“It’s going to happen. If not, my guys are under strict orders to put a bullet in your head. And you’ll get thrown in the pit too.”
“Go to hell.”
A masked man emerged from the cabin. He walked up to Forbes and pressed a gun to his head.
Forbes felt the cold steel on his warm forehead. “Are you serious?”
“You better believe it.”
The masked man took a step back, gun still in hand.
“I’m not going to do this.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You are not a stupid person. You’re pragmatic. You understand.”
Forbes closed his eyes for a moment.
“I think it would be in everyone’s interests to show us how committed you are.”
“I’m not going to do it. Fuck you! And fuck him!”
“Then you’ll be killed.”
Forbes stared at her, blinking away tears. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing. You’re bullshitting me.”
“You need to believe it. This is as real as it gets. So, you need to answer some questions. How far are you really prepared to go? Are you prepared to put your neck on the line? You choose. Kill or be killed.”
Forbes fell quiet.
“It’s the easiest thing in the world to get faceless men to do the dirty work. The nasty work. You don’t want to just pull the strings, huh? When I look into your eyes, you know what I see, Andrew?”
“What?”
“A rich boy who has never had to get his hands dirty in his life. Do you believe in what we’re doing, or are you content to let others do your wet work?”
“I haven’t fired a gun since I was a kid.”
“You’re a man now. Do you have what it takes? I mean, do you really have what it takes? How much can I trust you?”
Forbes closed his eyes. His heart began to race.
“Think of the big picture. Who the fuck is she anyway? A skanky little whore. She’s been turning tricks for ten years. We need to make sure she doesn’t talk. Andrew, you can do this.”
Forbes nodded. “Where is she?”
Feinstein cocked her head in the direction of a dirt trail.
“I’m scared. This isn’t me.”
Feinstein smiled. “I think it is. I just think you’re too scared to know what you’re capable of.”
“I don’t want to do it.”
“No way back. When this is done, it’s done. We can all move on. It’s a loose end. Let’s tie it up, and we can all go home.”
“What do I have to do?”
Feinstein cocked her head. “Follow me.”
Forbes traipsed behind her for a couple hundred yards until they reached a clearing. Writhing on the ground, hog-tied, a skinny young woman sobbed beside a shallow grave.
Four guys in camouflage surrounded her, handguns drawn.
One stepped forward and handed Forbes a gun. “Sir?”
Forbes took the Glock in his right hand and aimed it at the terrified young woman.
“Do it!” Feinstein ordered.
Forbes stared down at the wretched woman, who wept, defenseless. He squeezed the trigger. Her brains exploded, blood spattering across long grass, branches, and twigs. The sound echoed through the woods. Birds scattered from the trees, high into the pristine blue sky.
The camouflage guy took back his gun. “Good job,” he said.
Forbes lurched, his body in shock. He turned and walked away, realizing now there was no going back.
Thirty
McNeal paced in his hotel room, piecing together what the hell he should do next. The dossier on Graff was dynamite. He had no proof the ex-CIA agent had killed Caroline or played a part in her death, but McNeal wanted to speak to him all the same. The honey trap organized by Karen Feinstein—also ex-CIA and an acquaintance of Graff’s—pointed to a highly sophisticated operation.
What had really happened to his wife? The problem was that if he reached out to speak to Graff, it might signal the beginning of the end. He was a cop who played by the book. Graff was a man who killed with his bare hands.
No one knew where it would end. Back and forth his mind raced.
He felt himself starting to slip, to lose touch with reality. It was the same way he had felt five years ago. The way he had suffered when he lost Patrick. He felt himself being pulled into the ground. Under the ground.
McNeal closed his eyes and took out the photo from his wallet. The photo of his son—his dead son. The photo showed them on Compo Beach. It had been taken six months before Patrick’s death. He touched the photo.