What did you see? Clear your thoughts and go back.
He took a breath and began his next three breaststrokes.
Inside Kallstrom’s house, Harv went upstairs while he worked the ground floor. There hadn’t been any sign of a struggle, but that wasn’t unexpected. Duane Dalton probably agreed to turn himself over to save his family. The furniture looked normal, albeit expensive, but it didn’t reflect any sign of a struggle.
We ended up in the small study. The door was closed. We checked for booby traps.
Visually, he moved to his sprint toward the driveway. Montez blowing that infuriating kiss good-bye from the van’s passenger seat. The van. A white Ford van. A minute ago, he’d spotted a similar white van as Harv turned into the Bahia. It was backed into a stall with its rear doors facing the grass.
Nathan surfaced, took a gulp of air, and submerged for three more strokes.
Once again, he rewound back to Kallstrom’s residence, to the closed study door. Inside the study, he’d destroyed an expensive Tiffany lamp. Rage overwhelmed him and while everything became a blur, Harv helped him control his anger. Then what? He calmed down and looked around the office again. This led him to connect many of Montez’s recent tactics to water. He opened his eyes and pointed at the photograph of the yacht. Harv understood immediately and broke into the file drawer, but the file wasn’t there. It lay on top of the desk. Had Nathan subconsciously seen it before thinking about Montez and water? Before pointing at the photo? He wasn’t sure. Why did it matter? What was it about that damned file? Its owner?
He took a deep breath and went under for three more strokes. When he broke the surface again, he looked left and saw the yacht rounding the corner.
To his surprise, it was cutting through the water far slower than he’d anticipated.
He ducked below the surface for three more strokes.
A visual of Kramer sinking to the bottom of Lake Powell invaded his mind. Fueled by anger, he stroked harder before resurfacing for air, something Kramer hadn’t been able to do. The horror and fear the man must’ve felt had to be the worst imaginable. Knowing death was the only escape. How long had he held his breath before inhaling water? A minute? Longer?
Montez, you lousy piece of shit.
No. Calm down. Think back.
Kallstrom’s mansion.
The study.
The photo of the yacht.
The file sitting on the desk.
The images wouldn’t go away.…
***
Harvey followed Nate’s swim through the field glasses. It was hard to judge how much farther Nate had gone. He stole a look at the yacht. It looked to be doing two or three knots at best. Why so slowly? He did a quick calculation. Three knots was roughly four or five feet per second. It was going to be tight, but he thought Nate would have a reasonable chance of getting hold of the rear diving deck. Part of him wished Nate would miss and return to shore unharmed—chilled to the bone, but otherwise intact.
Wait a minute.
He refocused the binoculars on the spot where he’d last seen Nate. He was nowhere to be seen. Had he started another underwater swim? Harv focused on the area where he guessed Nate would surface next, but he detected nothing except wind-chopped water.
Come on, Nate. Where the hell are you?
Harv heard them before he saw the source. Footsteps. Coming from his left. He watched a man appear in dark clothing, hands in pockets, walking down the center of Gleason Road. What the hell is he doing out here at this hour? And alone? He ducked deeper into the cover of the hedge.
***
Silently moving forward, the man with the stun gun smiled.
***
Since the yacht had passed his position, Harvey wasn’t worried about being seen from that direction. He needed to check this new arrival, make sure it was only someone taking a late-night stroll. He looked behind before moving away from the cover of the palms, crouching low to take advantage of a boxed hedge. The guy looked harmless enough, but the timing felt wrong.
The man in the street doubled over, dropped to his knees, and began labored coughing. Harvey stared for a few seconds, wondering if he should offer assistance. The man didn’t look well at all.
He turned to check his blind spot again and caught the faint odor of tobacco a fraction of a second too late.
Shit!
A hideous electric charge ripped through the left side of his neck and short-circuited his muscle control. He recognized the crippling sensation from his Taser training.
His nervous system exploded in fiery agony as hundreds of on-off electrical pulses shot through his spinal column. An instant before falling to his side, a single thought glowed, then faded in his mind. Oh, Nathan. I’m so sorry I let you down.…
***
Juan Montez de Oca, former colonel of the Sandinista National Liberation Front, plunged the stun gun against the man’s neck and pulled the trigger. He delivered a full five seconds of juice with a glorious result. The man went stiff, issued a grunt of pain, and keeled over. Tall and Latino, this was almost certainly one of the two men associated with the helicopter from Bullfrog Bay.
Harvey Fontana, I presume?
Arturo ended his phony coughing and ran over. Within seconds they had their captive’s wrists and ankles secured with duct tape.
Montez scanned the area. All quiet.
He kept his voice low and addressed his captive. “How are you feeling? Not well, I trust. Well, we’ll be sure to let you recover a little bit before our discussion. We have much to talk about.”
“Up yours.”
“I think not.” He removed the man’s sidearm and tossed it several feet away. “We’re going to become good friends, you and I. As a matter of fact, I’m going to become your best friend. From now on, you’ll be totally dependent on me. For everything. I’ll control when you eat, drink, sleep, use the bathroom, and your level of discomfort, of course. Breaking you will be a challenge, of that I have no doubt, but I’ll break you. I always do.”
