“He will if I ask him to.”
“What about the NSA’s director?”
“I can’t guarantee that. All I can do is ask a friend to ask a friend. You know the drill.”
“It’s your call, General.”
Thorny grunted, obviously still upset about his murdered Marine.
“Is it possible the Hungarian government might be involved in both cases?” Harvey asked.
“It’s a possibility,” Nathan conceded. “Pretty bold move if they are. Hiring Montez to torture and murder a U.S. citizen on U.S. soil?”
“Gentlemen, I need to step into a meeting,” Holly said. “I’ll be back in touch shortly. Nice meeting you, General, Major.”
“SAC Simpson,” Thorny said, “the pleasure’s been mine. Great work on the NCIC search. Sharp thinking.”
“Thank you, General,” she said. “Nathan, I’ll call you with anything new. Have a safe flight.”
Nathan ended the call.
“Make sure you copy my office on that police report when Simpson sends it to you. If Montez or his goons killed my Marine, I want that Nicaraguan’s skin hanging on my wall.”
Nathan looked away. So much for capturing Montez alive to track down MIAs.
Harv executed an illegal U-turn and reentered traffic.
When Thorny spoke, he sounded calmer. “Nate, I know you’re worried about leaks, but at the pay grades we’re talking about, I highly doubt Montez has any way to find out what we’re doing. I think we’ll be okay.”
He wasn’t sure he was in agreement, but he didn’t see a better way to proceed.
“I’ll call the secretary of the navy once I’m airborne and ask him to call the NSA’s director,” Thorny said. “Since there won’t be any real way to keep this under wraps at that point, I’ll also ask him to call CIA Director Rebecca Cantrell. And since both of them report to the Director of National Intelligence, it’s a good bet the DNI will become involved. And you know who the DNI reports to.”
Nathan did.
Chapter 8
Nichole Dalton opened her eyes and tried to focus.
She couldn’t see anything.
Total blackness.
What happened? The last thing she remembered was being attacked. A man had been shot trying to help her. She got loose and ran away, but they caught her and dragged her into a van. She remembered a horrible chemical smell, like rubbing alcohol. No, not alcohol. Ether. They’d used ether on her. She couldn’t remember anything after that.
She tried to sit up, but couldn’t move her arms or legs. A cold chill raked her body when she realized she was completely naked and strapped to some kind of metal table. Bound and naked! She jerked her arms in a frantic test of her bonds, but they wouldn’t budge. Same with her feet. She tested the straps again, much harder, and felt her skin burn from the friction. Craning her head, she looked left and right, but found only blackness. Her daughters! Where were her daughters? Did they kidnap them too?
Full-blown panic seized her.
She turned her head toward the sound of a door opening. A few seconds later, it closed with a bang. The reverberating echo meant this had to be a fairly large room. The sudden squeal of wheels terrified her. It was a hideous sound, like fingernails on a chalkboard, only worse.
“Who’s there?” Her voice cracked and she hated how weak it sounded.
The squealing got louder.
“Who’s there?”
Nothing, just the increasing screech of wheels. A chill raked her again, not from the cold, but from that hideous sound.
She began jerking her body in a frantic attempt to break free. Tears flew as she whipped her head back and forth in frustration and fear.
“Someone help me!” she screamed.
The squealing got louder by the second.
“Please, someone help me!”
The squealing ended. Then slow footsteps. Unconsciously, she held her breath.
Directly above, a floodlight snapped on. The stab of pain shot through her skull. She squinted against the blinding intrusion, looked down the length of her body, and froze. Mounted on a tripod, a video camera loomed, its red eye unblinking.
A face appeared above her, eclipsing the bulb. A man’s face. Hispanic. Black, braided ponytail. Smiling. Empty eyes swept over her breasts. The smile widened. A hand caressed her cheek. She jerked away from the touch. The smile faded, replaced by a frown.
“Who are you? What do you want from me?”
The hand grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head off the table. The smile vanished.
“I am asking the questions. Understood?”
“Please.…”
“Understood?”
“I don’t know anything.”
He slammed her head onto the metal surface and hauled it back up.
“Understood?”
“Why are you doing this? I don’t know anything!” It was true, she didn’t. The NSA never told her anything. All she did was translate phone calls. Boring phone calls.
Another slam. Her vision grayed, then winked out for a few seconds.
“Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Very good.” The hand gently lowered her head back to the table, but this time a small pillow cushioned it.
“Better? We’re going to work on a positive and negative reward system. When you cooperate, you’ll be rewarded. When you don’t, you’ll be punished. Are you thirsty?”
A straw touched her lips and she took it into her mouth. She pulled cool water, swallowing as much as she could before it was withdrawn.
“Better?”
“My daughters.”
“You are concerned for them, as you should be. They are unharmed. For now.”
“Please don’t hurt them. Please, I’ll do anything you ask. Anything.”
He leaned in close and whispered, “Yes, I know you will.” Then he stood erect. “My name is Colonel Montez de Oca, and over the next few days we’re going to become close friends.”
She felt a clank-like jolt from under the table. The next thing she felt was the entire table being tilted upright. It stopped at a 45-degree angle and another clank locked it in place. The video camera’s lens loomed large and black. Then the hideous squealing of wheels started again. A table came into view, draped by a white sheet marred with brown stains. Dried blood? She closed her eyes and willed herself to wake up.
This can’t be happening.
Half of the table held all kinds of surgical instruments in neat rows, the other half hosted household tools. Pliers. Tin snips. Vice grips. Chisels. Wood files. An ice pick. Her eyes locked onto the box of condoms. Tears began flowing again and she hated herself for being weak. How could this be happening? Why was she here? She didn’t know anything. She tried to recall anything she’d heard that could be considered secret.
He stepped into the light and reached toward her.
She flinched and tried to withdraw.
Smiling, he slipped his hand under the table and unlatched something. She watched in horror as a stirrup locked into place. He grabbed her ankle in a firm, painful grip and unbound her leg with his free hand. He forced her foot into the stirrup, and rebound her ankle to the heel of the stirrup with a thick leather strap. He repeated the process on her left leg. Next, he swiveled her bent legs out from the table and locked the stirrups in place. She ended up in a horrifying position, completely open and vulnerable.
Oh no. Please no, not this.
“Shall we begin?” He made a mock frown. “I’m afraid I forgot to bring flowers.”
She couldn’t stop crying. She was about to be tortured for information she didn’t have. It was so unfair. So brutally unfair. A sickening wave of nausea overpowered her. She turned her head just in time. Some of the vomit remained on her chest.
“I’m terribly sorry about that. Here, let me clean you up.”He wiped her mouth and breasts with a damp cloth. “You can relax a little, Ms. Dalton. I have no plans to rape you. I find rape a vulgar and offensive act. The position you’re in, it’s… how do I word this? Designed to create maximum insecurity. It’s especially effective on men, probably because they’ve never been in this position. Sadly, I wish I could say this won’t be painful, but that would be lie and I think we should be honest with each other.”