First to Kill Page 3

  “I like dogs a lot. They’re amazing animals. They give affection and loyalty freely.”

  Frank Ortega looked at Harvey, but said nothing.

  Nathan sensed the tension thicken. He hadn’t intended the comment to be suggestive of their current situation, but he wasn’t going to backpedal from it.

  “Let’s go inside,” Frank said.

  Nathan watched as Frank easily maneuvered up the ramp and through the front door. He was also acutely aware of being studied by Greg. The surveillance was subtle, but steady. Understandable. From what he knew about Greg, the man rode a desk. Nathan hated offices and avoided his own as much as possible. First Security Incorporated was Harv’s deal, and he gave his partner complete freedom to manage everything. Although an equal owner, he had neither the desire nor the temperament to be actively involved in a complex business.

  Inside Frank’s home on the left, Nathan saw a small library. On the right, a sitting room with a beige leather sofa and matching love seat. Straight ahead, the kitchen. But what impressed Nathan the most was the stone floor. Staring in amazement, he stopped short of a fifteen-foot reproduction of the official FBI seal. Every aspect of the insignia was intricately re-created in a mosaic of colored stone. Inscribed within the seal were the words Fidelity Bravery Integrity.

  A small, elderly woman approached from the kitchen. “Frank spent a fortune on it.”

  Mrs. Ortega had shoulder-length silvery-gray hair and a kind, matronly face. Like her husband, she was thin, but not frail. With those oval glasses, she could’ve come directly from baking cookies or reading the Wall Street Journal.

  Nathan winced as she strode across the symbol.

  “We walk on it all the time,” she said, reading his expression. “It’s the floor, after all. I’m Diane. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. McBride.”

  She offered her hand. It felt like warm bones in a velvet glove. “Please call me Nathan. This should be in a museum.” In the corner of his eye, he caught Greg shifting his weight. The man was strung tight and could be a problem. Probably would be a problem.

  “Harvey,” Diane said.

  Harvey bent and kissed her cheek. “It’s good to see you, Diane.”

  “Would anyone like tea or coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” Nathan said.

  Harvey also said no.

  “Greg?”

  Her son shook his head.

  “Let’s talk in the library,” Frank said. He wheeled himself in that direction. His ride had no bells or whistles. It was a seat on wheels, as basic as they come. Nathan reevaluated his earlier assessment of Frank’s grip during their handshake. The man had a powerful grip out of necessity and the firm handshake hadn’t been phony or intended to show off at all. The man simply had strong hands.

  Despite Diane’s comment, Nathan avoided stepping on the FBI seal as he followed. It didn’t feel right walking on it. Frank maneuvered himself behind his desk while Nathan, Harvey, and Greg sat in tan leather chairs arranged in a semicircle. Nathan studied the photos behind Frank’s desk. They displayed him shaking hands with five different presidents: Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, and George W. Bush. Frank stood in the Carter, Reagan, and first Bush photographs and was in a wheelchair for the other two. Portrait-type pictures of his two adult children were hung on the wall to his right: Greg and presumably a daughter. Nathan waited through an uneasy silence while Frank reached into a side drawer and pulled out a thick file. Nathan looked at it, then back to Frank.

  “I know your father well. We go back a long way.”

  Nathan said nothing.

  “He’s a good man,” Frank said quietly.

  Nathan locked eyes. “We aren’t here to talk about him.”

  Out of Frank’s line of sight, Nathan felt Harv nudge his foot. If Greg had noticed the gesture, he didn’t react.

  “No, that’s true. We’re here to talk about my grandson. He’s MIA. Has been for several days now. He was undercover inside an arms-smuggling operation up in Lassen County. An outfit called Freedom’s Echo.” Frank paused for a moment. “How much do you know about Semtex?”

  “It’s Czech-made plastic explosive.”

  “That’s right. Extremely potent stuff. And we know for a fact that this group got their hands on some of it, a lot of it, actually. Around a ton. It was the last thing my grandson reported before he disappeared. It’s likely he blew his cover relaying the information.”

