Hired to Kill (The Nathan McBride Series Book 7)

by Andrew Peterson

  “I think we’ve seen enough,” he said. “There’s no need to stay longer.”

  “Are you okay, General?”

  Of course, he thought. Why wouldn’t I be okay? I just witnessed the most heinous display of human savagery and mayhem imaginable. Why don’t we discuss it further over cookies and tea?

  “I’m fine,” he said. “The results are clear. And commendable.”

  Soon nodded his thanks. “I think we can conclude the compound is ready at this point. I don’t see the need for any further refinements or tests.”

  Like Hahn, Dr. Soon knew the next test would be a large-scale event a few miles away at the Sangyong Reeducation Camp. The Supreme Leader wanted absolute proof the compound worked outside of their controlled laboratories. Such a demonstration wasn’t necessary, but neither of them was willing to question the decision.

  “I agree. I’ll file the report. I’ll mention how well you’ve done, Doctor, and how important you’ve been to this project.”

  “Thank you, General. It’s not easy to fine-tune these compounds. It’s taken eighteen months to achieve this level of effectiveness.”

  And how many lives? Hahn wanted to ask. Actually, he knew the exact number. The ashes of 487 people fertilized this mountainside. The maintenance garage for the dated mining equipment held a crematorium.

  All four subjects were coughing blood, their bodies violently shuddering on the floor.

  Four words invaded Hahn’s thoughts.

  What have we created?

  CHAPTER 3

  Denise Tabor finished her eyeliner, turned her head from side to side, and pursed her lips. It would have to do. Despite her best efforts, forty-five years of gravity and a lack of adequate exercise had taken a toll. Stomach. Hips. Chest. Not as . . . favorable . . . as they used to be. Her long brunette hair didn’t need a significant amount of plucking yet; she had that much going for her. Fortunately, the man she worked for was low maintenance. She couldn’t have asked for a better boss, one of the reasons she didn’t mind a Tuesday-through-Saturday workweek. Too bad he was married.

  She’d been divorced for a little more than two years, and the breakup had been ugly at times. At times? It was pretty much ugly the entire time. Denise didn’t have a vindictive cell in her body, but the man she’d given her life to had attempted to discard her by refusing to pay any support at all. Nothing. Seriously? During their eighteen-year marriage, she’d cooked twenty thousand meals from scratch, washed and folded seventy-five thousand pieces of clothing, and driven 150,000 miles for every need of their kids. And none of that had any value?

  When she’d confronted him about his greed, he’d claimed her private sleuthing caused the divorce, and had she not spied on him, everything would’ve worked out fine because he’d been planning to end the affair and tell her about it. A perfectly reasonable excuse.

  It wasn’t his fault he got caught cheating. It was her fault.

  He didn’t owe her an apology. She owed him one.

  Ultimately, with the help of a lawyer, she’d won a fair alimony schedule, attorney’s fees, and a seven-digit cash payment, but it had come at a needless emotional cost.

  Had she been angry? Absolutely. And rightfully so. Had it not been for her Bible study group, she’d still be bitter. No matter how bad things seemed, there were always people in much worse situations.

  Her two boys—six and eight—and her ten-year-old daughter couldn’t possibly understand why Daddy had moved out, not at their ages. If they ever pressed the issue and wanted an explanation, she’d tell them the truth with compassion and kindness. The children loved him, and that was that. She’d never poison their minds, no matter how much he deserved it.

  Still, the scars felt fresh. What was his lover’s name? Leslie something? She’d met the woman at the firm’s Christmas party. Leslie had smiled, shaken her hand, and said, “It’s very nice to meet you.”

  She forced the memory aside, wiped a tear, and tried to compose herself before leaving the bathroom. Carmen would have the kids fed and dressed by now, and she didn’t want to look like she’d been crying. Besides, she’d shed a lifetime’s worth of tears over the last twenty-four months.

  It sounded oddly quiet downstairs. Her children were always chattering about this or that. They rarely ran out of things to say.

  “Carmen?”

  No answer. Maybe they were in the backyard with Miss Kitty. They really loved playing with her.

  “Carmen, are you in the house?”

  Denise descended the stairs, heading for the sliding glass door to the backyard.

  At the threshold to the living room, she glimpsed something and turned her head for a better look.

  Her mind screamed in protest, No, this can’t be real!

  What she saw looked so frightening, her mind simply couldn’t process it.

  A strong pair of hands grabbed her from behind. Agonizing pain erupted in her shoulder as her right arm was torqued upward behind her back.

  The scene finally registered.

  On the carpet in front of the sofa, her two sons and daughter were bound together and forced to sit back-to-back. Their wrists were secured to the legs of the heavy coffee table with duct tape. Strips of tape also covered their mouths. Red and wet from crying, their eyes reflected raw terror.

  Oh, please no!

  Carmen lay in front of them, a huge bloodstain under her face. Lifeless eyes stared at the red pool, as if wishing the liquid back.

  Oh, dear Lord . . . her neck . . .

  Denise reached overload.

  Had she not been forcibly held from behind, she would’ve collapsed.

