Andrew Peterson - First to Kill

In a two-story farmhouse, five hundred yards to the west, the porch lights snapped on. The locals were responding to the gunfire. It was only a mater of time before sheriff deputies or the FBI SWAT team from Pete’s Truck Palace arrived. The situation could get sticky. Friendly fire would become a serious problem. As if sensing Nathan’s thoughts, Harv let loose with three quick shots. Through the NV scope, he watched Bridgestone duck for cover, then begin a full sprint toward Nathan’s position. Harv fired again.

Attaboy, Harv, drive him home.

If Ernie kept his current pace, he’d close on Nathan in about thirty seconds.

That’s it. Keep coming.

Nathan squinted and steadied himself.

It wasn’t cinematic. It didn’t have to be.

Just as Bridgestone reached Nathan’s position at the island of underbrush, he extended his good leg. Simple. Elegant. Effective.

Arms flailing, Bridgestone fell flat on his face. Nathan pounced on the man’s back, grabbed his wrist, and wrenched it up all the way to his neck. The handgun fell from Ernie’s grasp and thumped into the sand. Nathan both felt and heard Ernie’s shoulder dislocate. Ernie cried out and tried to roll over, but Nathan kept his entire weight centered.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the cell-block sweetie himself.”

Harv and Grangeland arrived ten seconds later and joined the restraint. Harv forced Bridgestone’s other wrist behind his back and Grangeland handcuffed him.

“You stupid motherfuckers,” Ernie hissed. “You’re dead, you’re all fucking dead.”

“Oh, we’ll be fine,” Nathan said. “But you, Ernie old boy? You’re going to wish you were dead. Trust me on that.”

“Fuck you.”

“Sorry, you’re not my type, but I’ll get Doc Fitzgerald to call up some of your old inmate buddies, if you like.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You will be,” Nathan said. “ You will be. ” He held his hand up and started counting. “I count fourteen knuckles, Harv. Sound about right?”

“Fourteen on each hand,” Harv corrected.

“Brutal. Think he can take it?”

“Don’t know, only one way to find out.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Grangeland asked. Like Harv, she was breathing hard from the sprint up the sandy wash.

“I’m going to start cutting this jerk’s fingers off. One knuckle at a time.”

“The hell you are, McBride. The FBI doesn’t torture its prisoners.”

“We aren’t FBI.”

“I want my fucking phone call,” Ernie said.

“That’s what your cousins said before you killed them.” Harv shoved Bridgestone’s face into the sand.

“You are not torturing this man,” Grangeland said.

“Special Agent Grangeland, take a walk with me. You got him, Harv?”

“Oh, I got him all right.” Harv kept his knee on Bridgestone’s back and leaned on the dislocated shoulder. Ernie grunted and spit sand.

Nathan led Grangeland fifty yards up the sandy wash and stopped. “I need the truth. Is my cell phone being tapped?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

He pulled it from his pocket, turned it on, and entered Washington, DC number from memory. Holly had given him Director Lansing’s cell number.

It rang four times. The voice answering was sleepy and a little annoyed. “This had better be good.”

“It’s good,” Nathan said.

“Who is this?”

“Nathan McBride.”

“Do you mind telling me why you’re calling at… four in the morning?”

“I’ve got Ernie Bridgestone in custody.”

“Right now? You have him in custody right now?”

“That’s right.”

“Damned good news, Mr. McBride.”

“I need to interrogate him.”

“I see.”

“I’m not sure you do. I mean interrogate him.”

“If I understand what you’re implying, we don’t do things that way.”

“I think you’ll make an exception.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because I know about the Ortega-Bridgestone connection.”

Lansing said nothing.

“And the Semtex.”

More silence.

“You still there?” asked Nathan.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Are we on the same page now?”

“Yes.”

Nathan kept his tone even. “May I ask why the FBI was at Pete’s Truck Palace?”

“Amber Sheldon wanted the reward money. There’s a million-dollar reward on the brothers. Half a million each. She called and told us about tonight’s money drop.”

Nathan shook his head at the two-dimensional double-cross Sheldon had pulled off. “Well, I guess that money belongs to Harv and me now.”

“What about Sheldon?”

“Bridgestone turned her into red mist.”

“Then yes, the money’s yours. You collared him. It’s yours.”

“One of your field agents is with us. She needs clarification on our arrangement.” Nathan handed the phone to Grangeland. She took it, walked a few paces away, and kept her back to Nathan, but he could still hear her end of the conversation.

“This is Special Agent Grangeland from the Fresno residence office,” she said. After a few seconds, Grangeland tensed as if she wanted to object, but said, “Yes, sir. Understood.” She handed the phone back to him.

“You’ve got one hour, Mr. McBride.”

“I don’t need that long. One more thing, Director Lansing.”

“What?”

“Keep this under wraps. Tell absolutely no one we have Ernie until we’ve got his brother. Leonard can’t know Ernie’s been apprehended. If it leaks, he’ll bolt and we’ll never catch him. Play along and you’ll get your front-page headline and no one will be the wiser. You have my word on it.”

“All right, agreed. I want you to call me back when you’ve got something to report.”

“Will you put Special Agent Grangeland under my command for the remainder of this operation?”

“Yes.”

“She’ll need to hear it from you.” Nathan handed her the cell again.

She listened for several seconds before saying, “Yes, sir.”

Nathan took the phone back. “Thank you, Director Lansing. We’ll collar Leonard if you play along.”

“No mutilations, McBride.”

“We’ll see.” Nathan ended the call. “You’re welcome to stay, if you think you’ve got the stomach for it.”

“I’ll stay.”

“Suit yourself, Grangeland, but don’t interfere. Are we crystal clear on that? No matter what you see.”

She nodded tightly.

They hustled back to Harv’s position.

“Are you ready, Mr. Bridgestone?”

There were moments in life when you found yourself totally unprepared. This was such a moment for Special Agent Grangeland. Nothing in her FBI training or competitive athletic background could’ve prepared her for the horror unfolding before her. She found it difficult to watch, but more difficult not to watch. Ernie Bridgestone lay facedown in the sand. Harvey had dragged a large piece of wood over from the dry riverbank and placed it beneath the man’s cuffed hands. He then dragged a second piece over and placed it under Bridgestone’s chin so he wouldn’t inhale sand and choke. She watched in horror as Harvey removed a menacing knife from his ankle sheath and handed it to Nathan. Harvey then placed a knee on Bridgestone’s upper back and applied his full weight. Facing Harvey, Nathan sat on Bridgestone’s legs and grabbed one of his hands. Ernie tried to resist, thrashing about and swearing like a madman, but he was pinned and couldn’t get any leverage.

She watched in abject disbelief as Nathan forced the tip of the knife into Bridgestone’s ring-finger knuckle and shoved, rocking it back and forth as if cutting through a tough piece of steak. She’d never heard a grown man scream bloody murder. She clenched her jaw so tightly her head began to throb. Although Nathan wasn’t actually severing Bridgestone’s fingers, he was coming damned close. Bile rose in her throat as she tried to separate her mind from her body, but the two kept clashing back together. How could she allow this to continue? Surely Director Lansing hadn’t approved what she was watching. What kind of men were these guys? How could they brutally torture another human being with such casual indifference? Was it worth her job, a lifetime’s worth of achievement, to put a stop to this? How could she live with herself knowing she could’ve ended this and didn’t? She looked down in shock and disgust as they started again on the next knuckle up.