“You’re shit under my boot, Montez.”
“I see you know my name. How interesting. We’ll be discussing that soon. Arturo, please tape this man’s mouth.”
Montez watched in fascination as the man whipped his head back and forth, making it impossible for Arturo to plant the strip. With casual indifference, he gave Fontana a second jolt to the side of his neck, shorter this time. That did the trick. Arturo had no trouble applying the tape.
He dragged the bound man deeper into the landscaping. “Your friend is out in the water, no? He’s planning to board the yacht? Good. I have three men standing by with shark gaffs to bring him aboard. I’m afraid he’ll be somewhat damaged from the retrieval, but with a little luck, his wounds won’t be immediately fatal. I’ll need to speak with him as well. I must admit to a certain amount of curiosity about the two of you.” He turned. “Arturo, please bring the van.”
His man jogged down Gleason Road toward the main entrance to the Bahia.
“I’m curious to know if it was you or your friend who survived the assault at the Clairemont house. You don’t look so much like a McBride, so I’m guessing it was your partner. I must also confess to a certain amount of admiration for him. Armed with only a handgun, he defeated four of my men. I’m also planning to interrogate someone named, Holly?”
This hiding spot offered excellent concealment, but he didn’t intend to stay long. It would be just his luck to have a couple of drunk Americans stumble by. Arturo would arrive with the van soon and they’d leave this area. He looked across the water at the yacht. The other man, McBride, would be in the custody of his men by now, and they had strict orders not to kill him. Montez’s only regret at the moment was that he wouldn’t be there when the Daltons took the plunge. Montez looked up as headlights swept the opposite side of the road. Arturo, returning with the van.
Several hundred meters distant, the headlights went dark. Arturo was well trained. Montez watched his man pull over to the
curb, climb out, and hurry toward the rear of the van.
Chapter 39
The rear doors of the van opened.
“Lights out, dirtbag.”
Crouched just inside, Nathan Daniel McBride swiped his Predator across the man’s throat.
He sheathed the knife, jumped out, and sprinted toward Harv.
The man standing over his friend reacted quickly and pulled a handgun. No!
Harv’s body illuminated in the flash from the discharge.
So did the shooter’s face.
Montez.
***
Montez saw Arturo clutch his throat, fall to the grass, and curl into the fetal position.
What the hell!
A huge, shirtless man appeared and sprinted toward him with a gun in his hand. Montez didn’t have a clear shot—the small palms screened the advancing man.
But Mr. Fontana was a different story.
He took aim at Fontana and pulled the trigger. The bound man reacted quickly, twisting away, but not in time. The armor piercing bullet slammed into his shoulder, just inside his body armor.Finish him? No. Battlefield tactics 101. A wounded man is tactically better than a dead man. With his escape toward the street cut off, Montez charged the sliding glass doors of a hotel room, firing as he ran.
***
“Harvey!”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Montez charge the glass doors of a hotel room, shooting as he ran. Three deafening shots cracked the air. The tempered glass shattered.
Montez burst through and disappeared into the blackness beyond.
Nathan drew his knife and spent a few precious seconds cutting the tape that bound Harv’s wrists. He saw blood flowing from a shoulder wound and ripped the tape from his friend’s mouth.
“Nathan. How did you—”
“Where’s your Sig?”
“Montez tossed it over there.” Harv angled his head to the left.
Nathan retrieved Harv’s suppressed weapon. “Are you okay?”
Harv grimaced. “Take your phone. My front pocket. Go get that son of a bitch.”
“You can count on it.” Nathan cut his own Sig free from his ankle and handed it to Harv. He wanted Harv’s dry gun. Then, crouching low, began his pursuit.
He knew broken glass awaited his feet, but he hurdled the hedge and stormed into the room anyway.
Hundreds of tiny glass shards shredded his bare flesh. The carpet helped a little, but not enough. Forget about it. It’s just pain. Not life threatening. He reached down and swept the bottom of his feet, dislodging the largest pieces.
He sensed motion in the bed to his right, but ignored it. Straight ahead, the room’s front door loomed. Wide open. For some reason it was jammed open, allowing orange light to slice across the carpet.
Nathan stopped, sensing a trap. A quick trip to the closet gained him a shirt on a hanger. He tossed it out the hall door so the shirt bloused wide, keeping its form.
Montez’s gun boomed. The sound hammered every building in the area like a mass wake-up call.
Certain the shot had come from the left, Nathan crouched down and peered around the corner at knee level.
Montez.
Nathan couldn’t risk shooting from this distance, even with the laser sight. There were too many unknowns for a stray bullet.
His feet stinging and slick with blood, he took off in pursuit.
***
Montez ran at a full sprint, knowing he’d finally come face to face with the mysterious Mr. McBride. He cursed himself for the shot he’d just wasted. He had no spare magazines for an extended firefight. Not that he’d want to challenge McBride to gunplay. His adversary was skilled and smart. He’d obviously stopped swimming and turned back for shore. Montez wondered how McBride had known. It didn’t matter. Right now, only speed counted. He needed to gain some separation.
