Overwatch: A Thriller

by Matthew Betley

  Antonio heard the hardness in Logan’s voice. He knew this was a serious man. There was no point in carrying the conversation any further. His choice made, Antonio inched forward, the sleeve of his right arm darkening with blood. The menacing knife glinted in the kitchen lights, its intent clear.

  Antonio moved within striking range. Logan nodded and said, “Fine. But don’t cry about it later. And don’t say I didn’t warn you. Now let’s finish this so I can untie my wife.”

  Without hesitation, Antonio swiped his left hand up and across Logan’s throat. Antonio was fast, but the blade missed by several inches as it flashed by his face.

  Antonio had intended to miss—it was part of his feint—but before he could deliver the killing blow and bring the blade back toward Logan, stabbing him in the side of his neck, Logan West countered that move before it even began. How could he be that good? Antonio didn’t get a chance to contemplate further.

  Logan wasn’t surprised. With the gunman’s right arm out of commission, he knew Antonio would have to catch him off guard with some kind of feint. The man would expect him to block it.

  Instead, Logan tilted backward, away from the attack. He waited until the blade whistled toward his throat. He then stepped into his attacker’s space and planted his right foot as the blade swished by inches away. He hooked his right arm vertically inside the knife’s arc, stopping its deadly momentum. Logan grabbed the attacker’s wrist and turned away from him. He pulled the man’s arm over his right shoulder and yanked down on the wrist with both hands. The force broke all three bones in the man’s elbow, simultaneously tearing the ligaments and tendons.

  The killer crumpled to the kitchen floor and writhed in agony. Logan stood over him and said, “I told you that knife wound wasn’t the only pain you’d feel today. I’m just getting started.”

  Logan hit him at the base of his skull, knocking him unconscious and temporarily stopping the pain.

  CHAPTER 10

  Logan knelt beside Daly’s corpse as tears formed in the corners of his eyes. This dog brought me back countless times when I thought I was lost.

  Logan wasn’t an exceptionally emotional person, but kneeling there next to his loyal companion, he was suddenly filled with a deep sense of sorrow, an ache that penetrated the hardened shell of his soul. He couldn’t imagine his life without Daly, but now he was gone, killed by one of the evil men who’d attacked his home and held his wife hostage.

  His tears stopped as his grief subsided, slowly turning to a cold rage he planned to utilize. Sarah had already avenged Daly’s death. God knew what Logan would’ve done to that man were he still breathing. At least there’s one left alive . . .

  “Logan?”

  “Yeah. I’m okay. You know I valued Daly more than a lot of the people I know? He was family. And now he’s dead. And that asshole inside is going to tell me why. I hope you’re prepared to let me work. They brought this fight to me, and I have no problem getting down in the mud with them. Whatever’s going on has to be extremely important to these people, and we need to know what it is.” He looked up at Mike as he said, “My interrogation techniques aren’t exactly government-approved. You okay with that?”

  Mike shrugged his shoulders and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. As far as I know, that man sustained all of his injuries when you subdued him.”

  “Good. Now let’s do this. My hangover’s killing me.”

  * * *

  Antonio awoke to find himself tied to a chair in the kitchen, his hands bound together in front of him with duct tape. Some kind of cord was wrapped around his chest, securing his upper body to the chair.

  His mind cleared slowly. His brain registered pain along his entire left side. He drew in a short breath and involuntarily let out a low muffle of agony.

  The position Logan had tied him in resulted in constant pressure on his wrecked left arm that was as vicious as any torture method Antonio had witnessed. Pain coursed through his head. He started to pass out again.

  Slap!

  An open hand smashed into the side of his face. “Hey! Don’t fall asleep yet! We’ve been waiting for you to come back to us.”

  Antonio tried to focus on the voice, but his vision was blurry from the tears the slap had produced. He blinked his eyes, and light assaulted his senses. He squeezed them shut again.

