First to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  It worked.

  He felt a hiss of air escape her lungs on the back of his neck. Her arms loosened, giving him just enough room to wrench his head sideways. When her grip on his windpipe failed, he jerked his head free, and sucked in a precious lungful of air.

  Red-faced and panting like a dog, he gasped, “Let’s call it a draw.” He managed to gain his hands and knees just before his Caesar salad came up in projectile fashion. When he finished vomiting his dinner, he wiped his mouth and half laughed. “Damn it, woman, that was some trick.”

  She rolled onto her back, her legs bent at the knees. “You cheated giving me that wedgie. I had you.”

  “The hell you did.”

  “No doubt you enjoyed that little stunt.”

  “You’ll never know.” They both looked up at the same instant. Harvey was pointing his Sig at a man who was pointing his Glock at Nathan’s head, the four of them frozen in time like waxwork figures.

  “It’s good thing you showed up when you did,” Nathan said. “I might have killed her.”

  Grangeland held up a hand. “Stand down, Agent Ferris. This isn’t what it looks like.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, Ferris holstered his gun and looked at Harvey.

  Harvey tucked his gun into the small of his back and looked at Nathan, then to the woman, then to the pool of vomit. “I see you two have been properly introduced.”

  Still breathing heavily, Nathan said, “Special Agent Grangeland, meet Harvey Fontana.”

  Harvey shook his head. “What is it with you, Nathan? Didn’t your mother hold you enough as a baby?”

  “Hey, it was her idea.”

  “Uh- huh.”

  “Well?” Nathan asked her.

  With a grimace, Grangeland sat up. “I guess we’ll keep the status quo.”

  “Good choice,” Nathan said.

  “Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Ferris asked. He looked at the splintered door jamb then back to Nathan. “Looks like a clear case of breaking and entering to me.”

  “Tell me about it,” Grangeland said. She staggered to her feet and limped bull-legged into the bathroom.

  Nathan rubbed his throat. “She’ll be okay.” Even though Ferris was formidable looking, Nathan towered over him. In his mid-thirties, Ferris had the same intensity in his eyes that Henning had shown several nights ago. He was clean-cut, dressed in tan Docker-type slacks with a long-sleeved buttoned shirt. Nathan knew Ferris didn’t like the idea of his partner rolling around on the floor with a complete stranger.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Nathan said. “Tell me something. Where’d she learn to wrestle like that?”

  “Alternate for the 2000 Olympic team.”

  “No kidding,” Nathan said. “You ever go a round with her?”

  “Once.”

  “And?” Nathan prompted.

  “Got my ass kicked in ten seconds. She’s also holds black belts in three different forms of martial arts.”

  “I’m in love,” Nathan said. He looked at the processed romaine lettuce on the carpet. “Want me to call housekeeping?”

  Ferris just stared.

  Harvey grabbed Nathan’s handgun from the bed. “Come on, Nathan, let’s get the hell out of here.” Harvey turned toward Ferris, then pointed at the electronic surveillance equipment. “This is bullshit.”

  “Easy partner, don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “Why not?” Harvey said. “We’ve been open and honest.” He waved a hand at the black boxes. “And this is the thanks we get?”

  “It’s just business,” Nathan said.

  Harvey grunted and walked out of the room.

  Nathan addressed Ferris. “This doesn’t have to go any further than the four of us. We’ll let you save face with Lansing, but we’re onto you now. If you want to know what we’re up to, just ask.” Nathan joined Harv and closed the door behind him. Still rubbing his throat, he sat on the edge of the bed.

  Harv was standing at the window, staring at the State Capitol Building. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.” He turned and smiled. “Your mother held you a lot, you were an only child.”

  “No, you’re right, I acted childish in there. I didn’t have to spar with her. I could’ve said no.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Not sure. I’ll tell you what, she’s tough as nails.”

