False Witness (8 page)

“I'm sorry,” she said pleasantly. “Our records show someone else in that room.” She tilted her head. “Are you sure that's the right room?”

“Positive,” Clark responded. “8127. Peter Chance.” He had figured the Chinese surname that Johnny Chin used—Peter Chang—might give a desk clerk cause for concern if an Anglo like Clark waltzed up to the desk claiming to be that man. But he wanted Clarisse to figure out the “typo” on her own, making it more believable.

“C-h-a-n-c-e,” he said slowly, his stomach flipping.

Suddenly a light came on in Clarisse's eyes, and Clark wanted to hug her. “I'll bet somebody just typed it in wrong,” she said. “The guest's name is listed as Peter Chang.” She nodded, and Clark nodded along to encourage her. “That's pretty close to Peter Chance.”

“It's probably my handwriting,” he said. “But you'd think they'd notice that I'm not a Chang.”

Clarisse smiled and coded in a new card. “I'll change it in our records,” she offered.

Clark thanked her, took the key, and strode casually away from the front desk. He was grateful she didn't notice the credit card securing the room was also under the name of Peter Chang. Though he had an excuse for that as well, he wasn't sure even Clarisse would buy that one.

Clark headed in the general direction of the casino floor and elevators. When he assumed Clarisse would be busy with the next patron, he took a left and exited through the revolving doors. Ten minutes later he was back wearing jeans, his Kevlar vest, a T-shirt, and a new khaki sports coat since his blue one was now stained with Bones McGinley's blood. He was dragging a large, black trunk behind him, using both hands, though it really wasn't that heavy. Yet.

He pulled the trunk through the atrium with its tropical rain forest decor, including palm trees, a sixty-foot waterfall, and a wooden bridge over a lagoon. People snapped photos and milled about, paying no attention to the man with the oversize luggage who probably had a clotheshorse for a wife. He snaked his way across the casino floor in order to reach the elevators strategically located on the other side of the sprawling gaming area. He envied the people mindlessly gambling their money away—their cares limited to the mundane things of life, their spouses holding their hands or standing beside them or tucked away safely by the pool. He nodded at the security guard as he reached the elevator area and rode the elevator to the eighth floor. Room 8127 was the first room on the right-hand side of the hallway. He glanced up and down the hall to confirm he was alone.

There were three possibilities. The best—Johnny Chin would not be in the room. Clark could hide out, wait for Chin to return, then jump him when he least expected it. A close second—Johnny Chin would be in the room sleeping. Under that scenario, Clark could sneak up on Johnny and take him without a fight. The worst—Johnny Chin would be in the room awake.
That
could get ugly.

Clark slid the key in the door and saw the green light flash. He cracked the door and listened. The television was on. He quietly pushed the door a few inches further and felt resistance from the small metal chain that Chin had slid in place for double-locked protection.

Chin was in the room.

Clark pulled out his gun, took a few steps back, lowered his shoulder, and thought about Jessica. He charged with all his might, crashed against the door, and felt the chain give way as the door flung open. Clark plunged into the room, doing a quick dive and roll, and came up in a crouched shooting position.

“What's going on out there?” he heard somebody shout from the bathroom.

Clark paused for a split second, heard the shower running, and smiled. He quickly grabbed the trunk and pulled it inside the room, closed the door, and burst into the bathroom.

He drew a bead on Johnny Chin. The hit man was naked and wide-eyed, standing in the shower with the curtain drawn to the side, water dripping from his body.

“You'd better dry off,” Clark said.

Maybe his luck was beginning to change.

12

Clark's lucky streak was short-lived. Thirty minutes later, heading north toward the mountains on I-15, the frustration set in again. He needed complete privacy—someplace where he would not be disturbed as he did what had to be done. But the flat desert stretched before him on all sides like a giant stage, as if God himself was trying to prevent Clark's intended act against humanity.

