First to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  Roaring like a maniac, the bouncer charged a third time.

  He never made it.

  His foot caught on the corner of the coffee table. Had the fall not landed him squarely on an overturned chair, it would’ve been comical, but his left eye socket made solid contact with the bottom of the chair’s leg. Three hundred pounds of momentum… With a little luck the eye could be saved, provided it wasn’t dangling out of the socket.

  The man rolled into the fetal position and cupped his eye with his good hand.

  Nathan felt it, a tangible presence evaporating from the room.

  This fight was over.

  An absurd memory flashed through his mind, something his mother used to say: It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye. He hoped that wouldn’t be the case here. Spending the next fifty years with a glass eye and no depth perception wouldn’t be a fair trade for slapping Cindy. A broken arm and pulverized nose should be punishment enough.

  “Come on,” Nathan said. “Let’s have a look. It’s over, okay?”

  The big guy staggered to his knees, still holding his left hand over his eye.

  “I’m gonna look at that eye. If you try anything, we’ll start over.”

  No response.

  Nathan flipped a wall switch and squinted at the sudden brightness. Clutching his eye, the bouncer looked broken and bloody, like a bully who’d finally met his match.

  “Let me see your eye. Easy now. What’s your name?”

  He slowly removed his hand. “Toby.”

  Blood was streaming out of Toby’s nose and running down his lips and chin. Nathan examined the eye from a safe distance. Fortunately, the impact hadn’t been directly on the orbit itself. It had missed by half an inch, but the skin was laid open on the upper brow.

  “Well, Toby, I’ve got good news. You aren’t going to lose your eye, but you’ll have one hell of a shiner. You had a close call here.” He paused to make sure he had Toby’s full attention. “You can blow this experience off, or you can use it to turn your life around, to walk a different path.” Nathan watched him ponder the comment for a few seconds. Toby was a big man—huge, really—and people often associated his kind of size with stupidity. Nathan was also big, not like this guy, but he often felt people treated him as though he was all muscle and no brains.

  “I lose my temper,” Toby said.

  “I noticed. Did you notice things I said were designed to make you lose your temper?”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  Toby said nothing.

  Nathan crouched down. “Here’s what I do. When I feel anger coming on, and I really want to hurt someone, I stop it by using a mental image. I call it a safety catch. You can call it anything you want. For me, it’s a safety catch. With me so far?”

  Toby nodded.

  “Okay. Picture autumn-colored leaves falling from trees and gently settling on the ground all around you. Give it a try. Start by closing your eyes and imagining it.”

  To Nathan’s surprise, Toby closed his eyes.

  “You’re standing under the trees with your head tilted up, your arms out the sides, palms up. The leaves are falling all around you, brushing against your skin. Breathe in deep. Let it out slowly. See the leaves as they flutter past you. They’re moving in perfect harmony. Each leaf picks up a small piece of anger and carries it away. Take another deep breath and let it out slowly.”

  Toby looked pretty calm for a moment, then winced. “Oh man, my arm hurts.”

  “You’re just now noticing that?”

  Toby nodded again.

  “How high are you?”

  “A couple lines.”

  “Do yourself a favor and lay off the blow. You’ll save a ton of money, and you’ll enjoy life a whole lot more. Life is rich with detail. You need to see the world around you, be aware of its details. You may need some help to quit, but as soon as you realize you don’t need drugs to have fun, you’ll have the problem licked.”

  “I’ll try. You fight well.”

  “Like I said, it’s all about details. I knew you were on some sort of amphetamine high because your pupils were too small for the ambient light in the room. I knew you were right-handed because you used it to wipe your nose. You’re right-footed because you took your first step toward the door with your right foot. I wanted that info in case you were a kickboxer. I knew when you were going to charge because your eyes gave you away. Stuff like that. It can save your life. It’s all about the details.”

  “Those scars all over your body?”

  “What do they tell you?”