***
Nathan ignored the increasing pain on the soles of his feet and concentrated on the reward of catching Montez. Keeping him in sight might become a challenge. There were too many places to hide inside this hotel complex, too many places to set up ambushes. Blind corners. Bushes. Trees. Fences. Walls. You name it. Each one offered a bushwhacking opportunity. He’d have to guard against running head-on into the muzzle of Montez’s pistol.
Montez’s shots had been loud enough the wake the dead. No doubt the police were already on the way. And if Harv had called 911, fire and medical were also on the move. If he were Montez, he’d want to clear the immediate area—in a big hurry.
The spots mounted on the eaves of the hotel rooms provided plenty of light, even at 0300 hours. He estimated Montez had a fifty-yard head start. Manageable, but it would be better to halve the distance. At twenty-five yards he might be able to stop and take a wounding shot. The laser sight would make it easier, but taking careful aim after a prolonged sprint wouldn’t be ideal.
But damn it. The fire in his feet was worsening, verging on unbearable. Grit had already worked into the puncture holes, joining dozens of tiny glass shards that he hadn’t been able to dislodge.
Work through it. Mind over matter.
Up ahead on the right, he saw an area that would become a problem if Montez diverted in its direction. It looked to be a series of dimly-lit walkways through tropical landscaping, small in scale but rife with hiding places. If Montez went in there, all bets were off.
Then he heard it. A distant police siren. How long before it arrived? Two minutes? He didn’t know. But the approaching siren changed the dynamics. He no longer thought Montez would waste time setting up an ambush in this area. If he were Montez, he’d want to put as much separation between himself and the Bahia Hotel as possible. So be it. He’d match him stride for stride. Endurance would be the key.
But his feet were becoming more than a problem—much more—a crisis. How long before the pain overwhelmed him? Harv was right, he wasn’t superhuman and couldn’t simply disconnect the pain. Or could he?
Chapter 40
Grunting, Harvey peeled the duct tape binding his ankles with his left hand. His right arm wouldn’t respond and he hoped the nerve bundle wasn’t irreparably damaged.
He sensed a presence behind him.
“I called nine-one-one.”
He looked toward the hotel room. A woman in a white bathrobe stood in the broken-out sliding-glass door.
“Ma’am, it’s best if you stay in your room.”
“I was an ER nurse for eleven years.”
“I can’t ask you to get involved.”
She stepped over the broken glass. “You’re dressed in SWAT gear. Are you a police officer?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not.”
“Good guy or bad guy?”
He managed a smile. “Depends on whose side you’re on.”
“I’d better control that bleeding for you.”
“There’s a trauma bag in the trunk of my car. I’ll get it.”
Ignoring the fire in his shoulder, Harv hurried toward his Mercedes. Halfway there he pulled his phone and made a call.
***
Nathan couldn’t close the distance. His feet were slowing him down and Montez appeared to be in good physical shape.
Twenty yards further ahead, the driveway forked. If Montez chose right, that would take him past the main entrance, with more light and the potential of being seen. Predictably, Montez veered left toward Gleason Road and disappeared from sight.
That forced Nathan to slow down and check the blind spot before continuing. Putting on the brakes made his feet even worse, but he had no choice. He crouched down and moved forward through a small landscaped area near an entrance gate. No sign of Montez. Gun first, he sprinted to the corner of the structure and used the cover of a large palm to peer toward West Mission Bay Drive.
Damn it. Montez continued running at full tilt, now more than a hundred yards ahead. And the police siren sounded closer. Not police. Fire department. He heard the distinctive blast of an engine’s air horn. Fire was better, they wouldn�
��t have guns. He knew something of procedure and believed they’d have to stage away until SDPD arrived. If Montez also knew that, he might take time to set up an ambush. Steeling himself, he began running again.
Nathan’s foot pain had reached critical mass. Some of the cuts had clearly opened wider during the run, making the pain crippling. Frustration flared and with it, anger. And a long-suppressed memory of being bullwhipped in front of a crowd of weeping women and children. The blind hatred at being helpless to stop it had consumed his soul, like fire on flesh. It was then that the other first emerged, subverting his conscious self and quite literally saving his sanity, and probably his life.
The other.
He sensed its malevolent presence threatening to surface. He felt himself yield, needing its help. But at what cost? Despising himself for being weak, he closed his eyes and gave into fourteen years of built-up frustration, shame, and rage.
And wondered if he’d just sold his soul.
Chapter 41
Deep in the Nicaraguan jungle, Nathan hangs at the brink of insanity. All he has left is hatred. At everything. At earth. At sky. At all things, living or dead.
Crack.
Sixteen.
The bite of the lash becomes venomous. Each crack of the whip hardens his hatred. He clings to it like a life raft—separating him from an ocean of infinite agony.
Eight feet of braided catgut strikes again.
Crack.
Seventeen.
***
Oblivious to his torn feet, Nathan pursued Montez across the empty expanse of West Mission Bay Drive.
Its siren and air horn blaring, a fire engine rounded the corner from Mission Boulevard. Its engine roared. A second, more distant siren joined the din. Probably police.
Forced to Kill Page 22
