Forced to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  ***

  The whipping continues at ten-second intervals.

  Crack.

  Crack.

  Crack.

  Time drifts. The other had taken him away... for how long? How many lashes had he taken? He lost count at twenty-eight.

  He opens his eyes and catches a glimpse of Montez leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. Montez yawns in mock boredom and nods runt boy over. They speak in hushed whispers for a few seconds. Maybe runt boy needs a rest, his arm must be tired from the exertion.

  Nathan feels liquid running down his legs. He hopes this is the end.

  ***

  Nathan saw Montez reach an expanse of grass and veer toward a loose group of palms. Closing the distance, he easily kept Montez in sight. His prey was silhouetted against the multicolored lights of the amusement complex beyond.

  ***

  Time drifts again.

  Montez’s calm voice brings him back. “Why don’t you just tell me your name? What possible harm could it cause? Why go through all this needless suffering?”

  He doesn’t respond.

  Montez snaps a finger.

  He closes his eyes, expecting a blinding crack. It doesn’t come.

  The waiting is so horrible.

  The rope suspending him jerks. He opens his eyes. Runt boy is untying the knot. He’s lowered just enough to stand on his toes. A cruel trick. His shoulders are out of the sockets. They have been for hours.

  Montez strolls over and throws power on his torso. He grits his teeth against the blinding sting.

  “We’re going to take a lunch break. Can we bring you anything? A club sandwich and beer?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Such language.”

  Time drifts again.

  A slap across his lacerated face brings him forward. He opens his eyes. Montez. Inches away. Holding something. Leaning his head back.

  A canteen? Water. He’s drinking water.

  His tormentor spits the liquid onto his legs and feet. His welts erupt in fresh agony.

  He hears himself again. Laughing. No, crying.

  Maybe he could end this. Definitely worth a try.

  He winks at Montez and grins.

  Montez grabs a handful of his hair and yanks his head forward. “What are you smiling at?”

  Fighting to stay conscious, he bites his tongue and feels blood flow into his mouth. With all his strength, he spews the red load into Montez’s face.

  Montez wipes his face on his sleeve, hisses something, and hurries toward the shed, where he disappears. A few seconds later, he reappears with something in his hand. A radio?

  No, not a radio.

  Below a sickening smile, the stun gun disappears from view.

  Crackling white agony.

  His scream penetrates the jungle wall. All birds go silent.

  Merciful blackness. The other returns faithfully, taking his place.

  Time drifts again.

  Where is he? What’s happening?

  The answer arrives in force with another jolt.

  He wrenches his head back and forth as he screams.

  And screams.

  And screams….

  ***

  Feet forgotten, Nathan reached deeper for a final burst of speed. He flew over the parking lot’s west curb, up a narrow landscaped area, and relished the feel of damp grass. Cool air filled his lungs in full, deep breaths. As the other receded, Nathan’s senses became heightened—razor sharp. His muscles worked in perfect harmony. He felt free, like a cheetah on the savannah. Total exhilaration. He knew his body well. Its limits. Its reserves. He was far from spent.

  Chapter 42

  Montez glanced back. Unbelievable. McBride had managed to close the distance separating them. How could that be? The man was barefoot. His feet had to be shredded from the broken glass back in the hotel room. He couldn’t have traversed that mess unscathed. How was this possible?

  One thing become clear. He wouldn’t be able to outrun this man, not over the long haul.Arturo was dead, and his other men remained on the yacht, out of contact. Which left him completely alone. He’d have to set up an ambush. A fatal shot would be best, but he’d settle for any direct hit.

  ***

  Nathan sensed Montez’s growing unease. By the time his prey reached Mission Boulevard, Nathan had nearly halved the distance separating them. But if Montez entered Belmont Park, the degree of difficulty grew exponentially. There were hundreds of variables in there, all of them to his disadvantage.

  Decision time.

  He’d have to risk it. No choice.

  Like a baseball player sliding into second base, he skidded to a stop on the damp grass, gained a knee, and toggled the laser. He took a deep breath, painted the red dot onto Montez’s fleeing form just below the torso, and pulled the trigger.

  ***

  Montez felt the bullet tear through his right thigh at the same instant he heard the suppressed shot.

  He dodged and weaved on instinct as panic seized him. The shock receded a bit when he realized he could keep going. But for how long? He pivoted and fired a blind shot at his pursuer, hoping to slow him down.

  McBride must be using a laser sight, something he wished he had.

  He limped toward the park’s entrance, knowing blood loss would soon become critical, especially with his heart rate elevated. He needed to reach the cover of the park before a second bullet found him.

  ***

  Nathan saw Montez shudder for an instant, but remarkably he didn’t go down. A second later, Montez fired in his direction. The report hammered the air, clapping the surrounding buildings like a mass wake-up call. It wouldn’t be long before the police arrived—they were already racing toward the Bahia. He didn’t like the idea of Montez being arrested and taken into police custody. That wouldn’t do.

  He watched Montez limp across Mission Boulevard and hurry through a gate leading into a narrow parking lot.