  “Somebody did that to you on purpose.”

  “Why did they cut my stomach and back?”

  Toby thought about it a few seconds. “No major arteries.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You were a soldier and got captured, they tortured you.”

  “Sit tight for now. You’re going to need some stitches and that arm needs to be set. When you get to the emergency room, don’t lie to them. Tell them you were in a fight. Observe the doctors and nurses closely. Learn from them. Ask them questions. Ask them what they’re looking for when they examine your eyes and take your blood pressure. Ask them how broken bones heal.”

  Toby said nothing, just looked around the room as if he were already seeing things from a new perspective.

  “Make sure the vision in your left eye doesn’t become blurred or doubled over time. If it does, see a specialist right away, okay? Your retina got jarred. Hopefully, not too badly. I want you to wait here while I bring the women back in. They’re human beings, Toby, not just objects of entertainment. They have feelings. Like you and me.”

  “I should leave.”

  “Not yet. You need a few butterfly bandages to control the bleeding.” Nathan retrieved a clean washcloth from the kitchen and folded it into a quarter of its original size. “Hold this over the cut with pressure. Is your truck an automatic or stick?”

  “Automatic.”

  “Think you can drive?”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  Nathan patted his shoulder. “Details. Start noticing them.” He retrieved his 9-millimeter from the bedroom and told Cindy to follow him. They left the house through the front door and found Mara and Karen sitting in his Mustang.

  “Party’s over,” Nathan said.

  Karen climbed out and hugged Cindy. “Are you okay?” She looked at Nathan. “Is he gone?”

  “No, but he will be soon. I think you’ll find he’s sorry for what he did.”

  She stared at him for several seconds. “We’ll see about that.”

  He led the women back into the house. As Nathan hoped, Toby apologized and offered to pay for all the damage he’d caused. Karen said she’d forego the money if he agreed to never come back and they struck a deal. When Nathan was sure things had cooled down and Toby was no longer a threat, he motioned for Mara to follow him. Once outside, he removed his wallet and handed her a wad of hundred-dollar bills. “To cover the damage.”

  She was reluctant to take the money, but accepted it with thanks and a long hug.

  “You could’ve hurt that guy a lot worse than you did.”

  Nathan didn’t respond.

  “Did you want to?”

  “At first.” He answered her unspoken question. “I saw something in him.”

  Mara stared for several seconds, hugging herself in the cool air. “If you ever want to talk, I mean, you know, just talk.…”

  He turned to leave.

  “Nathan?”

  “I’ll call you soon. Thanks, Mara.”

  He retrieved his shirt from the rear deck and pulled it on. On his way back to his Mustang, he diverted over to Toby’s truck, pulled a business card from his wallet, and set it against the Plexiglas cover of the speedometer where it wouldn’t be overlooked. It was a dual message he was sure Toby would understand. He slid into his car and waited. Sitting there, he ran the whole encounter back through his mind.
Mara was right. He could’ve hurt Toby, hurt him badly. He knew the consuming rage Toby felt. Knew it well. But over the years since his captivity, he’d learned to control it, to use it like a tool and make it work for him, not against him. Maybe Toby could too.

  His cell rang. “Harv. Sorry about that.”

  “No worries. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. I’ll call you right back.”

  “You got it.”

  Toby walked out the front door a few minutes later, his right arm hanging uselessly. Using compact field glasses he kept in the glove box, Nathan watched Toby grab the business card from the dashboard. The big man stared at it for several seconds before backing out of the driveway. Keeping his headlights off, Nathan followed Toby’s truck until it was clear of the neighborhood.

  He called Harvey back.

  His partner answered after the first ring. “All right, tell me what happened.”

  “One of Karen’s girls got slapped around by that big guy I told you about last week.”

  “And.…”

  “I put a reprimand in his personnel file.”

  A pause. “Did you kill him?”