  A smiling Hispanic man sat on the couch. His left hand held a black pistol with a long silencer. Below a plain red ball cap, dark glasses concealed his eyes. A thick mustache and goatee made him look cruel and cold. Even scarier, an oversized scorpion tattoo covered the back of his gun hand.

  She’d never been in the presence of evil before, but felt it now.

  The room lost focus. Somewhere in the growing haze, Denise understood why. The man restraining her had covered her mouth and pinched her nose.

  On the verge of blacking out, her vision faded, followed by sound. She was vaguely aware of a high-pitched whine and realized it was the muffled screaming of her children.

  If only she had gotten a bigger breath of air, she might have been able to stay conscious for a few more seconds. The sickening sensation of being suffocated triggered panic. She began struggling to free herself from the man’s grasp, which only made things worse. Fighting against primal instinct, she forced herself to relax. She couldn’t win this battle; she had neither the strength nor the leverage to fight.

  The man on the couch barked something, and the restraining hand—with its sickening lotion smell—fell away. She sucked in deep breaths of air, and the room returned.

  No sooner had she regained her senses when the hand closed over her nose and mouth again. The feeling of panic returned, but this time her brain shut down immediately.

  Time drifted . . .

  Where was she? Who was shaking her?

  When Denise opened her eyes, the nightmare hadn’t changed, but her children looked more terrified than ever.

  The revolting hand still covered her mouth, but she could breathe through her nose.

  Why was this happening? Who were these men? Had her husband hired them? She glanced at Carmen, dead on the floor.

  No, he couldn’t have.

  The man on the couch spoke at last. “I trust your situation is clear. If you scream or try to fight, you will witness horrible acts.” He nodded to her children. “Need I say more?”

  The hand fell away from her mouth.

  “Please don’t hurt them!”

  “Answer my question.”

  “Please, I’ll do anything you ask.” She hoped these men didn’t intend to rape her, but she’d willingly sacrifice herself to save her children.

  The man’s expression changed to disappointme
nt; then he nodded.

  The hand closed over her nose and mouth again. Reality blurred into a sensation of being submerged in mud. She sensed her children shrieking under the tape, but it could have been her own desperate wailing.

  When the hand let go, she nearly vomited.

  “I’ll rephrase. Do you understand what will happen if you don’t cooperate?”

  “Y-yes. Please don’t hurt them.”

  “That depends entirely on you.”

  There was something horribly calm about the man’s tone, and she now understood he was no stranger to this situation. He’d slain Carmen as proof of his dominance. What she said next was for herself as much as her children.

  “It’s okay, babies. Mommy’s here. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “You have a strong instinct to protect them. Admirable. I have two young sons of my own.”

  If true, she wanted to ask how he could be so cruel, but her gaze kept returning to Carmen’s gray face and the yawning wound under her chin.

  Movement made her look toward the sliding glass door where Miss Kitty pawed at the glass.

  The man on the sofa looked at the cat, then said, “Stay focused on me. The sooner you answer my questions truthfully, the sooner this will be over. Would you like to sit down?”

  She nodded and used her free hand to wipe tears.

  “Do I need to use the duct tape?”

  “You have my children.”

  He pointed the pistol at Chad’s head, and she felt her stomach tighten. No!

  “Answer my question with yes or no.”

  Question? What question? Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  “I asked if I need to use the duct tape on you.”

  “No.”

  He returned the pistol to his lap. Unfortunately, Denise was nothing like her boss; she didn’t have his Marine training or mental toughness. She hated herself for being so weak and helpless. The man holding her arm forced her into the sofa chair. She pulled her skirt down and pressed her knees together.

  “You are Vincent Beaumont’s personal secretary. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes flicked toward the cat again. Miss Kitty’s clawing had become more desperate.

  “And you’ve been in that position for how long?”

  The man narrowed his eyes as if daring her to lie. She didn’t know how much he already knew. If she lied, she had no doubt this creep would hurt her children. She would do everything she could to protect Vince, but she’d have to tell this man everything. There was no way she’d be able to watch her babies being tortured. And she didn’t want them to see her get brutalized either.

  “Twelve years.”

  The man crossed his legs as if engaging in casual conversation. He was dressed in expensive clothes. She tried to memorize as much as she could. In his forties and powerfully built, he had a lean face and narrow nose. His black hair sat in a man bun, a look she loathed. The image of this guy drooling all over her made her skin tighten.

  “So it’s fair to assume that you know a great deal about Mr. Beaumont’s private life. Yes?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m also assuming that you have his home address, telephone numbers, et cetera.”

  She didn’t respond because he hadn’t asked a question.

  He issued a barely perceptible nod.

  The man standing over her slapped the back of her head, jarring her vision.

  “I’m aware I didn’t ask you a question, but you should respond to everything I say.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her eyes found Miss Kitty again.

  Without warning he twisted toward the door, aimed his pistol, and fired.

  She covered her mouth, stifling a yelp of fear. The sound had been much louder than she’d expected.

  The glass fragmented into thousands of pieces. Larger chunks fell to the carpet and patio. Miss Kitty darted away.