  Maybe he should’ve shot to kill. Forget about it, stay focused.

  Nathan pumped his arms for more speed and looked for approaching cars. None. He sprinted across the northbound lanes of Mission Boulevard, across the narrow divider, then across the southbound lanes. His feet slapped hard on the pavement, his first reminder that despite the momentary pain relief, he’d have to face reality soon.

  He inwardly cursed as Montez disappeared under the roller coaster and entered Belmont Park. To avoid being ambushed, he’d have to slow his pursuit. Maybe having the police on scene wouldn’t be so bad after all. He’d rather see Montez in police custody than not in custody at all.

  And with that thought, the pain in his feet returned in force. The adrenaline rush of the flashback had worn off. Reason had replaced the other, just as therapy had taught him. Fighting against lost hope, Nathan dug deeper and once again, tried to disconnect the pain.

  When was the last time he’d been in Belmont Park? A couple of years? A lot can change. He knew there was some sort of artificial wave machine for surfers, an Olympic-sized pool, shops, food stands, rides, and various other attractions. At 0300 hours, all of them would be closed and the park abandoned. Did security guards patrol the place? Probably did. Were they armed or just radio cops? If there were guards, they’d already be on the way to investigate Montez’s gunshot.

  Breathing heavily, he crouched to lower his profile, slowed to a jog, and scanned the perimeter fence and roller coaster beyond. The white support system of posts and trusses offered no place for Montez to mount a hidden attack and the roller coaster had an antipersonnel fence around its perimeter to keep people away from the tracks.

  Gun up, he moved into the park proper. He couldn’t do anything about the ambient light, which seemed overly bright. From any number of hiding places or alcoves, Montez could see his approach. And in this kind of battle, the man who sees his opponent first usually wins. Quickness would be the key.

  But with these feet? He tested them, gauging his agility. The one saving grace? Th
e bleeding had slowed, probably because the puncture wounds were plugged with sand and grit. Slipping on bloody feet at the moment of truth could get him killed, or worse.

  The thought of being subjected to Montez’s sadism all over again wrenched his stomach. He’d eat a bullet first.

  Five yards past the entrance’s threshold, he bent low at something that caught his eye. Fresh drops of blood. It appeared Montez had suffered more than just a graze and could never outrun him now, which meant an ambush became certain.

  Seeing no more blood droplets in the immediate area, he followed the fence on his left until he arrived at a convex mirror. It was mounted on a building next to some kind of seated free-fall ride, presumably to allow the ride’s operator to see people on the opposite side. Nothing in the mirror now, no sign of Montez.

  He took a few seconds to evaluate the light sources that would produce shadows, even if Montez were hiding out of eyeshot. Ahead and to his right, the carousel offered a good hiding spot. He noticed several video cameras mounted on the roof of the building directly in front of him, but doubted they were monitored feeds. He took a few more seconds to study the map of the park in front of the covered carousel, memorizing all the exits. Six in all, tied into the main walkway. Two to the east. Two to the south. And two toward the west. He didn’t know if any of them were gated.

  Precious seconds were wasting. He needed to regain a visual of Montez. Keeping Harv’s Sig aimed toward the carousel, he advanced to the building where the convex mirror was mounted. It looked to be a ticket sales booth. Staying on the move would make him a more difficult target, so he crept forward along its wall and scanned the concrete in front of a low set of stairs leading up to the carousel.

  And found more blood drops.

  ***

  Montez fought back the onset of new panic. What had started as an inconvenient burning had expanded into a nasty blowtorch wound. And the dripping blood, which hadn’t decreased in volume, created an easy trail to follow. He knew McBride would be expecting an ambush, but wouldn’t know from where. Would he get more than one shot? Probably not. He’d better make it count. And there’d be no taking prisoners at this point. He needed to kill or disable McBride and clear the area. Time wasn’t on his side, but even with ample time, where could he go? He didn’t know how far he’d make it on foot with a wound like this. Half a mile? Less?

  He looked down at the small pool of blood forming under his pant leg. Even if he used his shirt as a tourniquet, there was enough blood soaking his pants to keep dripping for awhile. How long before the blood worked its way down and pooled in his shoes?

  Knowing McBride had to slow his pace, Montez moved to the south, hobbling down the main path of the park. Fortunately, he’d scouted this escape route a week ago and thought it unlikely his pursuer knew the layout of Belmont Park as well he did. He had a variety of pre-scouted ambush spots at his disposal, he just had to pick the right one.

  That’s when a brilliant idea came. He’d turn his disadvantage into an advantage.

  He looked over his shoulder and worked his way deeper into the park.

  Chapter 43

  If I can hear them, he can hear them.

  Approaching sirens. At least three, probably four. Nathan considered removing the suppressor and popping off a shot to draw the police in here. No, not yet. Involving the police ran the risk of a friendly fire situation. At this point Montez had to be hurting as badly as he was. Probably worse. And weakening from blood loss.

