Forced to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  Nichole Dalton heard a voice. A man’s voice.

  For a split second she saw Montez’s grinning face and bloody gloves.

  She remembered being rescued by a tall man with long scars on his face and body.

  Nichole, can you hear me?

  She opened her eyes but couldn’t focus. Her chest and stomach stung. Where was she?

  The plastic surgeon. She’d been taken to a plastic surgeon’s office. She remembered lying on her back and feeling cold, remembered feeling an IV inserted into her arm. There’d been classical music in the background. And some kind of chemical smell, alcohol maybe? She couldn’t remember anything beyond that.

  “Nichole, can you hear me?”

  She turned her head and saw Dr. Reavie.

  He took her hand. “I’ve got a couple of girls who want see their mother.”

  “You found them! They’re safe?” She tried to sit up. Fiery pain made her wince. She didn’t care.

  “Don’t sit up. I’ll elevate the bed for you. You’re recovering from anesthesia. Everything went well. You have more than a thousand sutures, though.”

  “My girls!”

  “They’re right here.”

  ***

  Nathan felt insecure in a wheelchair, but it beat the alternative—a pine box. He watched the two girls rush to their mother’s bedside and hug each other. Nichole’s joy overpowered her pain. She closed her eyes to the tears streaming down her cheeks and held them.

  And in that moment, nothing else in the world mattered.

  Grangeland wiped a tear. So did Holly. No warm-blooded human being could watch this and not feel torn to pieces. He felt Holly take his hand and give it a firm squeeze.

  “Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s give them some time alone.”

  He wheeled himself to the door and turned back.

  Nichole Dalton made eye contact and mouthed the words thank you.

  He nodded and slipped out.

  Grangeland insisted on pushing his wheelchair the rest of the way through Reavie’s office and he reluctantly agreed. Holly couldn’t do it. She walked with a cane. A few hours ago, his feet had been numbed, scrubbed clean, and sutured closed. None of the cuts had been especially large or deep, but there’d been a lot of them. The local anesthetic had since worn off and truth be told, he was grateful for the wheelchair. But wrecked feet or not, he wasn’t going to miss this reunion.

  In the parking lot, the cobalt beginning of a new sunrise spread across the horizon.

  He spoke softly, just above a whisper. “Seeing Nichole and her daughters like that? It makes it all worth it.”

  Grangeland stopped pushing and Holly took his hand.

  They were silent for a moment, staring at the eastern sky.

  “I owe you an apology, Grangeland. I didn’t mean what I said.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  “It’s not okay. I really care what you think of me. Both of you.”

  “I feel the same way about you,” Grangeland said.

  “My feet hurt.”

  Holly half laughed. “At least you’re not sporting Grangeland’s pink sweater any more.”

  He’d almost forgotten about that. After cleaning Montez up and hauling the semiconscious man into the sedan, Grangeland had given him the sweater, the only thing she had stretchy enough to fit. He’d worn it into the emergency room.

  He grinned. “I don’t know, I kinda liked the way it felt.”

  “Don’t ever repeat that,” Holly said.

  He looked to Grangeland, as if to invite a dissenting vote.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’ll have to agree with my SAC on that.”

  Chapter 49

  A week later, compliments of U.S. taxpayers, Nathan and Harvey arrived in Washington via Director Lansing’s Lear. At Reagan National, they rented separate cars and went separate ways. Harv wanted to retrieve his family from Thorny’s safe house and see a museum or two.

  In his own rental car, Nathan sighed and concentrated on driving.

  Overall, it was a nice afternoon. Not too humid. High clouds drifted toward the east.

  Diving up the George Washington Memorial Parkway toward Langley, he tried to make sense of things, but there were still some missing pieces. He hoped to get some answers, but wasn’t holding his breath. He didn’t expect to learn much more than he already knew.