  There was a soft knock at the door. They both turned at the same time. Half-expecting to see the hotel manager standing in the hall, Nathan went to the door and peered through the peephole. It was one of their own security guards. Nathan opened the door and the tech handed him a fax. It was from Dr. Fitzgerald at Fort Leavenworth.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got.” Nathan sat down at the desk while Harv looked over his shoulder. The first piece of paper was a copy of the Pensacola police department’s incident report. Ernie Bridgestone had been going the speed limit, the skid marks on the road verified it. From what they could glean from the report, a woman had entered the street from between two parked cars. The right bumper of Ernie’s Camaro had clipped her, sending her head over heels. She died instantly from a broken neck. Her BAC, or blood-alcohol concentration, had been .35, over four times the legal limit of .08. Ernie’s BAC had been .10. Just as Amber Sheldon had said, he hadn’t been truly drunk, but he’d been over the legal limit and that’s all that mattered. The responding officer had written in his notes that Ernie had been extremely indignant, stating over and over that he wasn’t drunk and that it wasn’t his fault. He’d used profane and derogatory language about the dead victim’s ethnicity, which was Hispanic. Things quickly turned ugly. After resisting arrest, he’d been Tasered by a backup officer. Booked for felony drunk driving, his bail was set at 10,000 dollars.

  The next documents in the file concerned Ernie’s civil-court matters. His driver’s license had been revoked for eighteen months and he’d been fined 2,000 dollars, the maximum allowed by law. Because Ernie had been in the military, Nathan knew his troubles were only beginning. As an active member of the United States armed forces, Ernie had been subject to the Uniform Code of Military Justice, no matter where the accident had happened. On or off base, it didn’t matter. He’d been surrendered to the military police of Pensacola Naval Air Station and placed in the brig. Notes from the transporting MP’s also indicated Ernie had been belligerent, profane, and generally uncooperative. In the court-martial that followed, the presiding military judge showed no leniency. Had Ernie possessed an outstanding military record with no prior offenses, things might have been different. But Ernie had a long history of insubordination. The bottom line: The Marine Corps made an example out of him, sentencing him to five years in the USDB at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Basically, the Marine Corps version of good riddance, dirtbag. The final sheet of paper was a copy of a newspaper clipping, complete with a photograph of the victim. Nathan’s eyes grew as he stared at the low-resolution photocopy.

  “I’ve seen this face,” he said.

  Behind him, Harv whispered, “No, it can’t be.”

  Nathan rewound his mind, trying to place it. Then he had it. Staring up at him from the lifeless sheet of paper was an image he’d seen for the first time only days ago.

  The face of Frank Ortega’s daughter.

  Chapter 19

  Harv barely managed a whisper. “Do you know who that is?”

  Nathan nodded.

  “Do you know what this means?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never felt so… betrayed. This whole thing, it’s, it’s—”

  “Dirty.”

  Neither of them spoke for several seconds, each running the events of the past week through their minds.

  “We risked our lives for Frank Ortega at Freedom’s Echo compound. We could’ve been killed, almost were killed. Nathan, I’m sorry.”

  “Harv, this isn’t your fault.”

  “How could—” Harv cut himself off and pointed to the door interconnecting the rooms.

  Nath
an nodded.

  Without saying another word, they both left the room. In the elevator, Harv said, “How could the Ortegas have done this to me, to us?”

  “Blood is thicker than water,” Nathan said quietly. “A lot thicker, it would seem.”

  “Greg and I go back fifteen years. Fifteen years. We spent night after night together looking at satellite imagery when you were missing. I knew Frank’s daughter had been killed, but Greg never talked about it. I never knew the circumstances.”

  “How deep does this go, Harv?”

  “You mean Lansing? Ortega must have cashed in that IOU earlier than we imagined. Getting his grandson assigned to the Bridgestone operation…” Harv gave Nathan a double take. “You mean your dad? I can’t fathom him betraying you like this.”

  “I can,” Nathan said. The elevator dumped them into the lobby. Nathan kept his voice low. “We’ll take a cab over to Sutter Hospital. Holly needs to know about this right away.”

  “Nate, she could be involved.”

  He shook his head. “She’s not. I can’t explain it, but I’m sure she’s not.”

