First to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  The downed branch where the spotter was crouched was thick, nearly two feet in diameter. Its structure fanned out to the spotter’s left while the meaty part of its splintered end faced Nathan. He judged the distance between them again: twenty-five yards, give or take. The spotter was down on one knee, sweeping the area in a back-and-forth motion with his upper body, gun at the ready. Every fourth or fifth sweep, he’d keep the arc of his motion going and look behind him. Nathan studied him for about thirty seconds and formulated a plan. Precious seconds were passing and he didn’t have the luxury of conducting a prolonged surveillance. And he sure as hell didn’t want to get sprayed with MP5 fire, so it was all about timing. He needed to make his presence known at the exact moment the man was lined up on his position. If he timed his move too early or too late, it would be interpreted as unintentional. The most likely result would be a horizontal maelstrom of copper and lead traveling at 800 miles an hour. Not a pretty picture, especially if you’re on the business end of those slugs.

  Here goes.

  Nathan timed it perfectly. When the man swung toward his position, he leaned out from behind the tree and said, “Don’t shoot.” He said it loudly and forcefully, somewhere between a command and a request. A tense movement of shock and surprise raked the spotter’s body with a predictable result.

  He ducked behind the ponderosa a split second before the MP5 erupted. With his back to the trunk, he felt a continuous vibration as dozens of bullets slammed home. Pulverized chunks of bark shot out from either side of the tree as if sprayed with a fire hose. When the gunfire stopped, he knew he had two or three seconds while the shooter ejected the spent magazine, slammed another home, and cycled the bolt.

  “Hold your fire. I’m on your side.”

  “Bullshit.” The unmistakable voice of a woman. He knew she’d already communicated with the rest of her team and he figured he had less than thirty seconds to get control of the situation before being surrounded by angry FBI SWAT agents who were—as Harv suggested—going to shoot first and ask questions later. What he said next was perfect for the situation he faced.

  “My name is Nathan McBride,” he shouted. “I’m not one of the bad guys. I fired that warning shot before the claymores went off.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s not bullshit.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “You’ve got a pair of field glasses?”

  No response.

  “Take a look at your five o’clock position, two hundred yards. My partner has a rifle trained on you. If we’d wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be talking right now.” He figured it would take about five seconds for the spotter to verify his claim. It happened faster than that. What the agent saw must have caused her some concern. Nathan knew what seeing a sniper lined up on you felt like, he’d just seen it a few minutes ago.

  “Very slowly, I want you to step out from behind that tree.”

  “You aren’t going to shoot, are you?”

  “That depends entirely on you.”

  “Okay, I’m coming out. I’m wearing a sidearm. Don’t shoot or we both die.” He slowly pivoted from behind the trunk and faced the spotter, holding his arms out to his sides. Nathan watched her whisper something into the boom mike of her combat helmet. He knew she was strung tight from the claymore detonations. He also knew she was now facing a large, menacing man in a woodland combat uniform with his exposed skin painted in black, green, and brown. Nathan’s sidearm closed the deal. In essence, she was face-to-face with a special forces soldier whose colleague had a sniper rifle trained on her. Harv wouldn’t hesitate to shoot if she made a wrong move. He hoped she’d be delicate with her actions. Nothing sudden. Nothing threatening.

  “Place your hands on the top of your head and lace your fingers together. Please do it now.”

  She’d said please. A good sign. Nathan complied.

  She whispered something into her boom mike again, probably responding to the other team members who were on their way. Nathan glanced to the right and saw three camouflaged figures advancing in leapfrog progression again. He figured he had twenty seconds before being surrounded. “I need to give my partner an all-clear sign.”

  “Please don’t move,” she said, her tone more relaxed.

