Forced to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  “I can’t move twenty million dollars million all at once.”

  “I’d better find five million dollars million deposited tonight. You have two days for the rest.”

  “I’ll start making the transfers. Don’t ever contact me again.”

  “That depends entirely on you. Good-bye, Senator.”

  ***

  Nathan left Harv in place guarding the driveway while he conducted a quick search around the perimeter of the house. He approached several expensive vehicles—including a Bentley—but none of the hoods were warm. Fifty yards to the west, a pool area with several large gazebos connected to the driveway via granite slab sidewalks. Whoever owned this property was clearly wealthy. The landscaping alone probably cost more than most people’s homes.

  In his earpiece, Harv’s voice broke the near silence. “Another body, east side of driveway. Plus one dog. Same MO. Looks like another bodyguard.”

  It explained why they hadn’t seen any tactical dogs. Montez or his men killed them. “Meet me at the front door. I doubt anyone’s still here, but let’s stay sharp.”

  The double front doors hung wide open. Most of the ground floor lights were on. Harv powered off his TI and tucked it into his waist pack. Nathan did the same with his NV visor.

  “Why’d they leave the doors open?” Nathan asked.

  “Maybe they left in a hurry. We could’ve been spotted.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I don’t smell propane or natural gas,” Harv whispered.

  “Me either. I’ll take the left.”

  They rushed inside and couched down, both sweeping their Sigs across the room.

  All clear. Silent as well. No background music or TV noise. Nothing. The house felt abandoned.

  Wall-to-wall with ornately carved antique furniture, the living room looked like a time warp. Mahogany-paneled walls were adorned with huge oil paintings, some of which he recognized. Possibly one reason why Montez hadn’t rigged explosives. Even being the monster he was, he remained respectful of personal property. The Bonita safe house had been worthless to him, but this? He’d probably spent a good amount of time coveting it. No doubt Montez believed destroying this furniture and art would’ve been a crime against society. The irony almost seemed laughable.

  “I’ve seen museums with less inventory,” Harv said, looking around. “What’s this stuff worth?”

  “Millions, maybe tens of millions.”

  Harv scanned the room. “I don’t think anyone’s here, but we should clear the house.”

  “Take the upper floors. Fifteen-second check-ins.”Nathan covered Harv’s advance to the marble staircase before heading into the kitchen. He’d start there and work counterclockwise through the ground floor rooms.

  The bathroom off the entry looked fit for Saudi royalty. As he cleared the kitchen, den, billiards room, and two guest bedrooms—each with its own full bath—anger and hatred flared at Montez’s escape. He forced it aside and concentrated. Only one room left, next to the library. Probably a private office.

  Its door was closed.

  Chapter 36

  “Harv, I need you down here.”

  “On my way.”

  Ten seconds later, Harv pounded down the stairs. “Upstairs is clear. Took me a while. There are six bedrooms. Each with its own private bathroom and walk-in closet.”

  Nathan looked at the closed door. “We need something long enough to sweep above its sill. See if you can find something in the kitchen.” He got down on all fours and sniffed. He detected tobacco odor, probably from cigars. It didn’t smell like cigarettes. No light came from within the room.

  Harv returned with a kebab skewer

  “That’s perfect.” Using a light grip—just strong enough to keep it from slipping out of his fingers—he inserted the skewer under the door and slowly worked it across the sill at a slight upward angle. “I don’t feel anything.” He handed Harv the skewer. “I’m going to crack the door. Check the entire jamb, head to toe.”

  He turned the knob, listening for anything other than the telltale click of the privacy latch disengaging. “Okay, I’m going to crack it half an inch.” Extremely slowly, he pushed the door inward and stopped. He placed his foot at the base of the door and kept pressure against it.

  Following his lead, Harv carefully ran the skewer down the jamb from top to bottom. “Nothing,” Harv said. “I didn’t feel anything. I think we’re okay.”