  “That’s a bad situation,” Nathan said.

  “And not just for him. Seizing the Semtex is critical. In the wrong hands, it could mean several more World Trade Center-type incidents. A few well-placed car bombs in the underground parking structures of skyscrapers could bring them down. Unlike the World Trade Center, there wouldn’t be time for an evacuation. The buildings would collapse with everyone inside.”

  Nathan had seen footage of buildings being demolished with explosives. Implosion, he believed they called it. But if you changed the pattern and timing of the charges, the buildings could fall more like trees, taking out other buildings like dominoes. If the Trade Center towers had fallen sideways, it would’ve been worse.

  “What exactly do you want us to do?”

  Frank leaned back in his wheelchair and stared out the window like a man looking back on his life and wondering about all the things he could’ve done differently. “The FBI is about to send SWAT teams under the command of the Sacramento Joint Terrorism Task Force to raid the compound. They have two objectives. The first is to recover the Semtex if it’s still there and the second is to determine the fate of my grandson. But the main plan is to put Freedom’s Echo out of business before that Semtex disappears.” Frank locked eyes with Nathan. “You two were the best covert ops team this country’s ever had. I’m not patronizing you. I mean it, you guys were the best. What I need is for you to be my eyes and ears up there. I have a personal stake in this. It’s my grandson, my own flesh and blood. I no longer have the access I used to. I could make a call and get boilerplate information, but it wouldn’t be firsthand visual intelligence coming from a source I trust.”

  “Okay.”

  “Essentially, I want you to back up the FBI raid. Things could go badly, there could be a firefight. You guys were the best damned sniper team in the world. The FBI could use—”

  “With all due respect,” Nathan cut in, “we don’t do that anymore. We aren’t hired guns. We run a security business. The FBI has its own sniper teams.”

  Harv moved uncomfortably in his chair, but remained silent.

  “I’m not asking you to be hired guns. I’m asking you to serve as a safety net for the SWAT teams in case things go south. These smugglers are hard-core guys. Elite-trained military. Now they’ve got Semtex. You could save lives. I cashed in a major favor with Director Lansing to involve you in this operation. He gave me the okay, but he’s considering it a don’t-ask, don’t-tell situation. I personally vouched for your integrity. I’m putting my reputation on the line here. If you’re willing to do this, then the trust will have to work both ways. You need to trust me, I need to trust you.”

  “Then you must know the potential ramifications of what you’re asking us to do.”

  Frank Ortega looked at Harv with a troubled, almost annoyed expression and Greg was gripping the armrests of his chair too tightly.

  “I understand the ramifications, McBride. Do you?”

  Nathan said nothing.

  Ortega raised his voice a little. “There’s more at stake than just my grandson. That amount of loose Semtex on American soil makes this a national security issue as dangerous as any Al Qaeda threat. More dangerous. These guys are Americans, they look, act, and talk like us. They blend in. They’re invisible.”

  Over the ticking of the regulator clock, no one spoke for several seconds.

  “We have some conditions,” Nathan said.

  “Conditions.”

  “That’s right. Conditions. We’ll find your grandson and back up the SWAT teams, but we don’t w
ant to be left standing when the music stops. Understood?”

  “Clearly.”

  “And we’ll need complete background and intelligence information on the targets and their compound.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “One more thing. No armchair quarterbacking. Once you turn us loose, that’s it. No second-guessing our moves. We do this our way, without interference, or we don’t do it at all.”

  “Like I said, it’s an issue of trust in both directions.”

  Frank pushed the file across the desk.

  Nathan didn’t touch it. He knew what it was, what it represented.

  “This is everything we have on Freedom’s Echo. Everything,” Frank said. “It’s an exact duplicate.”

  Frank kept saying we. Understandable, the man had spent over forty years with the bureau.

  “I’m coming with you,” Greg said.

  “Out of the question.”

  “He’s my son.”

  “Out of the question.”

  Greg stood and squared off with Nathan. “Listen, you son of a bitch, I don’t care who or what you used to be. He’s my son.”