  “Now would I do something like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m deeply hurt by that comment.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Nathan said. “The circumstances didn’t warrant it.”

  “I would’ve helped.”

  “There wasn’t time. I broke a few traffic laws getting there and a few bones after I arrived.”

  “How many?”

  “Bones or laws?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Radius, ulna, and a nose. Nothing serious.”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you. Now, is everything okay with you?”

  “I’m fine. But Frank Ortega’s not. He’s worried about his grandson.”

  “Frank Ortega? The former FBI director?”

  “The same.”

  “Who’s his grandson?”

  “Third-generation FBI. He’s currently undercover inside some kind of arms smuggling racket.”

  “What kind of arms?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Where?”

  “Up north. Lassen County. Nate, he’s missing. Ortega wants our help. I didn’t promise anything, but I said we’d meet with him.”

  “What, tonight?” Nathan heard his partner sigh.

  “Yeah, tonight. Hold tight. I’m already on my way.”

  Chapter 2

  Nathan’s Clairemont home was similar to every other on the block, meticulously landscaped with a pastel stucco exterior and tile roof. What set Nathan’s apart was its state-of-the-art security system. Some would call it overkill, but Nathan called it an indulgence. He and Harvey Fontana owned a company that installed such systems. Why shouldn’t he own the best?

  A metallic-blue Mercedes pulled into Nathan’s driveway and its driver climbed out. Harvey, the same age as Nathan, stood six inches shorter. His light hazel eyes were an extreme contrast to his tanned, Latino complexion. Gray hair was definitely winning the battle. Nathan thought Harv had the classic look of a politician, but wouldn’t hold that against him.

  “You know I’m here,” Harv muttered. He sounded like James Earl Jones with a Spanish accent. “The least you could do is meet me outside.”

  “I am outside,” Nathan said.

  Harv whipped around. “Damn it, Nate. I hate it when you do that.”

  “Why do you drive that big thing?”

  “I’m a big man, I need a big ride. What’s it to you?”

  “You’re an average-sized man.… Everywhere.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Nate.”

  “How’s the family?”

  “If you’d visit once in awhile, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

  “You know how it is.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Nathan’s tone changed. “From one to ten, what’s the urgency of tonight’s meeting with Ortega?”

  “Ten.”

  * * *

  They drove south on I-5, enjoying a comfortable silence. After a few miles, Harv merged east onto I-8.

  “You get a chance to look at the financials I sent last week?”

  Nathan grunted.

  “Our net worth went up another eight-hundred grand this quarter.”

  “Just paper.”

  “I know money bores you, but honestly. You own a helicopter, for cryin’ out loud, and your home in La Jolla is to kill for.” Harvey shook his head. “If you ever get truly bored with your share of our company, you can always sell it to me.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s yours for free when I kick the bucket.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t talk that way. My world is much more interesting with you in it.”

  “So,” Nathan’s tone signaled a change of subject, “you and Ortega go pretty far back.”

  “I know his son, Greg, better. He was doing Middle East satellite intel for the CIA at the same time we were in Nicaragua. He transferred to counterterrorism work in the FBI eight years ago.”

  Nathan said nothing. He already knew all of this. Harv was setting a stage.

  “He’s a good guy, okay?” said Harvey.

  Nathan didn’t respond. He fully planned on helping Frank Ortega, but had some nonnegotiable conditions.

  “I couldn’t have rescued you without Greg’s help,” Harvey continued. “I know you know that. But Greg knows it too. We spent long nights studying satellite imagery together. He volunteered his time freely, without strings. I owe him, Nate. Big-time. We owe him.”

  They rode in silence for the rest of the trip. Everything Harv said was true, and Nathan didn’t resent it being said. Harv had saved his life. He wouldn’t have lasted another day in that damned cage. In fact, he had no memory of being carried three miles through the jungle. Mercifully, he’d been in and out of consciousness, mostly out.

