surrender.
“That’s it,” said Draegar. “Cooperate and all of the pain goes away.”
After several moments had passed, Lawlor opened his eyes.
Draegar smiled. “You are ready to answer me now?”
Though the rubber blocks had his jaws stretched to what felt like the breaking point, Gary steeled himself, opened his mouth even wider and retracted his tongue, providing Helmut Draegar with unfettered access to his tooth.
Through the bright glare of the surgical lamp, Lawlor was able to enjoy a brief moment of victory as he saw the surprised reaction on Draegar’s face. The look was soon replaced by one of sadistic determination as Draegar lifted the old dental drill and pumped life into it via its foot pedal on the floor.
The nauseating smoke from the drill bit burning through his tooth bothered him only for a second. Soon, there was nothing other than a roiling tidal wave of pain.
Chapter 11
EASTON, MARYLAND
B eing an agent of the OIIA had several advantages, not the least of which was access to the vast resources and databases of the Department of Homeland Security. Ten minutes was all it had taken for Harvath to track down the name and address attached to the phone number he had pulled from Gary Lawlor’s house. He was fairly confident that he had never heard Gary mention anyone named Frank Leighton before, but that didn’t mean they weren’t somehow connected. When it came to Gary, Scot was no longer taking anything for granted.
The Leighton residence was one of only a handful of houses along a quiet country lane known as Waverly Island Road, just outside downtown Easton, Maryland. The Cape Cod–style dwelling faced a farmer’s field across the road while its backyard sloped gently down toward the Tred Avon River, one of the Chesapeake Bay’s many tributaries. Though the snow had been falling for most of Harvath’s drive, it began to let up around Annapolis and by the time he had crossed the Chesapeake and had arrived in Easton, it had stopped altogether.
Making more than one pass down the practically deserted road at three in the morning was out of the question, as it would only draw undue attention, especially if the FBI was sitting on Leighton’s house. Though many people often got lost on the country lanes that dead-ended at water up and down the Eastern Shore, the last thing Harvath needed was to attract notice.
He found a secluded spot at the end of the road and after parking the TrailBlazer, grabbed his gear and walked back along the shoreline toward his target.
He had tried calling Leighton’s house three times from his encrypted cell phone on the drive down, but no one had answered. If there was a trap and trace on Leighton’s line, the FBI were going to have a very difficult time deciphering where Harvath’s calls were coming from.
After surveying the rear of the property with his night vision goggles and not seeing anything, Harvath tried calling the house again. No one answered, so he decided to make his move.
Using a thick line of trees for cover, he made his way along the southern edge of the property until he was parallel with the rear of the house. He waited for several minutes crouched among the trees and scanned the area once more before darting across the snow-covered lawn toward the back door. With his lock pick gun in hand, he had the door open in a matter of seconds and was creeping quietly down a short hallway.
The house was cold and it was not just “somebody had turned down the heat for the night cold,” but rather “somebody had not been in the house for a while and had not needed the heat” kind of cold.
Harvath passed a small bathroom and an empty guestroom. As he neared the end of the hallway, he noticed a digital thermostat mounted on the wall. Flipping up the cover and using the filtered beam from his flashlight, Harvath cycled through the daily settings. The system had been set to maintain a constant, bare minimum temperature for every day of the week.
“That’s it,” said Draegar. “Cooperate and all of the pain goes away.”
After several moments had passed, Lawlor opened his eyes.
Draegar smiled. “You are ready to answer me now?”
Though the rubber blocks had his jaws stretched to what felt like the breaking point, Gary steeled himself, opened his mouth even wider and retracted his tongue, providing Helmut Draegar with unfettered access to his tooth.
Through the bright glare of the surgical lamp, Lawlor was able to enjoy a brief moment of victory as he saw the surprised reaction on Draegar’s face. The look was soon replaced by one of sadistic determination as Draegar lifted the old dental drill and pumped life into it via its foot pedal on the floor.
The nauseating smoke from the drill bit burning through his tooth bothered him only for a second. Soon, there was nothing other than a roiling tidal wave of pain.
Chapter 11
EASTON, MARYLAND
B eing an agent of the OIIA had several advantages, not the least of which was access to the vast resources and databases of the Department of Homeland Security. Ten minutes was all it had taken for Harvath to track down the name and address attached to the phone number he had pulled from Gary Lawlor’s house. He was fairly confident that he had never heard Gary mention anyone named Frank Leighton before, but that didn’t mean they weren’t somehow connected. When it came to Gary, Scot was no longer taking anything for granted.
The Leighton residence was one of only a handful of houses along a quiet country lane known as Waverly Island Road, just outside downtown Easton, Maryland. The Cape Cod–style dwelling faced a farmer’s field across the road while its backyard sloped gently down toward the Tred Avon River, one of the Chesapeake Bay’s many tributaries. Though the snow had been falling for most of Harvath’s drive, it began to let up around Annapolis and by the time he had crossed the Chesapeake and had arrived in Easton, it had stopped altogether.
Making more than one pass down the practically deserted road at three in the morning was out of the question, as it would only draw undue attention, especially if the FBI was sitting on Leighton’s house. Though many people often got lost on the country lanes that dead-ended at water up and down the Eastern Shore, the last thing Harvath needed was to attract notice.
He found a secluded spot at the end of the road and after parking the TrailBlazer, grabbed his gear and walked back along the shoreline toward his target.
He had tried calling Leighton’s house three times from his encrypted cell phone on the drive down, but no one had answered. If there was a trap and trace on Leighton’s line, the FBI were going to have a very difficult time deciphering where Harvath’s calls were coming from.
After surveying the rear of the property with his night vision goggles and not seeing anything, Harvath tried calling the house again. No one answered, so he decided to make his move.
Using a thick line of trees for cover, he made his way along the southern edge of the property until he was parallel with the rear of the house. He waited for several minutes crouched among the trees and scanned the area once more before darting across the snow-covered lawn toward the back door. With his lock pick gun in hand, he had the door open in a matter of seconds and was creeping quietly down a short hallway.
The house was cold and it was not just “somebody had turned down the heat for the night cold,” but rather “somebody had not been in the house for a while and had not needed the heat” kind of cold.
Harvath passed a small bathroom and an empty guestroom. As he neared the end of the hallway, he noticed a digital thermostat mounted on the wall. Flipping up the cover and using the filtered beam from his flashlight, Harvath cycled through the daily settings. The system had been set to maintain a constant, bare minimum temperature for every day of the week.
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