Andrew Peterson - Forced to Kill

“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?

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.

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.