  After the bellman called the cab, it took several minutes for it to arrive. Their moods identical, neither of them spoke during the late-afternoon ride through rush-hour traffic.

  Nathan sensed Harv’s anger mounting. Anger and pain at being used like a pawn and betrayed by a trusted friend.

  Nathan grasped Harv’s arm. “We’ll get through this, okay?”

  Harv shook his head and closed his eyes. “I’m so damned angry, Nate. I can’t…”

  Nathan squeezed his arm. “We’re going to turn this around on them, Harv. You hear me? We own their asses now.”

  * * *

  Nathan knocked on Holly’s door.

  “Come in.” Her cheery tone ended the moment she saw the expressions on their faces. “What happened? Did they hit us again?”

  “No,” Nathan said. He pulled a chair over from the corner. Harv did the same.

  “You two look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “We have.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Ernie Bridgestone killed Frank Ortega’s daughter.”

  “Oh, no. When?”

  “Eighteen years ago.”

  “Eighteen years ago?”

  “Drunk-driving accident. It’s why he went to prison. This whole thing’s about revenge. Frank Ortega set Ernie Bridgestone up for a fall.”

  “No, I don’t believe that, I won’t believe that.”

  “It’s true, Holly. Everything makes sense now.”

  “Director Lansing?” she asked.

  “Right in the middle of it.”

  “Are you absolutely sure about this. Is there any possibility you could be wrong?”

  “None.”

  “Do you know what this means? What it means for the FBI? For my field office, for my agents?”

  “Holly, listen to me. Harv and I aren’t going to do anything that would compromise or embarrass the FBI. We aren’t whistle-blowers. You have our word.”

  “Nathan, I—”

  “Just listen for a sec. We’ve been thinking about this, working it out. Strictly speaking, what Lansing and Ortega did wasn’t illegal. It may be a terrible lapse in good judgment, but it wasn’t illegal, we all need to understand that. But it raises some other questions. What exactly were the Bridgestones doing prior to dealing in Semtex?”

  She sat up a little. “Where are you going with this?”

  “Stay with me here. Think back. What did the Bridgestones initially do to get the attention of the FBI?”

  “I can’t remember exactly, but I’m sure I got a call from Director Lansing to begin surveillance up there.”

  “Is that normally how things work? A call from Lansing?”

  “No. My boss is in the Los Angeles field office, he’s an assistant director. The call should’ve come from him.”

  “Right, but it didn’t, it came from Lansing himself. It would be like a brigadier general giving an order to a battalion commander, bypassing the regiment commander. He bypassed the chain of command, left your assistant director out of the loop. Do you remember what he said?”

  “Vaguely. Something about a new militia-type group he wanted to watch.”

  “Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  “No, I honestly don’t.”

  Nathan looked at Harv, then back to Holly. “We read the file on the Bridgestones operation. Frank Ortega gave it to us prior to the raid. Freedom’s Echo was tiny, way under the radar compared to other militia groups in Montana, Idaho, Ohio, you name it. Those big groups have hundreds, sometimes thousands, of members. The Bridgestones were small potatoes. They dealt mostly in small-arms conversions, semiautomatic to full auto, that kind of thing. It wasn’t until the last few months that they started dealing in bigger things.” Nathan watched understanding take Holly’s face.

  “You’re saying James Ortega wasn’t just undercover, he was their contact for the Semtex.”

  Nathan nodded. “Yes. It was more than a deep-cover operation. It was a sting. The FBI was both the seller and the buyer of the Semtex.” He paused to make sure she was absorbing it all. “Ortega and Lansing set the Bridgestones up for a fall, for a very personal reason. They thought they had it all under control until two things went wrong. First, the Bridgestones discovered James Ortega was undercover. Second, when the raid came, the FBI had no idea about the tunnel. No matter what happened to James Ortega, the Bridgestones should’ve been cooked. But with the tunnel, the targets escaped with a bunch of the Semtex, leaving Lansing and Frank Ortega with a nightmare scenario, their personal little war gone amok. There’s more. We have to assume James Ortega cracked under the torture and spilled his guts. I don’t fault him for it.” He looked down at the floor. “In Nicaragua, I told my interrogator more than I should’ve. I’m not proud of it, but I’m only human. After a certain point, you just can’t take it anymore.”