  Following Cantrell’s instructions, he stayed on the GW Parkway and took the exit ramp directly north of CIA headquarters. He drove up a gentle slope and stopped under the guardhouse canopy. It felt a little strange telling the guards he was here to see the head honcho, but from their reactions—or more accurately, lack thereof—they’d obviously been prepped for his arrival. Most people stared at his face when they first met him, something he’d accepted over the years. He never took it personally, but sometimes getting no reaction felt worse. Those people tended to treat him like a leper.

  The entry guards directed him forward to a small parking area just outside the red vehicle barriers. He turned off the engine and relaxed, wondering how many video cameras had already, and currently were, recording his every move. If possible, he planned to keep this meeting cordial. He hadn’t requested it, Cantrell had. He had little doubt she could be a formidable enemy and he didn’t want to spoil the rapport he’d developed with her, if he could call it that.

  Ten minutes later, she arrived in a convoy of three white sedans. He climbed out and felt the telltale tingling itch of healing flesh on the soles of his feet.

  As quickly as he’d stepped out, he found himself surrounded by four nicely dressed agents with bulges under their coats.

  The passenger window of the middle sedan rolled down, revealing Director Rebecca Cantrell.

  “Hop in.”

  “I’m impressed,” he said as he took a seat and belted in. He made eye contact with each agent. “For a second, I thought you boys were going to tackle me.”

  “They just needed to be sure it was you, not someone wearing a Nathan McBride mask.”

  He pointed to his mug. “Kinda hard to copy, don’t you think?”

  “But not impossible.”

  “Where’re we going?”

  “I thought we’d do a late lunch at the Congressional Country Club. It’s only a few miles away. Sound okay?”

  “The Congressional Country Club?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a private golf course, that kind of country club.”

  “My treat?” he offered.

  “Sure, why not.”

  “Are you always escorted like this?”

  “Pretty much. A lot of things changed after nine-eleven.”

  They drove in silence for a few minutes.

  “I know you’re curious about Ironclad, and rightfully so. You’re probably wondering why, out of all the unsavory interrogators in the world, Montez was offered the job.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Well, first off, Montez is not the only interrogator subcontracted for this kind of work during the past decade. I know that’s not a pretty thought, but—”

  “I know the score, I get that. But still… Montez?”

  “Like I said in your hospital room, he never blew the whistle on our involvement in Nicaragua. He’d proven himself trustworthy. Yes, I know how that sounds. But he was also completely deniable, which is not unimportant.”

  Nathan acknowledged the point.

  “Also,” said Cantrell, “although I hate to say this, he was extremely good at his job.”

  “Look,” Nathan said, “I’m not armchair quarterbacking anyone here. I understand both sides of the enhanced interrogation argument and both have merits. I’m just wondering why it all fell apart so dramatically.”

  “When the new administration took power, one of the things the president was briefed on was Ironclad’s function as a rendition operation. Well, needless to say, the president was… how can I say this delicately? Concerned. He didn’t like the setup for a nu
mber of reasons. Although he never came out and said it, his primary reason was damage control. He was worried about fallout if the operation leaked. He didn’t want Ironclad smearing his presidency, then or ever. I’m not making any judgments on the president’s decision, that’s not my job. My job is to implement his foreign policies, whether I agree with them or not.”

  “Did the CIA fund Ironclad?”

  “Not exactly. As you know, the Kallstroms are independently wealthy. Not just wealthy, downright rich. They personally funded the resources to set up and operate Ironclad. Private jet charters for moving prisoners, a fake office in Hungary, shell companies, like the ones supposedly studying clean coal, arranging safe houses and subcontractors to deal personally with interrogators like Colonel Montez. You name it. It allowed the president total deniability.”

  “So with Montez, in terms of transporting prisoners to their interrogation, dealing with Montez, then disposing of them, it was Kramer, pretty much alone?”

  “Correct. Kramer set everything up and handled the day-to-day operations. We, the CIA, logistically supported him through an insulated contractor, Duane Dalton.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier to just kill Montez when the president pulled the plug?” he asked.

