Day of Wrath

The FBI agent froze. Sweat trickled down his forehead. Blood dripped from a cut on his lip.

“Nice weapon,” Thorn said conversationally. He pressed harder, grinding the muzzle into Mcdowell’s forehead. “I really hate to think of how messy it’s going to get when I blow your brains out.”

The other man’s eyes widened. He whimpered.

“Pete,” Farrell said softly. “Don’t do it.”

Thorn could see that his former commanding officer had his own pistol out now, and that it was pointing roughly in his direction.

He shook his head. “I haven’t gone loco, Sam. Not yet anyway.”

“Convince me.” Farrell’s voice was strained.

“I’ll let Deputy Assistant Director Mcdowell here do my convincing for me.” Thorn caught a glimpse of Helen out of the corner of his eye.

Still ashen-faced, she was working her way around to Farrell’s blind side. Christ, they were all teetering on a knife edge. He cleared his throat. “Stay where you are, Helen.”

She stopped moving.

Thorn turned his full attention back to Mcdowell. “Now then, let’s have a little talk, okay? The rules are simple: I ask you questions and you answer them. If you don’t answer, I blow your head off. If you lie to me, I blow your head off. If you tell me the truth, I let you live — at least for a little while longer.”

He prodded the FBI agent’s temple with the pistol. “Do you understand these rules, Mr. Mcdowell?”

Eyes still wide, the other man hurriedly bobbed his head up and down.

“Very good.” Thorn smiled grimly, hiding the fact that he felt sick to his stomach. Torture was against every code of justice and moral law he’d ever been taught. And this came right to the very edge of torture — and maybe even slipped over the edge. Only the memory of seeing Helen apparently helpless and down on one knee on that blood-soaked street in Wilhelmshaven stiffened his resolve.

“First question,” he said. “You’re not taking us to meet with an FBI surveillance team, are you?”

Mcdowell licked his lips, wincing as his tongue ran across the gash Thorn’s fist had torn. “Of course I am—”

“Wrong answer.” Thorn tightened his finger on the trigger.

Mcdowell flinched. “Wait!”

Thorn eased up. “You want to try again?” Seeing the other man nod frantically, he asked, “Where were you taking us?”

The FBI agent hesitated, felt the pistol prod his temple again, and reluctantly admitted, “To a field outside Chantilly.”

“And who’s waiting for us there?”

Mcdowell’s voice dropped off to a whisper. “A man named Wolf.”

“Heinrich Wolf?” Farrell asked, clearly taken aback.

Mcdowell nodded abjectly.

Thorn looked down at the other man in disgust. “And what did Herr Wolf plan to do … in that field outside Chantilly?”

“Kill you,” the FBI agent mumbled. He hung his head, utterly defeated now.

“Christ!” Farrell exploded. He slid the Beretta back into his holster. “Looks like I owe you a big apology, Pete.”

Thorn shook his head. “None needed, Sam.”

Helen stalked forward, drawing closer to the kneeling Mcdowell. Her lip curled in disdain. “Who’s in that other car parked down the block?

More of Wolf’s men?”

“What other car?” Mcdowell said, plainly bewildered. “Farrell and I came alone. I swear it!”

She stared down at him. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you?

Didn’t it ever occur to you that Wolf wants you dead, too? That once he’d finished us off, you’d have outlived your usefulness?”

Thorn watched the realization sink in on Mcdowell’s sweating face. He caught the raw smell of alcohol under the sweat now. The FBI agent paled even further. He leaned forward again.

“Now that we’re all on the same page, Larry, let’s take this from the top, shall we?”

Then, step by step, question by question, he dragged the whole sordid story out of the other man. How Mcdowell had sold his soul to the Stasi for a little hard cash years before. How Wolf had blackmailed him in Moscow — forcing him to feed the German information on the ongoing crash investigation. How he’d followed Wolf’s instructions to blacken Helen’s and Thorn’s names with the FBI and other government agencies every chance he got. The one thing he didn’t know was whether or not the German was the top dog in this criminal organization. He’d never had any contact with Prince Ibrahim al Saud.

When Thorn was through, he pulled the pistol back from the FBI agent’s temple and decocked it. Mcdowell swayed and slumped forward onto his hands and knees, head down, panting as though he’d just stumbled over the finish line in a marathon.

Helen stared down at her former boss in cold contempt. “You fucking little weasel! I’m going to look forward to seeing you in prison for the rest of your life.” She looked up at Thorn and Farrell.

“What do we do now?”

“Take him to the FBI?” Farrell wondered.

Helen considered Farrell’s suggestion, then shook her head no.

“Somehow I doubt that Larry here will be quite as cooperative without a gun pressed to his head. Then it comes down to his word against ours.

and he’s stacked the deck there.”

Farrell nodded slowly.