Forced to Kill

  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

&nb
sp; 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?”

  “Not by us. I’m well aware of your past,” Cantrell said. “You’re an unsung hero, Mr. McBride. Very few people outside of this room know what you went through.”

  “If you’re here to ask me—us—to back off, I’m afraid the answer’s no. And please call me Nathan.”

  Lansing made brief eye contact with his father. “That’s not why we’re here. And I owe you an apology over the Bridgestone business.”

  “Accepted. You did what you thought best at the time. I don’t second-guess people, especially people under pressure, and I don’t hold grudges.”

  “That’s quite gracious of you. I’m not sure I’d be so forgiving.”

  “I’m a chip off the old block.”

  Stone said, “Thank you, Nathan. I consider that very high praise.”

  Lansing continued. “We’re in a delicate situation here. I’ve talked it over with Director Cantrell and we’ve decided it’s better if we don’t work against each other. There’s too much at stake.”

  “Would you care to elaborate?”

  Cantrell exchanged a glance with Lansing. “First off,” she said, “I need to tell you there’s more going on than we can share. We can tell you that our two agencies are conducting a joint operation, both at home and abroad. The ATF and DEA are also involved. We want Montez as badly as you do, but we want him alive.”

  Nathan started to object.

  Stone held up a hand. “Hear them out.”

  Cantrell pulled a chair over and sat down. “Have you ever wondered why Montez ended your interrogation so suddenly?”

  He had, many times. When he’d last seen Montez, he’d been at death’s door. He remembered seeing Montez leave the jungle camp and assumed it would only be for a few hours or the rest of the day. But Montez never came back. During the long months of debriefing, mental therapy, and physical rehabilitation that followed—and the decade and a half since passed—Nathan had never been able to answer that simple question. Why did Montez stop torturing him and abruptly disappear?

  “This won’t be easy for you, but what I’m about to say never leaves this room. Ever.”

  Nathan said nothing, waiting.

  “Although Montez was never able to get your identity or what agency you worked for, he had his suspicions. It didn’t require a leap of logic to conclude you were working for the U.S. government. He made contact with the CIA after your second week of captivity.”

  He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Are you telling me the CIA knew I was alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they didn’t mount a rescue?”

  “We couldn’t risk sending in more teams in to look for you. Your location wasn’t known. You became Montez’s insurance policy.”

  “Insurance policy? For what?”

  “We paid him off to stop interrogating you, keep quiet, and let you go. We also agreed not to pursue him. Eight million dollars to a numbered account of his choice. Half paid immediately, the other half when we had you back.”

  “He never released me. He left me there to die.”

  “We can only speculate on why he didn’t keep the second part of his bargain. He probably left the camp to secure his first four million and figured that was enough and shouldn’t push his luck by returning. We may never know. We do know that he kept our presence in Nicaragua secret.” She looked at Stone, then back to him. “Officially, no direct U.S. military involvement in Nicaragua’s civil war was ever authorized by the president or Congress. More than that, no intervention of any kind was authorized. If it had leaked, it would’ve been an international scandal of epic proportions. The Iran-Contra scandal wasn’t that distant and the media never got their pound of flesh. The media wanted Reagan’s head on a silver platter. Knowledge of direct U.S. military involvement in Nicaragua might have brought down the Clinton administration. Although Operation Echo was fully justified and stopped countless innocents from being kidnapped, tortured, and executed, it wouldn’t have mattered. Montez could’ve caused major PR damage to us. But he didn’t. He never revealed our boots-on-the-ground training squads or the sniper teams that were mopping up the Sandinista holdouts. When Harvey rescued you, the dynamics changed, but we paid Montez the second half of his money anyway. Hush money, so to speak.”

  “You keep saying ‘we’ and ‘our.’ All of this happened on Director Kallstrom’s watch.”

  “That’s true, but I was the associate deputy director at the time. Number three in the chain of command. I was neck-deep.”

  He looked at his dad.

  “I didn’t know any of this until a few hours ago.”

  “It’s the truth. There’s no paper on any of it. And there are probably aspects of the Montez negotiation I’m not aware of. I think it’s fair to say that you’re the only reason former Director Kallstrom agreed to tell me what he did. He still has tremendous admiration for both of you.”

  “It makes me sick to my stomach knowing Montez was paid eight milli
on dollars, but I’m also grateful. I’m not sure I could’ve held out much longer. He was damned close to breaking me. Or ending it.”

  “I read your debrief report. You said he disappeared suddenly before his men suspended you in the cage. He could’ve killed you before he left the camp, especially if he never intended to collect the other half of the eight million. So why didn’t he?”

  “I seriously doubt seeing me crucified was worth half his fortune.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’d love to… ask him that question.”

  “You just might get your chance.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “We’ve continued to honor our deal with him.” Cantrell held up her hands. “Before you say anything, let me explain. We have to look at the bigger picture. The truth is, we have similar deals in place all over the world. We don’t want to undermine our credibility and we don’t know what sleeper measures Montez has in place to release the Nicaraguan info should he disappear. If those exchange students hadn’t seen Kramer’s body go into Lake Powell, we wouldn’t be talking right now.”

  “But hasn’t he broken the deal by killing a U.S. citizen on our soil?” Harv asked.

  “At the risk of sounding callous, no. Our deal didn’t specify anything other than his silence in exchange for the money and our promise not to pursue him.”

  “Are you telling me Nicaragua still means that much?”