  Nathan got up and pivoted toward the door.

  “Damn it, Greg,” Frank said. “McBride, wait. Please.”

  Nathan stopped but didn’t turn around.

  “We’re all under a lot of stress. Please, sit back down.”

  Nathan didn’t move.

  Please,” Frank said again.

  “I need some air,” Nathan said and left the room.

  * * *

  Harvey stood and lowered his voice. “Damn it, Greg. What the hell was that all about?”

  “McBride’s a smug asshole, that’s what.”

  “Hey, I’ve known the man through life and death. He has a lot of faults, but being smug isn’t one of them.”

  “Sounded like it to me.”

  “Well, you heard him wrong. He’s not smug. He’s confident. You can’t see it because you’re too close to this. You’re asking us to risk our lives and if the situation warrants it, you’re asking us to kill. And we’ve said yes. But we can’t have the father of the missing agent involved, much less someone who’s never worked in the field. You’ve never killed anyone, Greg. Trust me, there’s nothing glamorous or exciting about it. This isn’t some half-baked Hollywood movie. We’re talking real bullets and real death. There’s no place for you in this mission.”

  Greg looked down but didn’t respond.

  “Now when he comes back,” Harvey continued, “don’t apologize. It won’t be necessary. Nathan doesn’t hold grudges and he knows you’re wound-up tight. We all are. When he offers to shake your hand, you take it, understood?”

  No response.

  “Am I getting through?”

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  Nathan found Diane Ortega in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher. “May I trouble you for a glass of water, please?”

  “It’s no trouble at all.” She retrieved a glass from the cabinet and pressed it into a small alcove in the refrigerator. She had a kind face that reminded him of his own mother. “I heard that last exchange, it was hard to miss. Will you sit with me a minute?”

  Nathan pulled a bar stool out from the island for her.

  “Thank you.” As they sat facing each other, Diane placed her hands in her lap. “It’s been difficult for Greg, his father being the former director of the FBI and all.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You’ve seen the pictures in Frank’s office?”

  “They’re impressive.”

  “The bureau was Frank’s life, still is, I’m afraid. He’s always known it took a heavy toll on his family. I think if Frank had it to do over again, he would’ve spent more time with his family.” Diane’s face clouded for an instant. She looked like she was about to cry, but made a recovery. “Greg is our oldest, so he took it the hardest. I think he understands the sacrifice now, but some wounds never fully heal.” She reached out and held his hand. “Your father’s a lot like Frank, and you’re a lot like Greg.”

  “I’m… not sure what to say.”

  “Our time on Earth is limited, I’m understanding that now. We can’t change our pasts, but we can guide our futures.”

  “I’ve killed fifty-seven people, Mrs. Ortega. It’s taken a long time, but I’ve come to terms with it. Finding your grandson might increase that number. Are you okay with that?”

  She held his hand tighter. “I don’t see the world through rose-colored glasses. Being an FBI director’s wife has taught me that much. There are genuinely evil people out there. I’m sure you’re not indiscriminate. I trust your judgment.”

  “Thank you for saying so, it means a lot.”

  “Frank and Greg know it too, but men have a harder time expressing their feelings. It’s a genetic flaw of the gender.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “Guide your future, Nathan.” She released his hand.

  Nathan reentered the library, approached Greg, and extended his hand. “Can we start over?”

  They shook hands.

  Everyone sat back down. “Your mother’s a remarkable woman.”

  “Yes, she is,” Greg said.

  “May I explain my reasoning to you?”

  He held up a hand. “There’s no need. I understand why I can’t be involved. We have the same policy in the bureau, and for good reason.”

  “We’ll keep you informed every step of the way.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “We’ll find your son.”

  “All right then,” Frank said. “There’s one more vital piece of information you need to know.” He lowered his voice. “I can’t guarantee the FBI SWAT teams will know you’re there. As you can imagine, it’s a delicate situation with outsiders being involved in bureau business. I’ll do everything within my power to make contact up there, but you should assume they won’t know you’re there.”

  Nathan just stared at the man.