  “I’m going to open it half an inch at a time. If anything’s attached, it’s probably looped around the handle, or door stopper.”

  When the door was open eighteen inches or so, Harv stuck his head through. “I can’t see anything, it’s too dark.”

  “Do you see a light switch on the wall?”

  “Affirm.”

  “Let’s risk it.”

  Harv reached in to his left and flipped the switch. “Oh, man.…”

  A bloody tableau greeted them.

  Like Bullfrog Bay.

  In the middle of the room, atop painter’s plastic, sat a leather office chair soaked with fresh blood. Crimson footprints surrounded the grisly seat. The desk held the instruments of Duane Dalton’s torment. A bloody hunting knife. A stun gun. Pliers. A carpenter’s hammer. And several dozen bamboo skewers with bloodstains halfway down their lengths. Montez had used them as punji sticks, probably driven in with the hammer.

  Montez, you piece of shit.

  “You okay, Nate?”

  “No, I’m not okay. Why would I be okay?”

  “Easy…”

  “He’s been three steps ahead of us the entire time. No matter what we do, he slips through our fingers.” He grabbed a Tiffany table lamp and hurled it across the room. It pulled free from its plug and shattered on the far wall. “Son of a bitch!”

  “Nate.”

  “What?”

  “Stay focused here. This isn’t over.”

  “Isn’t over? Isn’t over? Take a look around. He’s long gone and so are Dalton and his daughters. He’ll be disposing of the bodies within the hour. We’ll never find him in time. It’s over. We lost. The girls are as good as dead. Let’s just face it. We lost!”

  Harv grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to make eye contact. “It’s not over. Do you hear me? It’s not over until I say it’s over.”

  Nathan’s voice lowered. “Harv, pull your head out and look around. He’s gone.”

  Harv touched the side of Nathan’s head, making him resume eye contact. “That’s bullshit. You’re no quitter. This is not over. Now, why don’t you use that finely honed intuition of yours and tell me where the hell he went.”

  Nathan looked away again. “I can’t. I’m too angry.”

  “Just breathe. Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. Do it. Now!”

  He unclenched his jaw and closed his eyes. Harv was right. This meltdown served no useful purpose. Relax. Let the hatred go.

  “Keep going,” Harv whispered. “Deeper.”

  He tilted his head back, inhaled deeply, and felt it—a growing calmness—like being immersed in warm water. His hatred drifted away like smoke on the wind.

  He heard Harv’s voice. Distant, then edging closer, smooth as silk.

  “Look around. Absorb the scene. Every detail. Where did Montez go?”

  As he looked around the room, images from his mind’s eye began appearing like a slideshow. He closed his eyes and let them flow, starting at the beginning. Glen Canyon Dam. Lake Powell. Bullfrog Bay. The marina. Stiegler’s houseboat. Chain-link fencing to weigh Kramer down through a live drowning. Kramer’s underwater terror.…

  What was the connection? What did they all have in common? It’s got to be here.… Come on, what’s the connection?

  Water.

  Water!

  He opened his eyes and scanned the room. There, on the far wall, an enlarged photograph of a huge motor yacht. He pointed at it.

  Harv focus
ed where he pointed.

  He looked at his friend and knew they both felt it. Electric and vivid.

  Harv raced around the desk and began tearing through the file drawers. One of the drawers was locked. He grabbed the hammer and used the bloodied claw end to force it past its locking mechanism. It flew open and banged against the stops. Harv rifled through the files.

  “Nothing about it in here.”

  “Are you sure? Check the M’s for marina and the Y’s for yacht.” He looked on top of Dalton’s desk. “Harv, there’s a file on the desk.”

  Harv grabbed it. “This is it. Lady of the Waves. She’s moored at… the Bahia Hotel’s marina.”

  “Let’s go.”

  ***

  Three minutes later and breathing heavily from their all-out sprint, Nathan and Harv piled into the Mercedes.

  “How long ago did Montez leave?”