  “Your eyes are overly sensitive to the light right now. It’s from the concussion I gave you when I knocked you out. It’ll pass. Just open them gradually. It’ll help. Trust me. It once took me two weeks to recover from an IED blast that flipped my Humvee in Iraq. Had to wear glasses the entire time. It sucked.”

  Antonio slowly opened his eyes. The light dimmed in the kitchen. He squinted and looked up to see a large black man adjusting a sliding switch on the wall. The man stared at him intently. The West woman sat at the kitchen table and watched him, an obvious look of disgust on her face. He finally looked directly forward and into the face of Logan West.

  Logan glared down at him with dead, emotionless eyes, cold pools of emerald green that revealed nothing. Antonio felt as if he were being scrutinized by a reptile. The fresh scar on the left side of West’s face added to the menacing visage. What did I get myself into? Doubt finally crept into his mind as he wondered what was next.

  “Good. That’s better. Now I’m a direct man, and I’m not going to bullshit you and tell you ‘Everything’s going to be okay.’ It’s not.” Logan paused to let that sink in.

  “So here’s the deal. I’m going to keep this simple since you’re in need of medical attention; however, your answers will determine what kind of attention you get. You have two choices,” Logan continued, his hard gaze continuing to unnerve Antonio. “One, tell me what the flag is for and whom you work for, or option two, don’t tell me what I want to know, and I’m going to hurt you more than you can possibly imagine, even with the injuries you have right now. I promise you. I know you’re trained, and you probably think you can resist or mislead me. You can’t. You’ll break.” The certainty was evident, stated matter-of-factly.

  Antonio stared at this man, hearing the calm conviction in his voice. He’d try and hold out. Maybe Mr. Black had already called in a second team. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t answered the calls. Maybe another team was already on the way. He just had to make it through the next few minutes.

  Antonio coughed and spoke one word, “No.” He stared at Logan, who stood there quietly, as if he hadn’t heard Antonio’s response. He opened his mouth to repeat it, but he never got the chance.

  Logan West delivered a ferocious knife-hand blow to Antonio’s shattered left arm. It happened so quickly, Antonio’s mind didn’t register it until after the fact. The sensory overload was too much for his already exhausted body. He shrieked as every nerve ending he had cried out in agony, his audience watching impassively. He passed out.

  * * *

  Antonio slowly emerged from unconscious darkness. Fresh panic gripped him. I can’t breathe! Where am I? What’s happening?

  He opened his mouth to scream, but instead he swallowed cold liquid. He choked and gasped as his lungs struggled for oxygen.

  He was underwater. No! He’s going to kill me! A fresh wave of panic gripped him. He had to get free! His lungs burned as their remaining oxygen was depleted. Panic overpowered all other thoughts but one—survival. I have to breathe!

  He felt a pressure on the back of his neck. It was a hand, holding him tightly. He couldn’t see, a fact that only amplified his fear. His terror heightened, all his nerve endings completely exposed to every sensation. He had to make this stop.

  Thoughts of his father suddenly flashed through his head. He’d watched him drown in a flash flood when they’d crossed the border into Texas. He’d been twelve years old at the time. He and his mother had been helpless to save him, and his father had been swept away. The possibility of suffering the same fate was unbearable.

  He lost all grip on reality. His body slumped. His mind still
craved air. If I get air, if I can breathe again, I’ll tell him what he wants. He realized he might not get the chance. Antonio felt himself slipping away, a buzzing sensation growing in his head. I’m going to die. The finality sank in, and his mind gave in to the inevitability of his impending death.

  The faint light at the edges of the blindfold faded into darkness. In his mind, he cried like the little boy who’d watched his father drown, his whole world shattered. Then, nothing.

  * * *

  Sound roared into his consciousness. Antonio found himself vomiting water and bile. He wept as he realized he was alive. He didn’t care about anything else.

  He was facedown in the corner of the master bathroom. He trembled from the exhaustion, but he didn’t care. He was breathing fresh air.

