“I know. We need leverage.”
Martinez jerks his head toward the wounded man. “What about him? Drake seems to at least marginally care about his team.”
“Or,” Jackson interjects, “what about the younger one? He’s already shown a willingness to talk.”
I consider this, weighing options and ethics against the clock ticking down to Reynolds’s reinforcements arriving.
“Divide and conquer,” I decide. “Martinez, move Carver to the other side of the shed, out of earshot. Tell him we know he’s not fully committed to this, offer him immunity in exchange for cooperation.”
“And if he doesn’t cooperate?”
“Make him think Drake already sold him out.”
Jackson nods toward the wounded man. “I’ll play up the severity, tell Drake his man will die without immediate evac.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
We re-enter the shed. Drake watches us warily, sensing the shift in tactics.
The next forty minutes are a carefully choreographed sequence of psychological pressure. We separate the prisoners, feed them contradicting information, and create the impression that their teammates are cooperating.
It’s not pretty, but it’s effective.
When we return to Drake for the third time, something has changed in his demeanor.
“Your boy Carver’s singing quite a song,” Ryan comments casually. “Seems he knows more about your operation than you gave him credit for.”
“That punk knows shit,” Drake snarls, but there’s uncertainty now.
“He’s talking about the warehouse in Billings,” I say, watching Drake’s reaction closely. “About the Kostic connection. About Reynolds’s arrangement with the FBI field office in Helena.”
Drake’s eyes flicker for just a microsecond—that was validation enough. I’m on target with the intelligence Willow shared with me privately, but Drake doesn’t need to know that.
“Your wounded man isn’t going to make it without proper medical,” Jackson adds. “Field dressing can only do so much for a chest wound.”
Drake stares back at me, eyes hard as flint. His training is evident in the way he controls his breathing and his expressions.
He’s not going to break.
Which makes him useless to me.
I nod to Ryan, and we step outside the shed, leavingJackson with Drake. Martinez is already outside, having finished his session with Carver in the separate storage area we moved him to.
“Carver’s starting to crack,” Martinez reports. “He’s young, scared. Claims he didn’t know what he was getting into.”
“What did he give you?” I ask.
“Not much yet. Says he was hired as muscle, doesn’t know operational details. I’m not sure I believe him.”
“Play them against each other,” I decide. “Go back to Carver. Tell him Drake’s already given us everything, including how Carver was more involved than he’s admitting.”
Martinez nods and heads back to the storage area where Carver is held. Ryan and I return to Drake.
“Your man Carver’s quite talkative now that he’s away from your influence,” I tell Drake. “Smart kid, looking out for himself.”
Drake’s face reveals nothing, but the tension in his shoulders speaks volumes.
Twenty minutes pass. We alternate between prisoners, feeding each contradicting information, creating an atmosphere of mistrust and urgency. It’s textbook psychological manipulation—and while Drake resists with the resilience of his training, Carver doesn’t have the same reserves.
