At Ernie’s truck, the dome light from the open door revealed an HK-91 assault rifle with a night-vision weapon scope. He wondered why Ernie hadn’t taken it with him. Panicked, he thought. He’s probably regretting leaving it behind. Too bad for old Ernie. He leaned in, grabbed the weapon, removed the magazine, and cycled the bolt. A live round flew from the breech and landed on the pavement. He picked it up, pushed it back into the magazine, and inserted the magazine into the receiver. After turning the weapon scope on, he cycled the bolt, shouldered the rifle, and looked through the scope. Beautiful, with a capital B. The Bridgestones were many things, but cheap with their weaponry wasn’t one of them. The night-vision scope was ultramodern, third-generation. He used it to survey the wash and saw Harv picking his way through the underbrush like a wraith. Every so often, Harv would bring the thermal imager up and scan the area in front of him before moving forward. In the image of the night-vision scope, the glow from the thermal imager lit Harv’s face like a spotlight. Attaboy, Harv. Just like old times.
Through the scope, Nathan could see the dry wash gradually turned in a westerly direction. Several hundred yards up the road, the wash went under a bridge and continued wrapping around to the north. Wide-open fields lay on both sides. If Ernie left the cover of the underbrush, he’d be in plain sight and vulnerable. Nathan pulled on Ferris’s coat and started across the field, heading for a copse of mature oaks. With a little hustle, he’d get there before Ernie.
The FBI vehicles in pursuit had missed the turn where Ernie made his four-wheel slide and were heading east. He heard the distant whine of approaching sirens on Highway 99 and the telltale blat of fire engine’s air horn. Nearly a mile away, the orange glow from the inferno at Pete’s Truck Palace backlit the oaks he was limping toward. They looked like giant mushrooms against a sunset sky. Every so often he’d bring the weapon up and sweep the wash, but he saw no movement. The pain in his calf was distracting, but when he thought about Ernie’s bomb at the gas pumps and the screams of the little girls trapped in the burning SUV, he hardened his resolve and kept pushing forward.
Halfway across the open field, Nathan heard two shots off to his left. He recognized them as the distinctive reports of a large-caliber handgun. Ernie’s nineteen-eleven. They came in rapid succession. A few seconds later, two more shots rang out. Ernie was shooting at either Harv or Grangeland, or both. No fire was returned. Bridgestone was probably shooting blindly, gambling for a lucky shot. At least that’s what Nathan hoped. He quickened his pace, doing his best not to lose his footing on the parallel mounds of plowed earth. He estimated he’d be at the copse of oaks within two minutes. Once there, he’d lay low and wait for Harv and Grangeland to drive Ernie to his position. He needed to be careful: Getting nailed by friendly fire would definitely ruin his evening. The saving grace? Harv and Grangeland had night vision, Bridgestone didn’t.
By the time Nathan made it to the stand of oaks, his lower calf was really throbbing. He was pretty sure the bleeding hadn’t slowed because his shoe was overflowing with blood. He worked his way over a barbed-wire fence and crouched down beside the top of the wash. At this location, the wash was about fifty feet wide and five feet lower in elevation than the surrounding plowed fields. Islands of thick brush were scattered through the dry riverbed. Fallen leaves from the oaks covered the ground. He shouldered the weapon and swept the sandy expanse in the direction Ernie should be coming from. Nothing. No movement at all.
As though a camera flash had gone off, the area flared bright green in the NV scope. A second later, the thump of Ernie’s handgun report reached him. Nathan knew sound traveled at close to one thousand feet per second, which meant Ernie was roughly three hundred yards away. He tried to spot Harv or Grangeland, but couldn’t see them.
Directly in front of him, a long strip of brush would make a perfect ambush location. It dawned on him like a slap in the face. He hadn’t removed the keys from his SUV or Grangeland’s Crown Vic. If Ernie circled back… He silently cursed himself for being so careless and scanned the plowed field between his position and the parked vehicles. No sign of Ernie. If Nathan positioned himself down in the wash, he wouldn’t be able to see the vehicles. He gambled that Harv had Bridgestone in sight. If Ernie made a beeline for their SUV, Harv would intercept him. He slid down the sandy bank, limped in a crouch over to the strip of brush, and shouldered Ernie’s rifle.