  He heard Logan ask, “Are we done? Or should I keep going? I actually thought you were dead for a moment. If we continue, you likely will be.” It was as unsympathetic a voice as any Antonio had heard in his lifetime. He knew this man would kill him.

  Antonio didn’t look up. He couldn’t take the sight of those merciless green eyes. “No more. I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Rough hands gripped him as fresh pain shot through his body. Logan propped him up against the bathtub. He was finally forced to look into the face of Logan West one more time.

  The eyes never changed. The predatory gaze blazed at Antonio as Logan said, “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Then he smiled.

  Antonio looked down at the wet floor. He felt Logan’s gaze burning into his skull. I was a fool to think I could stop this man.

  “Well, then. I think we finally have an understanding. You know it starts all over if I even suspect you’re lying?”

  Logan leaned down and spoke directly into Antonio’s face, his hot breath only inches away. “I seriously want to kill you, but I know I need you alive. If you fuck with me—even for a moment—my friend here is not going to stop me. Comprende?”

  Antonio vigorously nodded his head. He’d do anything to get away from this man.

  Logan’s tone suddenly changed, as if what had just transpired was just a minor inconvenience. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get down to brass tacks, as they say. What’s your name?”

  Logan looked at Mike, who’d already taken out a notepad and pen from a pocket inside his jacket.

  “Antonio Morales.” He paused for a moment. “I work for a man named Juan Black. He’s a freelance contractor and enforcer for the Los Toros cartel. He has an office in San Antonio, but I honestly don’t know where. I’m not supposed to even know about it.”

  Logan and Mike exchanged a quick glance. The Los Toros cartel had arrived on the Mexican drug scene within the last few years. What they lacked in longevity they’d made up for in extreme violence. Unprecedented horrors appeared on the news day after day.

  Antonio continued. “My team does—did—a certain type of work for him. We hit rival cartels that Los Toros identified as ‘problems.’ This job was something else. It was our first job inside the United States.”

  Logan interrupted him. “I think you made a bad career decision somewhere along the way, Antonio. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you. In my book, you definitely deserve to die.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Regardless, next question is a two-parter. Think you can handle it? But you can’t phone a friend,” Logan said sarcastically.

  Antonio was beginning to believe Logan West was a little crazy in addition to extraordinarily dangerous. He coughed and waited for the first question.

  “Which unit were you with? I know you’re former military. Roberto had a tattoo on his left forearm of a fifty-caliber ammo band. You’ve got that nifty red skull with a beret on it.” Logan pointed to the man’s right forearm. “It tells me you’re a former Green Beret. Either that or you just liked the tattoo. So tell me, Antonio,”—and he leaned in to emphasize his interest—“what is a former Green Beret doing working for a drug cartel? But before you answer, part two is this: what were you supposed to do with my wife after you captured her, assuming that I never showed up and spoiled the party?”

  Antonio knew there was no point in denying it. “Each of my team, including myself, was dishonorably discharged from the military. I was a Green Beret with the Fifth Special Forces Group at Fort Bragg. I got drunk at a unit function and struck my commanding officer. The asshole deserved it—he told a joke about illegal aliens and Mexicans—and I broke his jaw. Landed me two months in the stockade before I was kicked out. I know Tomas—the dead man in the kitchen—was with the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment and that he had two DUIs. He claimed the MPs were after him because he’d put one of them in the hospital in a bar fight. I’m sure he did, but it still sounded like bullshit to me. The truth is he probably just got caught driving one too many times lit up. I have no idea what unit Roberto was with or where Juan found Cesar and Angel. They just joined my team three days ago in San Antonio. Juan told me to take them on this operation. So I did.”

  Logan shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, even though he knew Antonio was telling the truth. It was utter insanity. “Okay. I get it. You’re all big, bad former Special Forces types. But how the hell did this Juan Black manage to find you? That’s what I really want to know.”

  “I have no idea. He never told us how he obtained our names, but I assumed someone gave him my military records. I don’t know how, but he knew things about me only the military knew. Once I accepted the job, I never asked. I liked my life.” Antonio waited for a response. There was none. He continued.