Exhaustion and lack of sleep weakened every muscle in his body and frayed every nerve. He had knocked Chin out in the hotel room, bound and gagged him with FlexiCuffs and duct tape, then carted him out to the car in the black trunk. A few minutes after he left the parking garage, Clark called 911 and left an anonymous tip about Bones and Angel. The cops probably had an APB out on Clark by now, but they wouldn't know he was driving the Escalade.

Clark eventually took the exit for the Great Basin Highway and headed northwest. The barren mountains rose in the distance before him, but they seemed to back farther away with each passing mile. He was on a two-lane road now, flat stretches of asphalt that tapered into the horizon as far as the eye could see, bounded by the nothingness of desert sand, shrubs, and brown weeds.

He passed by the immense Silverhawk Power Plant on his left and then noticed some dirt paths for off-roading that wound toward the foothills. He took a left at the next set of tire marks, popped the Escalade into four-wheel drive, and climbed the small embankment up to the desert path. A bone-jarring mile and a half later, the path narrowed and curved around the backside of a major ridge that shielded the path from the highway. It was exactly the type of spot Clark had been looking for.

At the base of the ridge, a large flat area was pockmarked by the charred remains of campfires and littered with spent rifle shells and shotgun casings. An old heater and refrigerator riddled with bullet holes, a set of bedsprings, and hundreds of beer cans and plastic pails had doubled as targets. Clark stopped the vehicle and opened the back.

He hauled the trunk out, ignoring the muffled protests of Chin as he rolled the trunk across the rocky ground, coming to a stop next to the refrigerator. The thermometer on the Escalade had said the outdoor temperature was 102 degrees, but it felt even hotter. The sun radiated off the desert floor, sending waves of heat in every direction, turning the entire landscape into a blast furnace. Clark opened the trunk and pulled his captive out, removing the duct tape and sock gag but leaving his captive's wrists bound.

That's when the battle of wills started.

Chin was short, lean, and athletic, with square shoulders and trapezius muscles that stood out like steel cables. Both arms were covered in tattoos, and a tattoo of the sun peeked out from behind the white T-shirt Clark had forced Chin to put on in the hotel room. Chin wore jeans and no shoes, his dark eyes leaving no doubt that he would break Clark's neck with his bare hands if given half a chance. Chin's egg-shaped skull was clean-shaven, adding to a menacing look accentuated by black eyebrows that formed an inverted V above his eyes.

Clark started by offering money for Xu's whereabouts. After all, Chin was a hit man, a mercenary, and every mercenary had his price. But Chin scoffed at the notion, as if trading information for cash was somehow beneath his dignity. Next, Clark told Chin about Jessica and about Xu's threats to mutilate her. A sly smile was Chin's only response.

Such insolence!
This cocky little jerk owed every breath he took to Clark's forbearance. How dare he mock Jessica's plight?

Clark held the gun to Chin's temple, counted slowly to ten as he stared into his captive's hardened eyes, and pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked, the sound of an empty chamber.

Chin never flinched.

“You
will
talk,” Clark promised. He drove the butt of the gun into Chin's kidney, eliciting a groan as Chin fell to his side and curled into a fetal position. Clark kicked him hard in the gut, and Chin groaned again as he slid a few feet on the ground.

“This is no game,” Clark snarled. “He's got my wife.”

Clark leaned over and pulled Chin back to a sitting position, then knelt in front of the hit man.

“Don't make this hard on yourself,” Clark pleaded. “I don't have any choice here. I'll go as far as I need to go.”

Chin grimaced and caught his breath. He raised his eyes, told Clark where he could go, then spat in Clark's face.

Blood rushed like a torrent to Clark's head, detonating his fury like nitroglycerin. Chin became the symbol of everything that had happened to Jessica, the personification of the faceless men who held her. Clark raised his gun to pistol-whip Chin, anticipating the satisfying thud of metal on bone, then caught himself. He allowed the anger to dissipate for a moment, wiped the spit from his cheek, and slowly rose to his feet.

Anger would not make his captive talk. Nor would money or promises of freedom. Only pain might work. But it would have to be a calculated, unyielding pain, administered by someone totally in control, someone who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Chin would need to believe that Clark had the guts to do the unthinkable.

Only then might the steel will of Johnny Chin bend to Clark's demands.

