One thing was certain. A very serious man was hunting him, all because of the botched Kramer disposal. He shook his head, thinking back to Lake Powell. What were the odds? It had to be thousands-to-one. The dump site for Kramer had been remote and, quite frankly, a logical spot. He couldn’t have known anyone would see it, especially at that late hour. He hadn’t been careless, just unlucky.

What’s done was done. No complex plan was ever executed flawlessly. What was the American expression? Shit happens? For now, Montez remained in control, but he needed to implement the next phase of his plan and grab Kramer’s contact, Duane Dalton. If he played his cards right, he’d ensure his financial and personal security into the foreseeable future. The 500 grand being squeezed out of Dalton would merely be a down payment. His sights were on a much bigger number. Twenty million. Perhaps more. Real money.

He retrieved a beer from the refrigerator.

If all went well, he’d have Dalton soon. Although he now believed Dalton himself hadn’t ordered the assassination attempt in Tobago, he needed to be 100 percent sure. Extracting that information would be relatively straightforward and simple, especially since he had the man’s ex-wife and daughters as leverage. But he didn’t have an unlimited amount of time. How long could he safely stay in the United States? A week? Maybe ten days? The FBI had ample resources. Sooner or later they’d catch up with him. The failed attempt to capture McBride meant he’d need to accelerate his plans. He’d have to conduct an expedited interrogation of Dalton. He’d performed many quick interrogations during his career because most of them had to be fairly brisk. Information was usually time sensitive. It was rare to have as much time as he wanted. Rare, but satisfying. Rushing an interrogation was like swigging down an expensive bottle of wine. Such experiences were meant to be savored, especially that magical moment when a victim breaks down and sobs, not from the pain, but from knowing they’ve been beaten spiritually. Such was the fruit of unconditional victory and it tasted good.

Montez knew he was many things, but a sexual deviant wasn’t one of them. He’d never interrogated a single victim—male or female—with sexual torture. The mere threat usually did the trick. Such sloppy techniques were conducted by rank amateurs with sick, perverse minds. The true art of interrogation didn’t employ sexual humiliation. It involved the systematic peeling away of a victim’s layers of comfort and control until the naked core was exposed. Only then was total victory achieved. Such skills were extremely rare. Only a handful of people in the world possessed them.