  “I received a phone call out of the blue several months after I was discharged. I was desperate for money, and this man—Juan Black—offered me one hundred thousand dollars for one week of work. I knew it was for a cartel, but he insisted the wet work never targeted innocent civilians, only other cartels. I needed the money. So I took the job. As simple as that.” There was no point in sugarcoating what was an ugly truth. He was a paid mercenary, plain and simple.

  “So what the hell are you doing here looking for an Iraqi flag?” Logan growled.

  “Juan sent us here for one reason, to find the Iraq country flag you confiscated on a mission in Fallujah in 2004. If we didn’t find it, we were to take your wife hostage and use her as leverage to force you to find it. Tomas searched the house before you arrived. He found nothing. We already had your wife under control and were waiting for follow-on orders from Roberto. Since it’d been several hours since I’d last heard from him, I was getting ready to leave with her when you arrived.”

  Logan stared at him for a moment before he spoke. “I guess it’s good that I got here when I did, then.”

  Antonio didn’t respond.

  “What’s so important about an old Iraqi flag? And don’t tell me you don’t know. You have to know something.”

  “They didn’t tell us. Only what I overheard. Roberto was on the phone and talking too loudly. He said something about ‘thousands of innocent lives’ and that ‘it would be worth it for what they did to us.’ Those were his exact words. I didn’t ask. I swear.”

  Logan looked at Mike again, concern on his face. This time, Mike asked the question. “Do you know if these innocent lives that are going to be lost are here or overseas?”

  “I have no idea. I swear to God. If I’d asked, I’d be dead right now.”

  Mike looked at Logan and said, “We need to talk. Let’s get this piece of shit out of your bathroom and down to the kitchen before the cavalry arrives.”

  “How long did your uncle say they’d be?” Logan asked.

  Mike looked at his watch. “Should be any minute now.”

  Logan nodded. “Fair enough. If anyone’s going to help us sort this mess out, it’s him.”

  Antonio was confused as he looked at the two men. His confusion was replaced with pain as Logan and the other man suddenly jerked him to his feet. As he was roughly dragged downstairs, he screamed the entire way.

  CHAPTER 11

&nb
sp; “Logan, you look awful and smell like whiskey. What the hell happened? I thought you’d been sober for the last six or seven months.” Sarah stared at him, expecting a response resembling the truth but not all of it. Trustworthiness hadn’t been one of his strong suits in their relationship over the past few years.

  Logan looked at Sarah. He struggled to find words that could accurately convey his emotions. He was full of sorrow at the loss of Daly, rage at the intruders, and disgust with himself. How do I explain that?

  He wasn’t an expressive man. Conversations like this one weren’t easy for him. He almost preferred getting shot to discussing his feelings.

  He contemplated his response when he remembered that one of Alcoholics Anonymous’s Twelve Steps said something about “honesty.” After everything that had occurred, there was no point in denying the truth.

  “I went on a two-day binge. It started two nights ago. Two days ago was the four-year anniversary of my last operation in Fallujah. I thought I could handle it, but then I started reliving the events in my head. I didn’t want to talk about it. So I chose the easy option like a coward. I drank myself into a blackout.” He paused as he looked around the kitchen. “Guess it wasn’t such a good choice.”

  Both Sarah and Mike knew what had happened on that last mission—at least the most important part. The faces of his fallen Marines burned brightly in Logan’s consciousness.

  The pain was evident on his face as he spoke. “I’m not making any excuses. I was trying to drink myself into oblivion, for at least a few days. When I dropped off Daly,”—his voice broke as he thought of his dead dog, and tears welled up in his eyes—“I knew I was going to go back to my house to start drinking.”

  Sarah put her head in her hands as he continued. “And because I couldn’t face my personal demons, Daly is dead. And there’s nothing I can do about it. And now I have to carry that guilt with me.” He stopped again to gather himself. He expected no sympathy from Sarah. He didn’t deserve any.