. “Got it.”
The other agent walked away without saying a word. Davis watched as he got into his car and drove off, merging back into the anonymity of I-15.
Davis exited the parking lot and made a right turn, north, the opposite direction of the hotel. He drove half-a-mile and then circled back around through a neighborhood and approached the hotel from the south. He parked his car just outside of Mount’s window, in a space that backed up to the interstate exit. As he entered the lobby of the hotel, he said hello to the woman behind the desk and walked with a purpose, acting like he’d been through the lobby half a dozen times before. He took the elevator up to the third floor and walked down to room 319, then past it to the vending machines in the alcove near the corner. He fiddled around in front of the machine, deposited two dollars, and chose a bag of peanut M&M’s. He carried the bag in one hand and his wallet in the other as he walked back toward room 319. With no one else around he stopped in front of the door, and waved his wallet over the door handle. Just as designed by The Summit, the special access card inside his wallet turned the light on the handle from red to green, and he pushed down, heard a click, and entered.
The room looked freshly cleaned. Both beds had neat, tightly tucked sheets and smooth bedspreads, the carpet had vacuum lines in a geometric pattern, and the sink in the bathroom was spotless. Only an opened bar of soap next to the faucet, and a lone duffel bag on the chair in the corner indicated that anyone occupied the room. Davis checked the phone to see if any electronic devices had been attached, but it appeared clean. A quick check of the fixtures and furniture throughout the room also failed to reveal any monitoring devices. Mount had made little effort to secure his room.
Although Mount specialized in eliminating targets from a distance, Davis worried that he might have close range training as well. He’d seen how deadly Mount could be from a distance, so he decided it best not to engage him at close range. Patience, not force, would help him overwhelm Mount.
He lowered himself to the floor, lay flat against the carpet, and lifted the brown bed skirt as he slid his body beneath the bed. The bottom of the box spring sat two inches above the tip of his nose, and he twisted his feet inward to make them fit in the cramped space. He didn’t know when Mount would return to the room, but the time of his return didn’t matter. He knew he’d have to share the room, unknown to Mount, for hours before he could act. But there was no other way. Mount was too capable an adversary,
too dangerous a threat, to risk trying to subdue hand-to-hand.
Davis didn’t have to wait long for Mount’s return. Within ten minutes of Davis squeezing under the bed, he heard the hotel room door open. Mount came in alone and immediately sat down in a chair against the far wall of the room. He remained mostly motionless and quiet, and Davis worried that the stillness of the room might enable Mount to hear his breathing. Mount left the room at one point, but quickly returned, and Davis heard the hissing sound of a freshly opened bottle of soda. He reclined on the bed under which Davis waited, and turned on the television. Davis listened to him flip through the channels for more than two hours. Every time a commercial came on, Mount changed the channel. Two commercials without changing the channel provided Davis his first clue that Mount had fallen asleep.
Deep, rattling, obnoxious snoring provided the second clue. Davis could feel the snore’s vibration through the bottom of the bed. The intense volume of the snore provided slight relief to Davis because if Mount could sleep through that noise he could probably sleep through whatever miniscule noise Davis might make. Night had fallen outside, so Davis decided it was time to act. He wouldn’t be able to leave the room for a few hours, but if he carried out this part of the mission as designed, he could wait as long as he needed.
Judging by the direction of the rumbling coming from Mount, Davis could tell he was asleep on the right side of the bed. Moving as slowly and carefully as possible, Davis began to slide out from beneath the bed. Although he could still hear Mount snoring, he worried that Mount would pounce on him as soon as he appeared. Having extricated himself from the bed, Davis remained on the carpet, completely still, ensuring that his movement hadn’t disrupted Mount. After counting to a hundred and hearing no change in Mount’s breathing, Davis sat up.
He could see Mount lying on the bed, just feet away from him. Although he’d never come face-to-face with him, he’d seen photographs of him, and felt confident that he had the right man. Davis had never carried out a mission on the wrong person, but he’d heard of other agents who had, and the consequences were always catastrophic. But Davis had studied Mount, and the agent had followed him non-stop from the time he pulled the trigger on his last job, and Mount wore the blue jeans and bright green shirt that the agent described. Davis had no doubt he had the right man.
The certainty meant that Davis had no qualms about administering proplumonox, a debilitating agent created and produced by The Summit. The compound is completely harmless by itself, and thus safe to transport, and if tested would reveal no unusual characteristics. However, when mixed with ordinary water, an invisible chemical reaction occurs that changes proplumonox into a solution of immeasurable value to any agent of The Summit.
Davis sat at the table against the wall and removed the cap from the small bottle of proplumonox. He poured an ounce or so of water from the bottle he carried in his pocket, and left the mixture undisturbed on the table for three minutes. When the clear mixture changed to its characteristic blue glow indicating the reaction was complete, Davis grabbed a towel from the bathroom and poured the proplumonox directly onto the towel. Mount inhaled a tremendous snore, his whole body shook, and then he rolled over onto his left side in the bed. Davis froze as he had visions of Mount waking up before he could administer the proplumonox, and suddenly becoming his next victim. But Mount settled back to sleep, absent the snoring, and Davis ambled across the room, around the bed, and stood directly behind Mount. He’d never failed using proplumonox, but he still felt a slight unease in his stomach, trepidation over the dangerously aggressive action he had to perform. Everything had gone according to plan up to that point, but he knew that an entire operation could go off the rails very quickly, so he possessed one of the most important characteristics of a good agent in The Summit, assertive caution.
