The soldier grunted and gained his feet. Still blinded by the flash-bangs, he ran head-on into the closed library door and bounced back. He whipped around and emptied the remainder of his magazine from one side of the room to the other.
All shots missed high.
Montez fired again, nailing the chest cavity. Remarkably, the Marine didn’t go down. He watched in awe as the soldier ejected the spent magazine and reached for another. This man was damned good, and tough. A shame to kill him. He wondered how this assassin would hold up under a controlled interrogation. Montez sent a third bullet before the soldier could slam the next magazine home.
That one did it.
The Marine slumped into a sitting position against the closed door and began breathing in quick, shallow puffs, like an overworked dog. A cough revealed blood.
Montez silently approached and kicked the handgun out of his opponent’s hand. It clattered away on the wood floor. Sadly, he wouldn’t have time to question this man at any length. He retrieved a syringe from the refrigerator, pushed it into the soldier’s neck, and injected the thiopental. The soldier tried to bat it away, but too late. He watched an expression of calmness take the man’s face.
“To ease your pain. Are you alone?”
No response.
He backed up and took a knee. “My men, you killed them?”
Again, nothing.
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“You have perhaps… one minute of life remaining. Don’t be too hard on yourself, you couldn’t have predicted the flash-bangs. Do you have a wife? Children?”
“Pregnant, our first.”
“Has your vision returned yet?”
He nodded.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“I didn’t-” The soldier coughed up more blood and closed his eyes.
“Didn’t what?”
“The dogs. I didn’t kill them.”
“You have a soft heart for dogs?”
The soldier nodded.
Montez told a white lie. “I will find a good home for them.” He backed up a step. “My men, killing them… you did what you had to. Just as I did with you.”
Anger flared, not at this assassin before him, but at the savage betrayal he represented. Whoever ordered this would pay dearly.
Finding them wouldn’t be easy, but at least he knew where to start.
Chapter 2
Holly Simpson, Special Agent in Charge of Sacramento’s FBI field office, shook her head. How had this happened? And more importantly, when? Good grief, her office looked like a giant paper recycle bin. Tomorrow she’d have her assistant help organize this clutter. But where to start? Her desk and filing cabinets were covered with stacks of interoffice memos, printed email, NCIC reports, crime scene photographs, and unopened mail. The result? An unsightly mess. Well, all this was about to change. Starting tomorrow.
Something else concerned her as well, something she’d seen this morning, half circles under her eyes and the distinct beginnings of crow’s-feet. Were they there last year, when she turned forty? She supposed her dark hair and hazel eyes helped a little. Thank goodness for small favors. In fairness, she attributed some, if not all of her accelerated aging, to the tragic bombing of her field office that had claimed twenty-one lives and ended the careers of seventeen others. She’d nearly been killed herself. A few more foot-pounds of pressure from whatever had struck her head and she would’ve been dead instead of contemplating her messy office. All things being equal, she preferred the latter.
Holly looked at the clock on her computer. 9:08 pm. What am I still doing here? She opened her email for the twentieth time today and started with her personal account. Nothing from Nathan. How long now? A week? Don’t dwell on it. He’s just busy with his security company. It doesn’t mean anything.
Halfway through her inbox she zeroed in on a BAU memo from Quantico. She double-clicked the message, read the note, and scrolled down to the attached photographs.
She put a hand to her mouth. “Nathan.…”
Nathan McBride stretched his six-five, 240-pound frame and yawned. His entire body felt sore from three hours of rototilling five hundred pounds of mulch into his flower beds. He’d also made the mistake of removing his shirt without applying enough sunscreen. The resulting sunburn enriched the diamond-like pattern of scars on his skin-grisly souvenirs from his captivity and torture in Nicaragua fourteen years ago. Making matters even worse, his captor hadn’t spared his face. People who looked at him, if they got past the initial shock, saw a giant N carved into his expression. Those scars couldn’t be covered up. A plastic surgeon had improved things, but anyone with Coke-bottle vision or better couldn’t miss them.
He hit the power button on the TV’s remote and relished the silence. Despite the dark nature of the movie, he’d enjoyed it. Stephen King’s The Shining. Definitely gory in places, but a necessary evil. And the ending had been terrific. The little boy kept his wits about him and outsmarted his possessed father. At least the good guys got away. If only the real world worked like that.…
His cell rang.
“Nathan, it’s me.”
“Hi Holly.”
“Something’s come up. Something you need to see.”
He half laughed. “Okay.…”
“How soon can you get here? It’s serious.”
He heard it in her voice. “I can be there in five hours. I’ll land at Sac Exec. Same place?”
“Yes.”
“Holly, what’s going on?”
“Please, just get here as fast as you can.”
“Are you in some kind of danger?”
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
“Holly.…”
She didn’t respond.
“I’m on my way.”
In the bathroom he splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth, and made a head call. He retrieved his ready-to-go travel bag from the hall closet and clipped his phone to his belt. Sixty seconds after hanging up, he was arming the security system and walking out the door into his garage. He didn’t like the way Holly sounded. Desperate, almost frightened. What could’ve rattled her like that? She was a veteran law enforcement officer and a special agent in charge for the FBI. He doubted much could rattle her. And yet that’s exactly how she’d sounded.
Whatever was on her mind, it was important enough to ask him to drop everything and fly four hundred nautical miles at night. He considered the logistics. Night flight wasn’t his preferred mode of helicopter travel. Following the I-5 corridor north would make the flight a little safer, but if his aircraft lost power, all bets were off.
He backed his Mustang out of the garage and looked at dashboard clock. 9:12 pm. He’d better call Harv. If his closest friend and business partner ever discovered he’d flown through the Los Angeles basin-alone at night-there’d be hell to pay.
“Hi, Nathan.” Harv’s baritone resonated so deep, it survived the cellular hatchet job.
“Sorry to call so late.”
“Not at all. What’s going on?”
“Holly just called. Said I need to get up there right away.”
“From your tone, I take it this isn’t a social call.”
“She sounded scared, Harv.”
“Of what?”
“She didn’t want to say over the phone. You and Holly aren’t, you know, pulling a fast one on me?”
“No.”
“I’m on my way over to Monty right now. I’m flying up there.”
“Not without me you aren’t.”
“Harv, it’s the middle of the night. You’ve got a family.”
“And your point?”
Nathan wouldn’t win this round. In truth, he’d known this would happen, and two sets of eyes when flying were better than one, especially at night. “Can you get a weather brief into Sac Exec via Fresno?”