Andrew Peterson - Forced to Kill

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.”

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 number 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?”