He leaned over the bed with the rag in his right hand, and in one quick, forceful movement, he placed the rag over Mount’s nose and mouth, while wrapping his left arm around his neck, and using both legs to roll Mount off of his side, and on top of himself, as he applied pressure with the rag, squeezed his neck with his arm, and used his legs to subdue any movement from the half-asleep cretin.
The proplumonox worked exactly as designed, and before Mount could even react, the solution rendered him motionless. Every muscle in his body, except for those involuntary muscles that controlled his breathing and blood flow, was paralyzed. Davis pushed Mount off of him, onto the bed, and stood up, jumping up and down, trying to release some of the tension that had built up just before and during his assault upon Mount. He pulled the curtains closed and locked the deadbolt on the door.
“Don’t worry, you’re not dying. Not yet at least. You’ve breathed a solution that paralyzes your muscles for two hours. I know you can still hear me, and I know your mind works. I know you probably want to kill me right now, but none of that matters. You can’t move. I’m going to reapply this solution every hour. You won’t be able to stop me, and I probably don’t need to do it every hour, but you’re a big, mean motherfucker and I’m not taking any chances.”
Davis opened the closet and searched for an additional suitcase, or a gun case, or anything that might hold a clue as to Mount’s plans or completed jobs. He found nothing, and quickly turned his attention to the duffel bag on a chair in the corner. Inside he found some clothes, a bag of toiletries, and two towels.
“Where’s your stuff? No gun? No computer? Not even a phone? You travel lightly, don’t you Mount?”
Davis turned off the television, put the lid back on the proplumonox, sat in the chair at the table, feet away from Mount, and watched as Mount blinked. A river of drool careened down the side of his chin. “I should tell you that I know your real name isn’t Mount. That’s just the nickname you’ve been given. Although, to be honest, it’s not clear to me whether we gave you the nickname, and whether you know about it. But if you don’t, let me just say that I’m sure I have the right guy. You’re a paid assassin. That’s why I have you. And if you help me, then we have connections to people in some of the most powerful organizations in the world, and we can help you. However, if you don’t help me, keep in mind, we have connections to people in some of the most powerful organizations in the world. So that can work both ways.”
Davis retrieved a towel from the bathroom and came back to wipe Mount’s chin. “Your buddy down the hall, we need to hope he stays put. If he comes down here then I’m going to have to take care of things. I’ll have no choice. But until then it’s just you and me. We’re going to stay here a little while, and when it’s nice and late, and everyone else in the hotel is asleep, we’re going to leave. That’s what’s going to happen. You can guarantee that. Whatever happens after that is entirely up to you.”
The plan he devised on the drive to St. George required Davis to explain to Mount what information he sought, and then convince Mount that it was in his best interest to supply it. Since Mount couldn’t speak while under the influence of proplumonox, Davis knew he’d have to make his case, but be patient with no answers forthcoming, while also showing enough controlled aggression that Mount understood that he’d face consequences if he didn’t speak.
“First, let me tell you what we know about you. We know about Flagstaff. We know about the guy on the balcony in the Smokies. We know that you were going to kill an eight-year-old girl, a child, you sick fuck. Planned to put a bullet in her head, like nothing. You’re disgusting. We know about Abner Chamberlain.”
Davis walked over to the bed and punched Mount in the face three times. He grabbed a fistful of Mount’s hair, pulled his head off the bed, and said, “You’re going to tell us what we want to know, or you’re going to face pain, and agony, and fear like you’ve never experienced before. You’ll wish you were dead. And we’ll bring you right to the edge of death and then back off, before you bringing you to the edge again. We know about you Mount. You deserve whatever we’re going to do to you, just based on what I’ve already said. And who’s goi
ng to stop us? I’d like to see the sorry asshole who tries to stop the beating of a man who wanted to kill an eight-year-old girl.”
Davis went to the bathroom, closed the door, peed, and washed his hands. He then opened the door, took two steps toward Mount on the bed, and didn’t move. Mount faced the opposite direction, unable to move, but able to hear. Davis understood that anticipation is often worse than experience, so he stood behind Mount without saying or doing anything, leaving Mount to guess what might happen.
He sat on the floor with his back against the wall and didn’t move for forty-five minutes. Mount had no choice but to stare ahead, at the wall, at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere except behind him, where Davis did nothing but wait. Mount tried to anticipate what Davis might be doing, whether he was planning something, whether he was preparing something, whether he’d fallen asleep. Davis let the anticipation build as long as he could. After an hour had passed since he initially incapacitated Mount, Davis walked to the table in front of Mount, added more proplumonox to a rag, and turned to address Mount.
“How are you feeling? Are you ready to talk yet? Tired of not being able to move? I’m sure it’s frustrating. All those thoughts, all that aggression, all that anger, and yet all you can do is sit there and drool like a baby. Good news though, I’ve got another dose right here.”
With the rag sufficiently soaked, Davis walked behind Mount and put it to his face. This time Mount offered no resistance, and Davis didn’t have to choke him or try to subdue him at all. The previous dose hadn’t yet worn off, and Davis appreciated the easier task.
“It’s been awhile since we’ve talked, so let me tell you, specifically, what we want to know. Who’s hiring you? Why? But actually, more specifically, who hired you for the Chamberlain job? How about the Smokies? Are you still in touch with the Cuban cartel? After we get all of that out into the open, you’re going to tell us what else you’ve done. Who else has fallen victim to your long-distance cowardice?”