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“What’s with your leg?” Zoya asked after Court introduced her as Anthem.
“Got winged by Lancer. Won’t be dancing the bolero down here on this trip, but otherwise, I’m fine.”
“You’re going to run the interrogation on Contreras?” Court asked.
Pace seemed to consider something for a moment. Court had explained over the phone earlier that it had taken him most of the day to get out of the harbor, get clean and dry clothes, and then make it all the way back to the hotel where Zoya had been sitting for hours with the prisoner, so he knew Zoya had had more time interacting with the Mexican than Court had. To Zoya he said, “When Gentry gave us the name, we ran his history.” Sliding a sheet of paper that had been lying on the table over to her, he said, “Here’s his whole life.”
Zoya nodded, read it while Court looked over her shoulder, then looked back up to Pace. Zoya said, “Contreras is an ass, like you’d expect. Intelligent, portrays himself as extremely confident. He might even be a little narcissistic, so he might actually be confident that he’s still got some control over the situation, but he doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him.”
Pace rubbed his chin. “Maybe I don’t know what’s going to happen to him, either.”
“What do you mean?”
The older man stood. Looked to Court. “I don’t have to tell you this is time sensitive, do I?”
Court remained seated, and he shook his head.
Zoya looked back and forth to both men. “What’s happening?”
Court answered. “Jim, Chris, and the others are going to sit here in the house while you and I go out back to the barn to have a chat with Contreras.”
Pace shrugged. “There are rules I feel okay about breaking, and there are rules I’d rather not break if I don’t have to. I’m thinking that since you’re here…I don’t have to.”
“Sure, Jim,” Court answered. “We’ll interview your prisoner. Any other fires I can pull your ass out of today?”
The CIA officer gave a tired laugh. “No, that should be plenty. You’ll let me know what you learn?”
Court rose from the table, and Zoya did the same. “You got it.”
Pace said, “Actually, why don’t you give him twenty minutes to sit and stew back there. You can get something to eat. The boys have the prisoner tied to a chair with a bunch of rusty old farrier tools lined up on a table nearby just to freak him out.”
“Nice touch,” Zoya said.
Court thought a moment. “We need some odds and ends from around the house first. I’ll check the kitchen.”
“What did you have in mind?” Zoya asked him, and then Court looked to Pace.
“Not in front of the children, honey.”
Pace turned out of the dining room and limped back towards the hall to the rear of the farmhouse without another word.
•••
Carlos Contreras sat stripped down to his boxers, alone in a dark, hot, and mosquito-filled barn, while the rain outside picked up and beat down on the leaky tin roof above him.
His hands were tied behind his back, and his feet were duct-taped to the chair legs.
The gringos had put a table a few feet away and lined up a bunch of old tools on it, leaving it all in view for him. There were blades and metal hooks and pinching implements; he thought they might be for shoeing horses but couldn’t be sure.
The implements were intended to scare him, of this he had no doubt, but he wasn’t scared.
These gringos wouldn’t torture him; that wasn’t how Americans operated.
The wooden barn door slid open suddenly as the woman who’d captured him this morning stepped in, followed by the bearded man who’d been traveling with her.
Zakharova and Gentry, the pair that he’d been after for days.
They were wet from the rain, but neither seemed to notice, much less care. Gentry had a large red bag that looked like a medical kit over a shoulder, and Zakharova held several towels, which she dropped on the floor a few feet away from the prisoner.
