Copyright
Note to Readers
It was impossible to change a person. However, it was possible to change a person’s opinion—given the right motivation. And, as it so happened, death was one hell of a motivator.
Jarrod Martin looked at the man strapped to the chair in the center of the interrogation room, deep in the guts of Camp Four within the confines of Camp Delta, also known as Guantanamo Bay or Gitmo. The air was hot, reminding him of his days in Iraq, but heavy with the dank humidity and the scent of sweat and fear.
As soon as he was done here he could make his way back out into the world…a world that didn’t outwardly appear to be at war. And yet, no matter where he was in the world or under what regime, there was always some unspoken or unacknowledged war—even at his new home in Montana, and it was one of the many reasons he was in no rush to head there.
For the good of the people and for himself, he was here—the man sent in to rectify security threats and take down terrorists.
“Cut him loose,” he ordered, looking to the two agents he had been given as guards.
“Sir, this man is a known criminal,” the agent nearest him said. He looked to be about twenty-five, and Jarrod swore he could even see a smear of milk on his upper lip.
He held back a chuckle. “What’s your name?”
“Agent Arthur,” the man said.
“Well, Agent Arthur, I didn’t ask for your opinion.” The last thing he wanted, or needed, was someone questioning how he did his job. He’d been involved in interrogations long enough to know what did and didn’t work—and he didn’t need some know-it-all rookie his boss had stuck him with rocking the boat.
“My apologies, sir,” the man said, walking over to their suspect and unlocking his restraints. “I just thought—”
Jarrod shot him a look that said shut up in every language. “His feet, as well,” Jarrod said, motioning in the direction of the shackles.
The rookie zipped his lip and set to work. Jarrod took one more look over his suspect’s file, for effect rather than the need to know. He’d seen more than his fair share of these kinds of guys—the corporate jerks who thought they were above the law…right until they found themselves sitting in his interrogation chair.
Daniel Jeffery, the young CEO of Heinrich and Kohl gun manufacturing, sat back in his chair and looked around the room. He looked like a wolf that had just been set loose from a snare. Jarrod held back a mirth-filled smile. Given enough time, he would turn this wolf into a pup who would beg to do his bidding.
“How are you doing, Daniel? Do you need anything? Water? Sandwich?” he asked, trying to ingratiate himself with the man.
Daniel brushed off the legs of his dress pants, attempting to rid himself of the detritus of captivity. “I could use a latte and a fresh set of clothes,” he said. “I don’t know why you think it was okay to bring me here. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Sure, he could argue all he wanted. But if he was innocent, the CIA would have never called STEALTH, Jarrod’s independent military contractor team and the CIA’s harbinger of dirty work. He and his team were like the Ghostbusters of bad guys—the government always called them in when they’d run out of legal ways to handle those who needed to be dealt with.
In fact, it had been a running joke among his
