“I don’t believe you. I heard what you said to the police officer. You still fancy yourself as an honorable man.”

“Believe what you want. You can contemplate it while screaming in agony.”

“You won’t kill me. You won’t risk it.”

“You’re right, I won’t kill you… right away.”

“I’m not afraid of you, McBride.”

He leaned forward. “You will be.” He let that soak in for a few seconds. “You’re forgetting how well I know you. You told me many times you didn’t trust anyone but yourself. I’m betting this is the only copy.”

“One week ago, your government tried to kill me and sweep my operation under the rug. I’ve been preparing for this betrayal for years.”

Nathan smiled. “It’s much worse than that.”

Montez squinted, looked confused.

“My government wants you alive.”

Montez’s entire body tensed.

“That’s right. Alive and kicking. Once the CIA’s finished with you, you’ll be in diapers, drooling in a mental ward and listening to elevator music.”

Montez’s face changed, took on resolve. “I enjoyed seeing you suffer, McBride. Do you remember when you broke down and cried like a little boy?”

“I warned you what would happen if you went off-topic.” Nathan grabbed him by the ponytail and forced his head back against the seat. Starting at the top of Montez’s right temple, he drew his Predator down his cheek and stopped at his chin. The incision began oozing blood.

Montez hissed in protest, but held still.

“Did you enjoy that?”

“It changes nothing.”

“Oh, I disagree. I’m already feeling better. Shall we make it a matched set?”

Montez said nothing.

“It’s a little cramped in here. Let’s step outside where we have more room to work.” He sheathed the knife, grabbed Montez by the collar, and yanked him across the seat. “I should’ve brought rubber gloves. Lord only knows what diseases you’ve got.” He hauled the man clear of the cruiser and dragged him over the curb toward the riprap-lined harbor channel.

He heard it then, the distant thumping of a helicopter’s main rotor tearing through the air. He looked toward Lindbergh Field. How much time did he have? Two minutes? Less?

To his surprise, he didn’t care.

“You tortured me in front of women and children. What kind of a sick fuck does that?”

“You should know.”

“We’re nothing alike.”

“I should’ve let my man bullwhip you to death. Twenty or thirty more lashes would’ve done the trick.”