  “Normally, yes, but as we discussed in the hospital, many operatives like Montez have sleeper systems in place to protect themselves in the event they die, or even disappear for X amount of time. Blackmail traps set to release damaging info to the media. We sent a man down to Tobago to capture him alive. Unfortunately, that mission failed and Montez went on the offensive.”

  “So Montez started with Kramer because that’s the only person he’d had any contact with?”

  “That’s right. Think of Ironclad’s structure like an onion. Kramer. Dalton. Senator Kallstrom. Former Director Kallstrom. In that order. Montez never knew anyone but Kramer and Kramer’s knowledge never went deeper than the onion’s second layer, Dalton. That’s why Montez needed to find and interrogate Dalton.”

  “Let’s hope Montez was telling the truth about his thumb drive being the only copy of Dalton’s confession. Senator Kallstrom could be facing a bigger threat than mere legal proceedings.”

  “It’s possible, but we’re ninety-nine percent sure.”

  “So, Montez…” Nathan sought the right words.

  “Yes, he caved easily under interrogation.”

  “How did you break him?”

  “Actually, it was Harvey’s suggestion. We sent five of our biggest operations officers into his cell with a tube of KY and a box of condoms.”

  “Did they have to, you know…”

  “Not even a little,” said Cantrell. “Montez became downright loquacious, I’m told. Of course, we followed up with a whole suite of drugs and sleep deprivation to confirm everything he told us. But no, we never had to get rough.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. I don’t imagine many interrogators would be as equally skilled on the other side of the equation.”

  “That’s generally true, but not always. You’re the exception to the rule.”

  “I was never a professional interrogator.”

  “But you are field qualified.” Cantrell took the I-495 north onramp. “Needless to say, a lot of powerful people are really glad you didn’t kill him, including the president. You and Harv have been the topic of numerous high-level intelligence discussions. You guys have new friends in high places now.”

  “I’d use the word friends’ loosely.” He watched the suburban countryside fly past. “Did Montez’s rendition work ever yield anything?”

  “Tons. That’s why it was kept active for so long.”

  He waited.

  “Okay,” she said at last. “You’ve earned it. We uncovered a plot two years ago with information that came directly from a Montez interrogation. You’re aware we have tighter security at all our major airports and that it’s become increasingly difficult to repeat what happened on nine-eleven. Not impossible, but far less likely.”

  He wasn’t sure he agreed.

  “What about private charters?” she asked.

  “Private charters?”

  “Rental jets. Hypothetically, a wealthy family—we’ll call it Family X—decides to take a trip to Europe. They charter a private jet. At many smaller airports all over the country, they can literally pull their vehicles up to the plane and load their own luggage. Let’s say they want to leave from San Diego, but the private charter company is based in Los Angeles. With me so far?”

  He knew where this was going.

  “So the private jet flies down from Los Angeles to a smaller airport in San Diego. An SUV drives out to meet the plane. Three brothers and two cousins pile out of the SUV. They look unassuming. Clean-shaven. Casually dressed. Except for their accents, they don’t seem out of the ordinary. They load their suitcases into the luggage compartment and climb aboard. The captain orders his fuel tanks topped off for the flight to the East Coast. But the suitcases don’t contain clothes and toiletries, they contain eighty pounds of Semtex each. Nearly half a ton in all. Once they’re airborne, they overpower the pilot and copilot and fly directly to the stadium for a sold-out Chargers football game.”

  “That’s only a two minute flight from Monty.”

  “Right. There’s no time to intercept the jet once it deviates from its flight plan and goes radio silent. They fly it into the stadium and detonate the Semtex a split second before the jet hits the seats. The concussive shockwave, coupled with thousands of pounds of burning jet fuel and twisted aluminum shrapnel, has catastrophic results. We estimate the death toll would be ten to fifteen thousand with double that number seriously burned and wounded. Men, women, and children.”