  Nathan saw her backup was seconds away, and security came with numbers. He kept his hands atop his head and turned to face the first SWAT member to arrive. Under his olive-colored helmet and clear protective goggles was a four-part expression of pure intensity: one part curiosity, three parts anger. His woodland combat uniform had turned tannish gray from being blasted with dust and debris. Charred pine needles clung to his backpack. He’d been up front when the mines detonated. Had to be hell on earth. His MP5 aimed from the hip, the SWAT member stopped ten feet short. With a bloodstained hand, he issued a crisp signal for the others to advance. Two more SWAT figures appeared in front of Nathan, seemingly out of nowhere. They too were covered with dust and burned pine needles. A hand signal was given to the woman near the fallen tree branch and she assumed a sentry’s demeanor again.

  “Are you McBride?” the man asked.

  That question spoke volumes. Ortega had gotten the word out. This man knew he would be here, but the woman who shot the hell out of the ponderosa hadn’t.

  Nathan nodded.

  “All right. Let’s do this delicately. I want you to ask Mr. Fontana to stand down.”

  “I need to give him a hand signal.”

  “Please.”

  Nathan unlocked his fingers from the top of his head and turned to face Harv’s position. He slowly took his right hand, formed a fist, and placed it across his chest with the knuckles touching his right shoulder. He interlocked his fingers atop his head again.

  “Thank you,” the man said.

  “No problem. Your teams are top-notch,” Nathan added.

  The slightest hint of a smile touched the man’s lips, but vanished instantly. “You fire that warning shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “At ease.”

  Nathan brought his hands down from his head.

  “We’ve got three down, one dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Took a fragment down through his shoulder close to his neck. Clipped his carotid. The toll could’ve been a lot worse.”

  Nathan looked at the man’s bloody hands again. “There’s probably another ring of claymores closer to the buildings.”

  “We’re on hold for now. I’m Assistant Special Agent in Charge Larry Gifford with the Sacramento Joint Terrorism Task Force.” He closed the distance and held out his right hand.

  Nathan shook it, ignoring the sticky feel of drying blood. “I’m sorry about your man.”

  “Me too.”

  “How are the other two?”

  “One has a concussion from a tree branch. Clocked him pretty good, but he’ll be okay. His bucket saved his life. The other has a separated shoulder. At least his vest worked. I heard a shot about a minute after the mines detonated, followed by several shots coming from the compound.”

  “I killed the man who detonated the mines. He was in a tree platform sighting in on your team with scoped rifle when I nailed him. I’m damned sorry I didn’t get him sooner.”

  “This isn’t your fault. If our teams hadn’t been on the ground when those claymores went off…” Gifford looked at Nathan’s fatigues. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Those shots you heard,” Nathan offered. “The rock face above our heads took a few impacts. The shooter was hoping for a cornering shot. Nearly got one.”

  “Do you need medical attention?”

  He shook his head. “Fragments.”

  “I’ll have our medic look at them anyway. Please bring Mr. Fontana forward.”

  He turned toward Harv’s invisible position and signaled him with a slight nod. Two hundred yards distant, Harv stood and began jogging toward them, weaving his way through the trees.

  Harv arrived thirty seconds la
ter. Introductions were made.

  “Nobody else knew we were here but you,” Nathan said.

  “That’s right.” There was no apology in his voice.

  “Understood. If you had told your team there were friendlies in the area, they might hesitate at the moment of truth, which could get them killed. They needed to know anyone not in a SWAT uniform was fair game. I would’ve played it the same way. Risky, to us.”

  “The price of admission, Mr. McBride. I wouldn’t agree to your involvement any other way. I’ve also got a sniper team on the north rim of the canyon. They couldn’t see the tree stand where you nailed the shooter, but they followed your movements the entire way, reporting only to me on a different frequency. You want to talk about top-notch, they said you guys looked like part of the landscape.”

  “What now?” Nathan asked.

  Gifford looked back in the direction of the compound. “We’ve got an explosives unit being flown in from Sierra Army Depot. Two Black Hawks are on their way from Amedee Field as we speak. Should be here within the hour. We run an explosive investigation unit out of there.”