  “So he told them everything.”

  “That’s right. The brothers found out about Frank Ortega’s plan to bring them down. James caved under the torture and told them who he was and who his grandfather was. Think about it, Holly. How angry would Ernie Bridgestone be at finding out who the FBI had sent to bring him down? The grandson of the man who railroaded him eighteen years ago. How angry would he be? Would he be angry enough to bomb your field office? Suppose it hadn’t been James Ortega? What if it had been any other agent? Would the Bridgestones have let it go? Would they have just taken their money and run?”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Harv said. “We also killed their little brother, which may have been the last straw. Could’ve been the deciding factor.”

  “That’s absolutely possible,” Nathan agreed. “We may never know the truth. But here’s what we do know. After he got out of prison, Ernie Bridgestone had thirteen years to avenge what he claims was an unfair imprisonment for killing Frank Ortega’s daughter. But he didn’t. I think it’s fair to assume he’d let it go, put it behind him. My point is this: It was very bad judgment to use James Ortega at Freedom’s Echo against the Bridgestones. Undercover agents are always facing the threat of discovery and interrogation. Frank Ortega should’ve known that if his grandson were ever captured, he’d reveal his identity under duress. He had to know that would trigger Ernie Bridgestone’s old vendetta.”

  “You’d think so,” Holly said. “He just never thought they’d fail, that the brothers might get away. This whole thing…” She paused, shaking her head. “Selling those people Semtex? You may be right, Nathan. From a legal perspective, Director Lansing’s clean. Ethically, it’s a different matter. It was a severe conflict of interest to involve James Ortega. It may not be illegal, but it’s a career-ender. The real question, I guess, is what are we going to do about it.”

  “Nothing,” Nathan said.

  “Nothing?”

  “I don’t see anything constructive in blowing this wide open right now, or eve
r. As much as Harv and I resent being used as pawns, it doesn’t compare to the pain Frank Ortega has endured. He’s lost both a daughter and a grandson to the Bridgestones.”

  “You amaze me, Nathan. I would be far less forgiving in your shoes.”

  “This isn’t about me or Harv. It’s about justice. Justice for the dead SWAT agent, for James Ortega, your two techs from the van, and twenty-four other slain FBI employees. I’m not above using the information to keep Lansing off my back, though.”

  “Then we stick to the plan,” she said.

  “We stick to the plan,” Nathan said. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Nathan, I’m sorry about Director Lansing and Ortega.”

  “It’s not a reflection on you. You and me, we’re still good.”

  “I appreciate your trust, especially after all the BS you’ve been through.”

  “I don’t need to tell you this, but I will anyway. Be careful, Holly. Watch what you say.” He squeezed her hand and got up. “The walls have ears.”

  * * *

  Under a flawless afternoon sky, the press conference was staged on the steps of Sacramento’s Capitol Building. The podium held over two-dozen microphones, six of them from foreign countries. The bombing of the Sacramento field office had made international news. The reporters and cameramen were set up in ten rows of semicircular seating fifteen feet away from the podium. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Breckensen was being introduced by Governor

  Schwarzenegger. The ASAC looked sharp and focused, his tailored suit gleaming in the afternoon sun. He shook hands with the governor and took the podium.

  * * *

  Leonard and Ernie Bridgestone were still holed up in the same cabin they’d broken into after the raid on their compound. While charting their next moves, they’d been watching the near-constant news coverage of their handiwork, compliments of the cabin owner’s satellite dish. They agreed their best course of action was no action. They needed to let things cool down before heading up north to Canada, but when they did leave the U.S., it would be for good. Getting to the location of their hidden money cache in northern Montana had been the topic of many conversations. The longer they stayed put, the better chance they’d have of quietly slipping through the net. Leonard found it ironic he was the antsy one, while Ernie seemed quite content watching the television coverage.