Andrew Peterson - First to Kill

“The bureau doesn’t condone this sort of operation,” Henning said.

“Actually, it just did.” Nathan yawned. “And we aren’t with the bureau.” He stared out the window, bored with the conversation. “You’re following orders. Can’t we just leave it at that?”

“So that makes it okay? Just following orders? Sounds like Nuremberg to me.”

Nathan ignored the comment.

“Who are you, McBride, some kind of has-been CIA interrogator? Some burned-out spook for hire?”

“You’re in the FBI, check me out for yourself.”

“Your service record is classified top-secret by the Department of Defense.”

“And?”

“And I don’t like not knowing who you are.”

He leaned forward and whispered, “We’re legitimate businessmen with a successful security services firm. We can provide you with customer references if you feel you really need them.”

“That’s cute, McBride.”

He nudged Harv’s leg.

“What exactly do you want to know about us?” Harv asked. “And what would that information mean to you? Suppose we gave you our colorful background, then what? How are you better off by knowing it?”

“For one, I’d like to know who I’m getting in bed with. I need to know I can trust you if the shit hits the fan out here.”

“Did it occur to you we might be wondering the same thing about you?” Harvey asked. “We’re on the same side here.”

“The hell we are.”

Nathan sighed. The man lived in a fishbowl. If you weren’t FBI, you weren’t jack. In Nathan’s limited experience with the bureau, he hadn’t found that a common attitude. Every FBI agent he’d ever met-granted, there hadn’t been that many-had been reserved and professional. He supposed every law enforcement agency had its share of gung-ho types. But deep down, he respected the FBI and what it stood for or he wouldn’t be here, debt or no debt to the Ortega family.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Nathan asked.

“And that would be?” Henning asked.

“Four hundred pounds of missing Semtex. Don’t you want to recover it?”

Holly Simpson emerged from the back of the van and walked over to Nathan’s window.

He rolled it down.

“You’re on,” she said. “We haven’t heard anything but snoring for the last two hours. We have bugs in every room. They’re both crashed out in the living room just inside the front door.”

As Nathan and Harv climbed out, Henning opened the trunk and stepped back. Harv grabbed their duffel bag, set it on the asphalt, and unzipped it. He removed two pistol belts and handed one to Nathan. Harv strapped on a small black waist pack containing their LED flashlights and two rolls of duct tape.

“Dogs?” Nathan asked.

“None,” Holly answered. “I doubt they could handle the responsibility.”

“I only have one condition,” Nathan said. He retrieved two sets of night-vision visors from the duffel bag.

“It’s a little late for conditions,” she said.

“None of it gets recorded. I don’t care if you listen in, but the black boxes aren’t running. Deal?” He strapped his Predator knife to his ankle.

Harv did the same.

Nathan placed his NV visor on his head. “I mean it. We’ll have… unresolved issues otherwise.”

“Are you threatening us?” Henning asked.

He ignored Henning and stared at Holly, his eyes unwavering. “Do we have a deal?”

Henning took a step forward. “Nobody threatens us.”

Without taking his eyes from Holly, Nathan pointed at Henning’s face.

“Get your finger out of my face.”

“Holly? Do we have a deal?”

She looked at Henning, then back to Nathan. “Yes.”

He turned toward Harv. “Let’s go.”

After they left, Holly faced Henning. “You’re out of line, mister. I’m in charge of this operation. Are we crystal clear on that?”

“I just-”

“You just nothing. Don’t ever test me again.”

As Nathan and Harv walked toward the farmhouse, they lowered their night-vision scopes and turned them on. Their EX PVS14-D devices were state-of-the-art, third-generation design, the same model used by the U.S. military. Their compact size allowed them to be mounted on a visor-type headgear that gave the user the option to pivot the monocular down to his eye, or up out of the way. Once activated, the device literally transformed night into day in the form of a tiny television screen. Internal lenses brought the miniature green image into focus. Both of them preferred to use their right eye for night vision while leaving their left eye uncovered. The world around them materialized. Although it was nearly pitch-black, they could plainly see the road’s dividing stripes against the dark asphalt. On both sides of the shoulder, five strands of barbed wire paralleled their path, defining the sixty-foot-wide easement. Cattle were lying down in the field off to their left, watching them. High in the stratosphere, wispy-thin clouds reflected the glow of the city, which was all the light the devices needed.

“We go in fast,” Nathan said. “Shock attack. I’ll cover the left side of the room, you take the right.”

“How rough do we get?”

“We’ll have to see. My best guess is light to moderate. Like Henning said, they’re just a couple of hayseeds who’ve drifted through life doing the minimum to survive. I’m not expecting anything different tonight. If they hold out, there’ll be a damned good reason. We’ll just have to wring it out of them.”

Twenty yards ahead, Nathan saw the entrance to the property on the right side of the road, a makeshift gate with empty beer cans littering the landscape-probably tossed every time the Bridgestone cousins left. Two tire-worn impressions across the weedy ground pointed directly at the farmhouse. Nathan nodded to Harv, and they drew their pistols. Invisible against the black backdrop behind them, both men transitioned into stealth mode and entered the property. From Holly Simpson’s description he knew the house was located in the middle of the four-acre parcel with unused ranchland surrounding it. A detached one-car garage was situated thirty yards to the north, its door facing the house. When they got closer, two old pickup trucks took shape. Both had numerous rust spots, dents and dings, broken taillights, and bald tires. Neither had current registration tags. Several hundred yards distant at the far corner of the property, some sort of big pipe extended a few feet above the ground. An old windmill sat atop its cylindrical form and Nathan could see the outlines of a well pump and pressure tank. Its paint peeling, the house was on the small side, maybe seven hundred square feet. The grimy front door was flanked by two windows with bed sheets for curtains. Several wooden steps led up to a covered porch.

Nathan stopped and held his left hand up in a closed fist.

A string was stretched across the planks of the top step, its left side tied to the handrail’s post. The other end wrapped around the opposite post and turned the corner toward the front door. The string terminated at a platoon of empty beer bottles, their Miller labels clearly readable through his NV scope. If the trip wire had been triggered, it would’ve pulled the rear bottle through the others, knocking them all down, making a boatload of noise. It was a dirt-cheap and yet fairly reliable security mechanism, but it only worked against an unknowing intruder.

Nathan turned toward Harv, simulated pulling a string between his fingers, and pointed to the top step. Harv acknowledged with a nod. Nathan pulled his knife from its ankle sheath, carefully cut the string, and tossed the loose line over the side of the steps. He tested the first step with a few pounds of pressure under his boot. No creaking. He slowly transferred his weight until he was completely standing on the first step. Nothing. No sound at all. So far, so good. While Harv watched the windows, he repeated the same procedure for the next two steps. No creaking. Once atop the landing, he flattened himself against the wall between the left window and front door. The stack of bottles was on the opposite side of the door. He nodded to Harv, who navigated the steps with equal stealth.