  “The FBI does?” he asked.

  Gifford nodded and looked at his agents, then pointed at Nathan and Harvey. “Collins, Dowdy, these two were never here. I want the compound’s perimeter secured out to a distance of two miles. Keep everyone well behind the first detonation ring. I want all the doors and windows of the main building constantly watched. I don’t want anyone firing a shoulder-launched weapon at the approaching choppers.”

  The two agents hustled back toward the compound, the lead man talking into his mike as he ran.

  “I only saw three guys,” Nathan said. “I got one of them, but the other two are still in the main building. One of them has a rifle and he’s a shooter.”

  Gifford turned away and spoke quietly into his mike. He turned back toward Nathan and Harvey. “I’ll be honest. I was resentful you two were going to be here, but now I’m glad you were. We would’ve made this a night raid otherwise. It’s no secret who’s missing.” Gifford issued a hand signal to the woman SWAT member, and she hustled over to their position. “Cover us.” He addressed Nathan and Harvey. “You two, you’re with me.” Gifford began walking deeper into the forest.

  Nathan exchanged a glance with Harv before following. When they were fifty yards away, Gifford stopped and faced them. He reached into his pocket and gave Nathan a slip of paper with a handwritten phone number on it.

  “Call me in six hours. If you’re willing, I’ve got a special job for you guys tomorrow night.”

  Chapter 5

  “A tunnel?” Senator Stone McBride’s irritation couldn’t be concealed. Gripping the telephone too tightly, he continued. “And nobody knew about it?”

  Leaf Watson hesitated before answering. “I’m afraid not, sir. I think it’s fair to assume if Special Agent Ortega has seen it, he would’ve reported it.”

  Stone had sent Watson out to California on a red-eye for a firsthand report. Now he couldn’t help but wish he’d gone along with him.

  “I have FBI Assistant Special Agent in Charge Larry Gifford with me. We’re on speaker, Senator.”

  “Nice to meet you, ASAC Gifford, even under the circumstances.”

  “Thank you, Senator,” Gifford said.

  “Any sign of James Ortega?”

  “No,” Watson said.

  “I want the entire property searched. Bring in whatever resources you need. I want that compound torn apart. Dogs, whatever it takes. I want James Ortega found.”

  “Yes, Senator. I’ll see to it personally.”

  Stone rubbed his eyes. “What about the Semtex?”

  “I’m looking at several pallets of wooden crates stacked head high.”

  “How much?”

  “Just over sixteen hundred pounds.”

  “Did we get all of it?”

  “We’re pretty sure ten crates are missing. About four hundred pounds.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” Stone said. “The raid nets us over three-quarters of a ton of Semtex and the youngest Bridgestone brother, but in the process we lose one of your men, four hundred pounds of Semtex, and the operation’s two ringleaders. Not a great trade-off, I’m afraid.”

  An uneasy silence hung on the other end.

  Larry Gifford broke it. “It could’ve been a lot worse.”

  Waiting for Gifford to continue, Stone said nothing.

  “We had a sniper team on the south rim of the canyon. They saw a compound member with a radio remote, put two and two together, and fired a shot out in front of my SWAT team. Fortunately when the claymores blew, we were on the ground. We could’ve lost a dozen more agents.”

  “Is that the official story?” Stone asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good, let’s keep it that way.” Stone knew the truth and knew that both Gifford and Watson also knew the truth. His son fired that warning shot. Chalk up another victory for cold-blooded snipers.

  “Tell me about this damned tunnel.”

  Gifford continued. “Before storming the main building, we fired flash bangs and tear gas, but they were long gone. On the inside west wall of the main building, the concrete had been saw cut, then removed with a jackhammer. We found a small room below the slab reinforced with railroad ties. It connects to nearly a mile of thirty-inch diameter concrete pipe. Must have cost a small fortune. They attached skateboard wheels to the undersides of water skis and used them like toboggans to traverse the tunnel.”