“Got you,” he whispered. Bridgestone was running along the eastern bank of the wash, ducking for cover every so often and pointing his gun back at his pursuers. Nathan spotted Harv and Grangeland about fifty yards behind, advancing in leapfrog movements. It looked like they were trying to flank him. He had to let Harv know he was here. He stepped out from the cover of the brush and waved Ernie’s gun back and forth like a flag. He kept repeating the gesture for ten seconds. When he shouldered the weapon and peered through the scope, he saw Harv waving in recognition. Nathan returned the wave and pointed to the place where he planned to ambush Bridgestone. Harv gave him an “okay” hand signal. He watched Harv turn his head toward Grangeland’s position and she closed the distance. They huddled in a crouch for a few seconds before Grangeland sprinted to the western side of the wash and began working her way forward through the underbrush. Two more flashes lit the landscape. Grangeland dived for cover, but Hary didn’t move. The man’s got nerves of steel, Nathan thought. Although Ernie was firing blindly, he could still score a lucky hit.
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.”
“W
e 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?”
Chapter 23
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.
* * *
“How does it feel, you piece of shit?” Nathan hissed. “Did you enjoy cutting James Ortega’s fingers off as much as I’m enjoying this? Well, did you?”
In truth, he wasn’t angry and in truth, he didn’t enjoy it, but he wanted Ernie to think he did. He actually found it repulsive, but he needed Ernie to believe otherwise. He hadn’t asked Ernie any questions, nor did he intend to. It was all part of the mind game he was playing.
Nathan pushed the knife.
Bridgestone shrieked in agony. Blood flew from his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue. The tortured man whipped his head back and forth, tearing his cheeks on the log.
Nathan removed the knife after going halfway through the second knuckle and started on the final knuckle. Within two minutes, Bridgestone had been reduced to a sobbing wretch. He was crying like a child and begging for Nathan to stop. He promised to tell Nathan anything he wanted if he’d stop cutting his fingers.
Nathan looked up at Harv. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s full of shit. We’ve got twenty-five knuckles to go. Let’s see how he feels in say…. twenty minutes or so.”
Nathan reached down and grabbed Ernie’s hand again.
“Stop!” Ernie screamed. “I’ll tell you whatever you want, man.”
“What makes you think we want information?” Nathan asked. “This isn’t about information, it’s about payback for James Ortega.”
“The Ortegas fucked me in Pensacola,” Bridgestone wailed. “It wasn’t my fault. I did my time. I was willing to let it go but they fucked me again. Ortega set us up. His grandson sold us the Semtex.”
“Is that why you burned him alive?”
“It was an accident, we didn’t mean to, I swear.”
“Save it for some
one who gives a rat’s ass.”
“I’ll tell you where Leonard is, just don’t cut my fingers anymore. He took off for Montana around six o’clock tonight. I’m supposed to meet him up there tomorrow night.”
“We already know where he is, he’s being arrested right now. Do you think we’re stupid?” Nathan looked up at Grangeland, “He thinks we’re stupid.” Nathan grabbed his hand and forced it against the driftwood.
“Wait! There’s money. Over three million in cash.”
“I’m worth twenty times that. I don’t need your blood money.”
“It’s cash, man! Buried in ammo cans near the Canadian border.”
Nathan looked at Harv again. “What do you think, do you believe him?”
“Hell no.”
“I don’t either.” Nathan jammed the knife into the first knuckle of finger number two. Ernie screamed again, rawer this time. His voice was failing.
Grangeland turned away and threw up. Falling to her knees, she heaved in violent spasms.
Nathan grabbed Ernie’s hair and yanked his head back. “Where’s the rest of the Semtex?”
“My truck. Leonard has the rest.”
“How much is the rest?”
“Ten bricks. That’s it, man. I swear.”
“Does he have blasting caps?”
“Yes.”
Nathan looked up. “Grangeland, let your SWAT team know Leonard’s got ten bricks of Semtex before they take him down.”
She didn’t respond.