  Her kids began squirming and crying harder. The couch blocked them from seeing the back porch, but they knew he’d fired at their cat.

  “I didn’t kill it. But I trust my point has been made. I would like your undivided attention.” He waited with a raised brow.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “In addition to being an expert at interrogation, my colleague is quite skilled at breaking into computer systems.” He offered her a grim smile. “He’s going to ask you some questions, and you will answer them truthfully. From this point on, your job is to make his job easier. If at any point we feel you’re not being honest, or we suspect you’re stalling, this will be the result.”

  He snapped a finger, pointed at her children, and said, “I don’t care which one.”

  The man stepped out from behind her. Short, bald, and covered in tattoos, the guy looked like solid muscle. In black ink, a huge number four dominated his right forearm. The guy reached down, grabbed Chad’s thumb, and looked at the man on the couch.

  A nod was issued.

  Chad screamed under the tape and began writhing in agony when the man wrenched his thumb the wrong direction. She heard a sickening pop of cartilage.

  “Chad!” She jumped out of her chair, intending to claw out the monster’s eyes, but the man with the gun was faster. Moving more quickly than she thought possible, he lunged from the couch and shoved her in the chest hard enough to empty her lungs. Gasping for air, she landed back in the chair. Pain flared in her left breast from the blow, which had popped several of her blouse’s buttons.

  “Chad! It’s okay, baby. I’m so sorry. Why did you hurt him? I said I’d tell you everything!”

  “Are you yelling at me, Ms. Tabor?”

  “No! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

  “This is very difficult, but it’s important you understand the price of deception. There are twenty-nine more fingers at risk. When those are finished, my colleague will move on to their toes. After that, things will get much, much worse.”

  Chad’s whimpering had softened a little, but she knew how horrible a sprained thumb felt. He was trying to be brave for his mother, but right now she needed to be brave for him. She instinctively knew she needed to keep these monsters focused on her.

  How could this be happening? Her world had gone from a normal morning to the worst nightmare imaginable, her children being tortured in front of her while their babysitter lay dead on the carpet. Her ex-husband used to say shit happens; she’d never really understood the depth of that phrase until now. She’d been a good mom and a good person; she didn’t deserve this, and her children certainly didn’t. They were innocent victims of something they couldn’t possibly understand.

  “Please don’t hurt them again.”

  The guy snapped his finger again, and the tattooed man returned to his position behind her. “Please tend to her shirt.”

  She held perfectly still while her blouse was pulled closed, but not before the creep’s hands purposely brushed across her breasts. It made her feel sick to her stomach. Although he wasn’t much taller than she was, he had to possess five times her strength. She reminded herself this could get a whole lot worse, and probably would. She prayed they wouldn’t do it to her in front of her children. Trying to fight these men would be useless. And even if by some miracle she did manage to get the upper hand, the man on the couch had a gun. No, her best course of action was to do everything they asked and keep their attention away from her children.

  “We were talking about Vincent Beaumont. Whatever you think you know about him is wrong. He’s a war criminal and a murderer.” The man paused, and she quickly realized he was waiting for a response.

  “He’s been good to me.”

  The creep glanced at her chest and said, “I’m sure he has.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “No, of course not. He’s a perfect gentleman.”

  She wanted to lash out, tell him what an asshole he was for the insinuation. Vincent Beaumont was a decent and honorable man. He’d never mistreated her, yelled at her, or made any kind of
inappropriate comments or advances. By all accounts, he was a perfect gentleman and a good boss. All of her coworkers felt the same way.

  Remembering a response was required, she nodded, hoping that would be enough.

  “My colleague is going to escort you into your office, where you will give him full access to your computer and any passwords he asks for. I’m assuming you can log in to the BSI computer system?”

  “Yes, but I can’t look at everything.”

  “I’m aware of that. If we like what we find, you and your children will not be harmed. If, on the other hand, you do not fully cooperate, we will dislocate all their fingers and toes, then educate them on a subject beyond their years. Is my meaning clear?”

  “Yes. I’ll tell you whatever you want. You don’t need to hurt them.”

  He simply stared at her. “We don’t have unlimited time. If my colleague suspects you’re stalling, we will start the process. You’ll get no warnings.”

  “I won’t stall.”

  “Let’s hope not . . .” That crappy smile returned, and he reached out and ruffled Chad’s hair. “For their sakes.”

  The tattooed monster poked her. “On your feet, muchacha.”

  She was half dragged down the hall to her office and ordered to take a seat at her desk.

  Denise Tabor didn’t know if she’d survive the next five minutes or five hours, but she’d do everything within her power to save her children’s lives.

  Although she hated doing it, she was able to log in to Vincent’s computer remotely. When you’re someone’s personal secretary for a dozen years, a high level of trust develops. She couldn’t access all his files, but there were plenty she could.

  He ordered her to search for the key words George Beaumont, Yuma, and Marine Corps.

  It didn’t take long to realize what this man was after. She did, after all, transcribe Vincent’s personal journal on a regular basis. It seemed her captors were interested in a relatively recent incident that had been written off as a narcotics raid. In reality, it had been much more than that.