  Time to relocate again. Watching for shadows or movement behind the carousel, he advanced to some steps and crouched behind a concrete trash container. He peered around the corner to the south. No sign of Montez or any security guards. Or anyone. The park was deserted. A spinning-type ride occupied the left side, with an arcade, retail shops, and food vendors on the right. Ten feet away, he saw two more blood droplets in the middle of the walkway. And something more.

  A lot more.

  A partial bloody footprint.

  Outstanding.

  Montez’s leg wound had soaked his pants down to his shoe. He’d definitely gone this way. But how far?

  Old-fashioned streetlamps provided plenty of light toward the interior, but the perimeter storefronts allowed deep shadows in their darkened alcoves. A bullet could come from any one of them. No wonder Montez had chosen this place.

  He ran in a low crouch along the base of a carnival ride’s platform and stopped at its entry stairs. He stole another look to the south, but again, saw no one. He studied his new surroundings for a few seconds. More crimson footprints led the way down the concrete walkway. From the spacing, it seemed like Montez was doing his best to run. The temptation to run after him had to be checked. That’s exactly what Montez wanted. Slow down. Think. Use the environment. What’s available? What’s the best way to advance deeper into the park without getting ambushed?

  ***

  Satisfied, Montez ducked between a couple of souvenir kiosks in the middle of the park’s main walkway. McBride would have to expose himself to advance up the same route he’d just traversed. To his right, a concrete wall protected some sort of vomit-producing thrill ride. On his left, bumper cars. This location gave him a clear, uninterrupted view of the park’s main walk. Tactically sound. McBride would be an easy target.

  His grimace from the mounting leg pain turned into a smile when he saw McBride dart from one side of the walkway to the other and duck behind a trash container.

  Got you.

  ***

  The trash bins.

  They offered a solid tactical opportunity. Spaced every twenty to thirty feet and made of three-inch thick concrete, they created perfect leapfrog stations. He’d dash from trash bin to trash bin and work his way down the interior.

  He looked over his shoulder the way he’d come. No one. But the approaching sirens grew louder, definitely closing from more than one direction. He couldn’t afford a prolonged chase in here. Time to up the stakes and force Montez’s hand.

  Everything hinged on his belief that Montez felt more pressure than he did.

  He sprinted forward to the opposite side of the walkway and ducked behind the next trash bin. The renewed pain under his feet caused by starting and stopping felt like running on a bed of nails, but it couldn’t be helped. Leaving himself exposed for more than a few seconds, especially in this well-lit area, invited a bullet. He saw Montez’s bloody footprints continue down the concrete, but lost sight of them fifteen yards further on. He peered over the top of the trash bin. All clear. The park remained deserted. Where were the security guards?

  A split second before making his next move, his answer arrived. A security guard rounded the corner at the south entrance of the park and jogged directly toward him.

  He couldn’t stay in his current position without a high risk of being seen, but ducking into the courtyard to his right meant losing sight of the main walkway and potentially losing Montez for good. Not an option.

  He watched the security guard for a few seconds and decided to stay put. The guard had obviously heard Montez’s gunshot and was hustling over to investigate. With a little luck, the guard would turn right and take a shortcut past the southern end of the roller coaster. If not, maybe the guard would run past his hiding place without looking back. Was the guard armed? If so, the situation might escalate. He didn’t want to deal with an armed, and likely nervous, rent-a-cop.

  ***

  Montez watched McBride poke his head out from behind the trash bin, then quickly pull back. Had he been seen? It seemed unlikely. This hiding place offered deep shadow. No way he’d been seen. He peered around the corner in the opposite direction and saw what had made McBride duck.

  A security guard.

  Running right toward him.

  He raised his gun.

  ***

  Nathan watched the security guard turn right at the mini-motorboat ride and head for the east perimeter. He didn’t know how long the guard would be gone, so he used this opportunit
y to advance to the next trash bin.

  His new threat areas became the souvenir kiosks in the middle of the walkway and a blind corner on the left side. Scratch the blind corner, the security guard would’ve seen Montez.

  He craned his neck above the trash bin and saw the bloody footprints continue past the kiosks, but he couldn’t see how far. The low angle didn’t allow him to see much beyond the kiosks, and he wasn’t about to stand up for a better look. He began to wonder if Montez had bolted all the way through the park. Montez could be getting into a prearranged escape vehicle in the southern parking lot. That could’ve been his plan all along—to take a pursuer down a difficult gauntlet riddled with multiple ambush points in order to buy enough time for an escape out the south end.

  He couldn’t wait any longer.

  Following the bloody footprints, Nathan sprinted in a low crouch past the souvenir kiosks.

  Something flashed through his mind as he ran.

  A scene in a movie he’d recently watched.

  One that featured a trail of footprints.

  Which movie was it?

  The Shining.

  ***

  Montez adjusted his position to follow the guard’s exit from the main walkway. As he did, he heard motion behind him. McBride must’ve raced past his position toward the south entrance. He readjusted his position to get a shot from behind. He poked his head around the corner, trained his weapon on McBride’s back, and smiled.

  ***

  The bloody footprints suddenly ended.

  Right in the middle of the walkway? Impossible.

  Montez couldn’t fly, but he could—

  Backtrack!