"I doubt it, this time," Dan said, picking up his case. On his way out the door, Dan met a sheriff's deputy. "He's all yours," Dan said, dialing the sheriff. "We're looking for a pot grower. Jack Morgan."
27
"You like your face, bitch?" Corey whispered. "I've got a razor here that will do some funky things to it."
Maria tensed behind her blindfold but said nothing.
Corey took out her stiletto and popped the blade. Teasing the blade down Maria's cheek, barely touching it, she chuckled quietly. "What have you got to say?"
"Your video won't look like much if I have a Halloween face," Maria said in a strong voice.
Corey exploded with a backhanded slap, snapping Maria's head back and raising an ugly welt on her cheek.
Then, calm again, as though the outburst had been merely an affectation, Corey grabbed the heavy hood and put it over Maria's head.
"You're right. We gotta do it slow, and we can't make a mess. We'll just take some of that spray you liked so well earlier and drip it on the mask. Right over your nose and mouth. No permanent damage except mental. It'll feel like you drowned about once every sixty seconds. Only you never die. You just want to. Here goes the first drop."
The noxious fumes exploded in the tiny room, causing Corey to step back.
Maria began gagging.
Corey grabbed the hood off. She put her lips an inch from Maria's ear. "This ain't a war. They don't give medals for refusing to talk. All we want is a little information about cooperation between you and the mouthpiece. And McCafferty and her buddies in industry."
Corey waited, pacing back and forth while Maria continued choking. Finally Maria spoke. "Nothing happens until you loosen the pressure on the handcuffs. They're cutting off my circulation."
Corey thought for a moment. Given enough time, she was certain she could get Maria talking without loosening the handcuffs-but she had no time. Speeding the dialogue and making the woman look better on videotape was all important. And any chance of escape was nil-the door to the makeshift room was locked, her feet were tied, her waist was taped to the chair, and Jack was standing guard just outside. And if that wasn't enough, the German was watching in the next room.
She loosened the cuffs slightly.
Dropping the foot prop on the recliner chair, Hans sat bolt upright. He didn't like what he was seeing through the two-way mirror. He wasn't sure that Corey was experienced enough to be loosening those cuffs. Then again he sensed she was hurrying and that was good.
Hans went to the door and spoke softly. "Goddamn it, Jack, if you want two eyes tomorrow morning, you make sure that if Maria Fischer comes through that door she's a dead Maria Fischer." Then he carefully locked the door. Initially he had felt good about the setup. That was until he found out they didn't kill the kid. If that kid saw something, anything, there could be trouble and soon. He liked Corey's style, but he needed results.
Corey needed a little coaching.
Dan drove to the airport to meet Otran's helicopter and the two officers assigned to it. Like most things involving aviation, it was a little slower than anticipated. As he was turning into the road for the airport, his cell phone rang. It was Gail.
"The title guys and foresters found no property in the name of Jack Morgan. They have six people calling every outlying post office, as well as all the major branches. They say if someone by that name gets mail in this county, they'll figure it out."
The news hit Dan hard. If Morgan was a renter or squatter, it could take days to find him.
"I'm sorry," Gail said.
Dan got a call-waiting beep.
"This is Dan Young."
"This is Murray, the title man. The Geary Creek Post Office holds mail for a Jack Morgan and family. They're a bit reclusive-actually, the whole bunch up there is a bit that way."
"I know the general area. People grow pot up there," Dan said.
"You said it, I didn't. Anyway, the house is only four miles up Geary Creek Road from the post office. You turn right a quarter mile past the sign that says 'Geary Creek Dump.' The road to the dump is on the left, and the road to Morgan's is on the right. The gravel road to Morgan's is a half mile long. There are two other houses on it, and you bear right consistently to get to Morgan's. The Morgans have a two-story yellow house with a big red barn out back. There's some pasture off to the north. I swore to the postal guy that we wouldn't ever divulge how we got the info."
"Great work. Conference me into the sheriff."
Corey turned when she heard Jack's voice.
"Boss wants to see you."
Corey nodded, frustrated at the setup. She was never going to get near the German, who stayed behind the two-way mirror. He was in complete control and she knew it. That had to change.
"He wants you out here now," Jack repeated.
Corey nodded and went back to Maria, still speaking in a perfectly controlled whisper. "The blindfold stays on. You touch it and the negotiations are over. Watch her," she told Jack.
On her exit from the interrogation room, Corey was confronted by the German. For some reason the Spaniard had stepped out of the barn.
"We do not have time for any more preliminaries. Cut her face now. Get her talking."
"What about the video? I thought we agreed we were making a video to show the grassroots people."
"Just find out what she knows, and make it fast. We need to close this place down. You should have killed the boy."
It was about what Corey had expected. Typical German efficiency. Make sure all the witnesses are dead, including Corey.
Corey fingered her stiletto, trying to make the move look natural, staying calm. She still didn't see the Spaniard. The German's eyes were nervous.
"How will we prove it to the grass-"
With incredible speed the German grabbed her knife and put her in a stranglehold. In the instant she felt the stranglehold on her throat, her years of training took over. Rather than grabbing the strangling hand, she kicked straight for his kneecap. But she was being lifted, and the balance required for a well-executed kick was gone. Although the boot struck its target, it did not have the force necessary to maim.
The German raised her still higher in the air, moving her toward the wall. It took her two seconds longer than normal to kick again, this time the groin. For a split second his grip on her knife hand weakened. It was enough. She had practiced the move so often she could execute it with her dying breath-which right now was still seconds away. She lacked full power in the upward stroke, but the blade nevertheless split the man's forearm like an overripe tomato.
The German bellowed, and Corey slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground and raising her knife. But she was unprepared for the pistol that came up in his left hand, now aimed straight at her chest.
"Drop the knife, Corey."
For the first time since her father died, Corey Schneider had allowed herself to get into a situation where a man's treachery might defeat her. She dropped the knife.
The moment she let it go, the German spoke to Jack without turning to him. He seemed not to notice his own wounded arm, which he tended by transferring the gun to his right and using his left hand to clamp a handkerchief over the gaping laceration. "I want this woman hanging from the rafter. Tie a noose and put it on her."
When he turned to look at Jack, his jaw dropped. Jack trained a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun on the German's center mass, ten feet separating the scattergun's barrel from his heart.
"I'm getting out of here. We were just going to video the mouthpiece, that was it," Jack said. "Drop the gun or I blow you in two."
The German's eyes met Jack's. His pistol-a fine German Heckler amp; Koch, Corey now noted with satisfaction-was pointed at the floor, his other hand still clamped on the wound.