  “That means anyone not wearing SWAT uniforms will be fair game.”

  Nathan nodded. “When is the raid?”

  “Tomorrow at fourteen-thirty hours.”

  “A daylight raid. One more question. Does my father know of our involvement?”

  Frank answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

  Chapter 3

  It was a windy evening in the nation’s capital. The horizon’s last remnant of violet was fading to black. Four miles high, lit from the amber glow of the city, thin clouds drifted toward the east. Fall colors had come early. Red and orange cherry leaves lined the sidewalks and gutters.

  The office of the Committee on Domestic Terrorism, or CDT, was located in the Russell Senate Office Building. Its members met in a lavish conference room furnished with high-backed leather chairs surrounding an oval, mahogany table. The walls were adorned with oil portraits of every president. A corner table hosted a pitcher of ice water. In the opposite corner, a matching table supported an elegant flower arrangement that perfumed the air with the scent of stargazer lilies. It was an impressive room, appropriate for the purpose it served: Protecting the nation’s security from homegrown threats.

  The moment CDT Chairman Stone McBride strode into the room, all conversation ended. At six-four, the senator had a commanding presence. Like the trained Marine he was, Stone kept his gray hair short and formal. Deep blue eyes complemented a square jawline. The man looked like a career politician because he was a career politician. He offered a friendly smile when he wanted something and an unfriendly smile when he didn’t get it.

  Now seventy-eight, the senior senator from New Mexico had earned the nickname “Stonewall” during the Korean War. It happened in March 1951 during the advance to Line Boston on the south bank of the Han River south of Seoul. His Marine platoon had been reassigned to shore up I Corps. They’d been pinned down by machine-gun and mortar fire for half an hour. In an act of rage more than anything else, he’d climbed to the edge of his foxhole, stood
up, leveled his M1 at the hip, and emptied five clips at the enemy position. Bullets had thumped the ground in front of him, not one of them finding its mark. Inspired, the platoon to his left added their bullets, giving the platoon on his right the chance to advance and overrun the enemy’s mortar position. Stone had been decorated for that reckless bit of bravery, receiving his nickname in the process.

  “Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Stone said. “I apologize for the late hour, but the subject matter demands it.” He made eye contact with everyone seated around the table. “I’ve called for this meeting because of a critical new development. I’ve already been briefed, but everyone here needs to know about the new threat.”

  The CDT consisted of a hardworking group of five men and four women, all handpicked by the senator. Each of them represented a federal law-enforcement agency. It was the first group of its kind. A prototype. In theory, having a representative of each agency encouraged mutual cooperation and sharing of information. In reality, tension often filled the room. But despite their many differences, they all shared one thing in common: loyalty to the United States of America. Without exception, everyone seated around the table shared a strong resolve to defend and protect the security of the nation.

  Stone turned his radar toward his right-hand man, the FBI’s member, Special Agent Leaf Watson. Watson was a career fed who’d entered the FBI academy after spending seven years in the Air Force as a herky bird driver. He was a no-nonsense guy who didn’t mince words. In his mid-forties, he walked with a slight limp from a helicopter accident dating back to his Air Force years.

  Watson shuffled some papers and cleared his throat. “The FBI has had an undercover agent on the inside of an arms-smuggling group called Freedom’s Echo for several months now. Until now, Freedom’s Echo has dealt in small weapons. Many of the guns aren’t even illegal until they’re modified to fire on full auto, which this group does. The group’s located in Lassen County in Northern California and operated by two brothers, Leonard and Ernie Bridgestone. You can read about this pair in your briefing packet, if you haven’t already. To summarize, they’re both in their mid-forties and the older brother, Leonard, is a trained Army Ranger, retired. Ernie Bridgestone was a Marine drill instructor and got himself court-martialed for killing a pedestrian while driving drunk. He spent five years in Fort Leavenworth. Both brothers had plenty of disciplinary citations in their files, and both left the military without looking back. Neither they nor their younger brother, Sammy, who works for them, got much attention from law enforcement until they came into possession of a large quantity of Semtex.”