  “They didn’t haul four hundred pounds of Semtex through that tunnel yesterday.”

  “We think it was moved several days ago, just after Special Agent James Ortega went silent. The tunnel ended in the tree line to the west of the compound nearly a mile away. We followed their footprints another half mile and found camouflaged netting they’d used to cover off-road quad-runners. The tire tracks extended to the west down the valley. We think someone met them on a logging road about fifteen miles away. The quad-runner tracks ended there. They probably loaded them onto a trailer or hauled them into the bed of a truck. We’re checking that angle, asking at every gas station and convenience store in the area if anyone remembers seeing them, but it’s a fairly common sight—quads in trailers, I mean. We’re doing our best to piece together the chain of events.”

  “Keep after it.” Stone paused a moment before asking, “Did you see my son during the raid?”

  “Yes, he approached our teams after the claymores went off.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “I’m… not sure what you’re asking me?” Gifford asked

  “What was your impression of him?”

  “He was definitely in his environment. He seemed comfortable in a high-stress situation. I’m glad he was on our side, that’s for sure.”

  “That sounds like Nathan.”

  “He’s an incredible soldier. Was an incredible soldier. He’s given a lot for his country, more than I’ll ever know.”

  “That’s true, he has.”

  “I offered him another job.”

  “Oh?”

  “I need someone to talk to the Bridgestones’ cousins living on the outskirts of Sacramento. They’ve been in and out of jail most of their lives. A week before the raid, we put their farmhouse under surveillance. They might know something or the Bridgestones might call them or show up there. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth pursuing.”

  “So Nathan’s to talk to them?”

  “Yes, a friendly fireside chat.”

  “Uh-huh. And I suppose he can talk to these Bridgestone cousins in a way your people can’t? Is that about the long and short of it?” Stone knew Gifford wouldn’t respond, so he continued. “I see. Then this conversation we’re having never took place.”

  “I think that would be best, Senator.”

  “Nathan’s your man, then. Anything you need, Special Agent Gifford, you talk to Special Agent Watson directly.”

  “Thank you, Senator, I wil
l.”

  Stone had one last question for Gifford. “Do you believe James Ortega is dead?” He waited through a brief silence.

  “I want to believe he’s still alive, but it’s unlikely. The Bridgestones tried to frag my entire SWAT team. If James Ortega was discovered, they would’ve interrogated him and killed him outright. I can’t see any reason they’d keep him alive. My people have searched every building within a five-mile radius of the compound, but he’s nowhere. We’ve also set up roadblocks on every road leading in and out of here. We’re bringing in cadaver dog teams tomorrow in case he’s buried up here. Later today, I’ll have two FBI helicopters searching the area out to a twenty-mile radius coordinating with CDF and Lassen County Sheriffs’ horseback teams on the ground. We’re doing everything possible to find him with the limited resources we have available.”

  “I’ll call Sierra Army Depot’s commander, see if he can muster a couple of platoons for you. Maybe a Black Hawk or two.”

  “That would really help. The more people we have up here searching, the better chance we have of finding him.”

  “If it’s any consolation, Special Agent Gifford, I’m going to nail those Bridgestone brothers to a cross.”

  “Thank you, Senator,” said Gifford. “I’ll be there with the hammer.”

  * * *

  It promised to be another long day for Nathan and Harv. Yesterday, after speaking with ASAC Gifford, they’d received some stitches and small field dressings on their legs. Sitting on their wounds hadn’t been especially pleasant during the flight back to San Diego, but other than that, the flight had been uneventful. They’d arrived well after dark. Then, early this morning, they met with the Ortegas at a coffee shop in Mission Valley and given them a complete update on the Freedom’s Echo raid, including their latest phone updates from Gifford. Although disappointment was evident in their voices and body language, they seemed encouraged by the new assignment Nathan and Harv had accepted.