  “I’d say no more than fifteen minutes. If Montez believes no one knows where he’s going—which is likely—he won’t risk getting pulled over for speeding. Something we need to think about ourselves. Let’s get this face paint off too.”

  “We definitely don’t want to get pulled over. Use your best judgment. You know where the Bahia’s marina is?”

  Harv started the engine. “It’s right across the street from Belmont Park.”

  “Damn, I didn’t take a close look at the photo.”

  “I did. I’ll know the yacht when I see it. There can’t be too many seventy-footers down there. The marina’s not that big. We’ll find it, no problem. ”

  They drove in silence for a few moments. “Nate, you need to know something.”

  He waited.

  “The file on the desk. The owner of the yacht is Senator Alan Kallstrom. I saw the registration.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Dalton and Montez were in a home owned by the son of our old boss? What are the odds?”

  “Senator Kallstrom’s also a member of CDT with your dad.”

  Nathan shook his head, speechless.

  “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?”

  “On second thought, let’s risk getting pulled over. Punch it, Harv.”

  Chapter 37

  Harv broke every traffic law on the books getting down to Mission Bay. Fortunately, not a single cop saw any of it.

  “Crap,” Harv said.

  “What?”

  “I forgot there’s no exit onto I-eight west and we just passed Sea World Drive.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Take Rosecrans. We’ll take Sports Arena Boulevard to West Mission Bay. It’s not much a detour.”

  “Lots of traffic lights.”

  “We’ll just have to risk running them. The delay won’t be too bad. And Montez isn’t in a big hurry.”

  “Do we know that for sure?”

  “Blowing a kiss good-bye seemed awfully cocky. I’m willing to bet he thinks he’s home free.”

  Harv’s Mercedes screamed down the Rosecrans exit and ran the red light at Hancock Street. The light at Kurtz turned green before he got there. He ran several more lights along Sports Arena Boulevard. The street changed to West Mission Bay Drive once they passed under the I-8. The late hour allowed Harv to reach ninety miles per hour as they crossed over the San Diego River. At Sea World, he pushed the Mercedes to the limit of its traction as he navigated the tight loop that would keep them on West Mission Bay.

  “We’re less than a minute away.”

  “Good driving, Harv.”

  “Can we see the marina from the road?”

  “I think so.”

  “Let’s make one pass. If we can see the yacht, the reverse is also true. We’ll cruise by slowly, but not too slowly. We’re just a late-night driver in no hurry to get home.”

  Harv slowed as they approached the Bahia Hotel.

  At a pedestrian crosswalk, Nathan looked over his right shoulder toward the marina. He saw it right away—a large motor yacht, just pulling away from the marina.

  “Is that our yacht?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn it. We’re too late again.”

  “Where can he go? We can call the harbor patrol and have the boat intercepted. I’m pretty sure SDPD has jurisdiction over Mission Bay.”

  Nathan reached down to remove his shoes. “Make a U-turn and pull into the Bahia’s parking lot.”

  “You are not going to—”

  “He’s not getting away this time.”

  Harv made an illegal U-turn at Mission Boulevard. “Nate, this is crazy.”

  Nathan didn’t respond.

  “You’re recovering from a nasty concussion. This isn’t Tahiti. That water’s cold. And you’ll be out of communication. You can’t take your radio.”

  He pulled the Predator knife from his ankle sheath. “This is all I need, but to make you happy, I’ll duct tape my Sig to my left calf. Don’t worry. I’ll shake the water out before I shoot anyone.”

  “Well, that’s comforting. Do you realize how dangerous this is? That yacht’s got a huge screw. It’ll suck you down and chew you up like hamburger.”

  “Not if I’m careful. I’ll grab the safety rail or the mooring cleat on the rear deck and tuck my legs up. I’ll be okay.”

  “I have no desire to push your wheelchair around for the next forty years, assuming you live through the mutilation and don’t bleed out on the swim back. Come on, Nate. This is reckless at best, suicidal at worst.”

  “And?”

