Andrew Peterson - Forced to Kill

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.

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.”