  “Are you telling me Montez uncovered a plot like that and you prevented it?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. We took down a cell of five men and two women in Cleveland, along with half a ton of Semtex. They were planning to hit the Browns season opener. Montez wrung it out of one of the planners, whom one of my agents had captured during a joint operation with the Yemeni army. The cell was twelve weeks away from implementing the plan I just outlined.”

  He shook his head. “Incredible. Did the president know about it?”

  “Of course.” She softened her tone. “Nathan, you of all people know what goes on behind the scenes. None of this will ever be revealed to the public. For obvious reasons, it can’t be. We’ve also uncovered numerous locations of cells in Iraq, Afghanistan, Sudan, and elsewhere. In many of those locations IEDs and suicide vests were being manufactured. We discovered a plot to bomb the U.S. embassy in Kuwait and a comprehensive plan to infiltrate the highest levels of Afghanistan’s fledgling government. We’ll never know how many civilians and service members we’ve saved over the years, but it’s thousands of lives.”

  “Like I said,” Nathan told her, “I understand both sides of the enhanced interrogation argument. I get that.” And he did.

  “I’ve read the details on some of your missions, none of which will ever be revealed to the public either. How many lives have you and Harvey saved? You guys cleared the way for a SEAL team to seize a chemical weapons stash in Bosnia. You took out a rogue Russian general who’d been about to sell shoulder-launched missiles to Hamas. Can you imagine Al-Qaeda terrorists lurking at the ends of our nation’s airports with Stinger-type weapons? Even though Marine One constantly uses different routes to ferry the president back and forth to Andrews, eventually they’d get lucky and be in the right place at the right time and shoot it down.”

  He could imagine those scenarios. All too well. “What now?”

  “My suggestion is take a vacation. You and SAC Simpson. Go someplace tropical and lounge around. Drink margaritas and play shuffleboard on a cruise ship. Go scuba diving. You’ve earned it.”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right. Will you promise me something as a personal favor?”

  “That depends.”

  “Don’t kill Montez.”
>
  She raised a brow. “That’s quite a request.”

  “If you include the dead mercenaries from Montez’s Long Beach warehouse, Harv and I have killed sixty-two people. We’ve got enough blood on our hands.”

  “Okay. I’ll agree to that. Or more accurately, I’ll recommend it. But Montez may wish I hadn’t.”

  “You’re a good woman, Rebecca. I wasn’t sure when we first met, but I am now.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. It means a lot coming from you.”

  “Why do I get the feeling I haven’t seen the last of you?”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  Chapter 50

  General Hawthorne’s C-20G turned final into Leeward Point Airfield, Naval Station Guantanamo Bay, just after 1400 hours. Nathan found himself gripping the armrests a little too tightly as the wheels touched down.

  “Nervous?” Harv asked.

  “A little.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Thorny hung up the phone and turned toward them. “We’re all set. Rear Admiral Patricia Maas has agreed to meet us in person, so has Captain Brett King, the station’s commander. Maas is the commanding officer of Joint Task Force Guantanamo, so we’ll be in good hands. The JTF deputy commander, Brigadier General Gabriel Porras, will also be meeting us at the terminal. Porras is Army. JTF Gitmo is under a separate command from the rest of the station.”

  The jet’s thrust reversers deployed and the pilot applied power.

  “A separate command?” Harv asked over the engine noise.

  “Yes, it’s comprised of mostly naval personnel, but it has servicemen and women from all branches. There are other Marines on the station, but their primary assignment is to guard the perimeter fence.”

  Thorny must have sensed his apprehension. “Relax, Montez won’t be able to see us. We’ll be behind a two-way mirror.”

  Nathan looked out the window at three Jeep Cherokees sitting on the tarmac near a vehicle entry gate. The jet came to a stop and the doors to the Cherokees opened. Four people dressed in combat uniforms climbed out and walked toward the jet. Three were in Naval working uniforms, the other in a desert Army combat uniform, no doubt the JTF’s deputy commander, the Army brigadier.