But when the initial surge of anger passed, Clark didn't know if he had it in him to carry through. This was a human being on the ground at Clark's feet. How could Clark methodically torture someone, regardless of what he had done? Even if Clark could force himself to do it, the guilt would haunt him forever.

But then a second wave of guilt hit, more powerful than the first. They were probably torturing Jessica at this very moment. What kind of man wouldn't do this for his wife? Could he ever live with himself if he backed off now?

His watch gave him the last fiber of nerve he needed: 23:41:15.

He pulled the extra roll of duct tape out of the trunk, dragged Chin to the refrigerator, and taped him to it, wrapping the heavy-duty tape several times around Chin's body. For extra measure, he taped Chin's head to the refrigerator as well, running a strand across Chin's forehead and another strand securely across the man's neck.

In less than thirteen hours, Xu and his men would begin pulling Jessica's teeth, one at a time. Two could play this game.

“I'll be right back,” Clark said, heading toward the Escalade. “I need a pair of pliers.”

13

Clark was no expert on torture, but this much he knew: it was the psychology, not the pain, that would break a man. Walking back to the car gave him time to cool down and put together a workable plan. He would explain each grizzly step of his plan to Chin and follow through without hesitation. If Chin saw Clark flinch even once, exposing weakness, it would steel his captive to remain silent.

Clark nearly hurled just thinking about what lay ahead. Though he worked hard to project a reputation as a heartless bail enforcer, in reality Clark couldn't even bring himself to hunt. He couldn't imagine skinning a deer he had shot down in cold blood. And now he was thinking about the best way to torture a fellow member of the human race.

Does love for Jessica justify torture?
He struggled with the thought as he walked back to his prey, sickened by the job ahead. But he also knew he couldn't dwell on it. This was no Senate intelligence hearing—lawyers debating the ethics of torture under international law. Lives were at stake.
His wife's
life was at stake.

These men were evil. Clark would meet force with force.

He knelt in front of Johnny Chin again, inches from his face. The heat of a thousand demons breathed down Clark's back, egging him on. He checked his watch.

“In about twelve hours, they start torturing my wife,” he said coldly. “In five minutes, I start torturing you.” He searched Chin's eyes for even a sliver of fear. He found nothing.

He pulled out a file folder and Sharpie he had brought back from the Escalade. “Here's the plan,” Clark continued calmly. “I'll start on the teeth. They're pulling four of Jessica's; I'll pull eight of yours.”

He wrote two headings on his sheet, one labeled
Time
and the other labeled
Torture
. He filled in the first row with a
5
in the left column and
teeth
on the right.

“I'll give you ten minutes to recover. In fifteen minutes, I start on the fingernails and toenails, pulling them out one by one.” He made two more notations on the chart:
15—denailing
.

Chin just stared ahead, focusing beyond Clark's shoulder.

“After that, we're done with the pliers.” Clark gave him an icy smile. “Ten minutes after step two, I'll put my Glock on the backside of your knee and shoot out your kneecap. First one leg, then the other. I'm told this blows the kneecap completely off the leg, crippling a person for life. I guess we'll find out.” He glanced at his watch. “Four minutes to starting time.”

While Clark made another chart notation, he noticed a slight sheen of sweat forming on Chin's bald scalp. He prayed the man would crack.

“And if that doesn't slow you down, there's always hamstringing. That's when you slice right through the tendons on the back of the leg. I wouldn't be surprised if you've done that to your victims a time or two, so I won't even bother to describe how painful it is.”

Clark made his final notation and mumbled, “Three minutes. If you're still conscious after step four, we'll think of our next procedure.”

He stood and grabbed an old plastic pail, placing it a few feet in front of Chin. He taped the list to it. “Can you see that okay? I wouldn't want anybody to accuse me of ambushing you.”

Clark looked down at his watch. “Two minutes,” he announced, noticing that Chin had broken into a full-body sweat.

14

Clark's stomach roiled as he moved toward Johnny Chin, pliers in his right hand, trying to look impassive. “Time's up,” he said bluntly.