  During their botched mission, Nathan had sacrificed himself to ensure Harv’s escape. They’d been surrounded by guerilla soldiers hell-bent on capturing them alive. They separated to give themselves the best chance of making it out, but Nathan had doubled back to cover Harv’s exit. He’d purposely given his position away by firing shots to draw the mercenaries away from Harv.

  Bottom line? He and Harv were closer than family and either of them would give their lives for the other—no questions asked. If helping the Ortegas was that important to Harv, Nathan would be there for him.

  They pulled into Frank Ortega’s driveway at 11:50 pm. It was a steep climb, snaking up to a Mediterranean Spanish-style home with a terra-cotta roof. Lit with spots, mature palms lined both sides of the driveway, creating an impressive colonnade. A dark Ford Taurus was parked in front of a detached, three-car garage. Nathan figured it for an FBI vehicle, probably Greg Ortega’s ride. The white stucco house was big, but not overly so, and the classic symmetry of design was pleasing to the eye. A wheelchair ramp had been constructed to one side of the entrance, bypassing the steps up to the front door. As their Mercedes rolled to a stop, a Rottweiler bounded out from the side yard and challenged their intrusion.

  Nathan opened his door.

  Harv put a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you should wait until Frank comes out.”

  Nathan slid out and took a step forward, addressing the dog in a near whisper. “Easy now. You’re not in charge here. I am.”

  “Come on, Nate, get back in. That dog’s going to tear you to pieces.”

  He took another step forward. “I’m not afraid of you. Settle down. Now.” The dog backed up a step, unsure of its standing with this new arrival. Hearing something Nathan couldn’t, it raised its ears and turned toward the house. Nathan looked up just as two men appeared at the front door, the older of the two in a wheelchair: former FBI Director Frank Ortega.

  Its docked tail wagging, the dog trotted up the driveway, turned up the wheelchair ramp, and sat by its o
wner’s side. The man patted the dog’s back.

  Nathan had met Frank Ortega once before, but couldn’t remember where. Maybe a political event. They walked over as the two men came down the ramp, one rolling, one walking.

  Harvey spoke first. “Hello, Frank.” They shook hands. “This is Nathan McBride.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you again,” Nathan said.

  “The honor is mine. You’re an unsung hero, Major McBride.”

  “I appreciate that, sir, but I’m retired now.”

  “You’ve earned the title, and please call me Frank.”

  The man issued a firm handshake, overly so. Nathan figured it was a gesture saying I may be in a wheelchair, but I’m still a force to be reckoned with. Frank Ortega had kind, brown eyes behind a pronounced brow line. The former director was thin, but not slack. There wasn’t the slightest hint of a belly under his white buttoned shirt. He wore tan slacks with penny loafers that looked brand new. Although he did his best to hide it, his face looked taut with tension.

  Frank’s son, Greg, strongly resembled his father. He had the same eyes and brow line, just twenty-five years younger. Nathan guessed his age at fifty, plus or minus. Greg wore a dark jogging outfit and running shoes.

  Harvey gave Greg a hug. “Greg, this is Nathan McBride.”

  “Pleasure,” Greg said, shaking hands without a smile.

  “The same,” Nathan answered. Greg’s handshake wasn’t as firm and he spent a fraction too long looking at Nathan’s face. Nathan didn’t resent the staring. He’d gotten used to that over the years. It was just a natural reaction to seeing the damage.

  “Tell me something, McBride,” said Frank. “How did you know about Scout? Most people are intimidated by Rottweilers.”

  Nathan didn’t mind being called McBride. Frank Ortega would be in the habit of speaking that way. He’d been the FBI’s top man under two presidents.

  “Body language,” Nathan said. “When a dog is going to attack, it lowers its head, crouches down, and curls its lips back. Scout was barking, but he wasn’t singularly focused on me. He knew you’d be coming out the door, so he was dividing his attention. By approaching him, I established dominance.”

  Frank nodded a silent compliment.