Andrew Peterson: First to Kill

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 owner’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 maybe 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.

“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.”