  Harv shrugged. “So let me do it.”

  “I’m the stronger swimmer and you hate cold water.”

  Harv turned left onto Gleason Road. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Just keep the yacht in sight for as long as possible. If it heads for open ocean, drive out to the jetty.”

  They raced past a four-story hotel on the left. The right side of the road featured diagonal parking with a strip of grass paralleling the sandy shore of Mission Bay. The water looked like hammered pewter. Nothing a little mind over matter couldn’t overcome.

  “This is becoming a habit.”

  “What?”

  “Jumping headfirst into ops without any intel or plan. Montez can’t escape. Where can he go? Even if he makes it into open water, the Coast Guard can easily intercept him.”

  “Harv, everything you said is true. I won’t deny any of it, but there are children involved. What’s the first thing Montez will do if he thinks he’s cornered?”

  “They may not be on the yacht. You could be risking your life for nothing.”

  “Think about it. Would Montez try escaping like this without hostage insurance? I saw one of the girls in the van.” He pointed. “Park right here, next to this little building.” Nathan pulled off his shirt, but left his pants on. “There’s some wind chop. He’ll never see me through it. Plus, I’m going to swim most of it underwater.”

  “Listen to yourself. You’re not superhuman. I’m seriously thinking about pulling executive override.”

  “Harv, we agreed to never implement EO except in the direst circumstances. If you call this off, I’ll honor your decision, but you’re forgetting another promise we made.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We promised Cantrell to keep this under the radar. We can’t do that if the harbor patrol or Coast Guard gets involved.”

  “Is that really why you’re doing this?”

  He taped the Sig securely to his calf and tightly wrapped its entire length. “You know it isn’t.”

  “Is there anything you’d like me to say at your eulogy?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  “Plan B?”

  “If I can’t get aboard, or I’m blown trying, we’ll fall back and call the harbor patrol. Like you said, where’s he gonna go?”

  Harv took Nathan’s cell. “Better get swimming. The yacht will be rounding the corner any minute. If he heads in the other direction, toward Crown Point, w
e’re screwed. I’m calling the harbor patrol if he does.”

  “Agreed, but I think he’s heading for the open ocean to dump the Daltons. Alive.”

  “Good hunting, partner.”

  Chapter 38

  Harv watched his friend wade into Mission Bay and begin swimming. At this time of year, the seawater temperature near the shore would be in the high sixties, max. But if the cold shocked or bothered Nathan, it sure didn’t show.

  Harv got out of the car, crossed the street, and hunkered down in the cover of a small group of palms. This position offered a clear view of where Nate would attempt to board the yacht. The hotel rooms directly behind him raised some concern, but at this early hour of the morning he doubted anyone would be up. He didn’t smell any cigarette or marijuana smoke, and didn’t hear any late-night partiers. If a police cruiser happened to swing through, he could easily duck deeper into the landscaping.

  He brought his field glasses up and spotted Nate. He’d already swum twenty yards. Pulling executive override wouldn’t have gone over well and he knew Nate would resent it, probably for the rest of his life.

  He took a deep breath and tried to relax.

  ***

  A shiver raked Nathan’s body as he began a breaststroke in order to maintain the best possible forward speed while keeping a low profile. A crawl would be faster, but not stealthy. Because he possessed a low body fat ratio, his buoyancy was more negative than most. He found he couldn’t keep his head above water and maintain a good pace, so he made three strokes per each breath of air. He felt the resistance of his pants, Sig, and Predator on his lower legs, but boarding the yacht unarmed wasn’t an option.

  During the next three strokes, he tried to clear his mind of all distractions, especially the cold. Something bothered him, and it wasn’t the approaching yacht or even the knowledge of whose home they’d been in. It was something else entirely. Something important.

  What is it? Think, Nathan.

  Trying to understand this odd burst of intuition, Nathan reviewed how they’d gotten here. First, he rewound to Senator Kallstrom’s house. It seemed his unease began there.