“Did you want to?”
“At first.” He answered her unspoken question. “I saw something in him.”
Mara stared for several seconds, hugging herself in the cool air. “If you ever want to talk, I mean, you know, just talk.…”
He turned to leave.
“Nathan?”
“I’ll call you soon. Thanks, Mara.”
He retrieved his shirt from the rear deck and pulled it on. On his way back to his Mustang, he diverted over to Toby’s truck, pulled a business card from his wallet, and set it against the Plexiglas cover of the speedometer where it wouldn’t be overlooked. It was a dual message he was sure Toby would understand. He slid into his car and waited. Sitting there, he ran the whole encounter back through his mind. Mara was right. He could’ve hurt Toby, hurt him badly. He knew the consuming rage Toby felt. Knew it well. But over the years since his captivity, he’d learned to control it, to use it like a tool and make it work for him, not against him. Maybe Toby could too.
His cell rang. “Harv. Sorry about that.”
“No worries. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll call you right back.”
“You got it.”
Toby walked out the front door a few minutes later, his right arm hanging uselessly. Using compact field glasses he kept in the glove box, Nathan watched Toby grab the business card from the dashboard. The big man stared at it for several seconds before backing out of the driveway. Keeping his headlights off, Nathan followed Toby’s truck until it was clear of the neighborhood.
He called Harvey back.
His partner answered after the first ring. “All right, tell me what happened.”
“One of Karen’s girls got slapped around by that big guy I told you about last week.”
“And.…”
“I put a reprimand in his personnel file.”
A pause. “Did you kill him?”
“Now would I do something like that?”
“Yes.”
“I’m deeply hurt by that comment.”
Silence on the other end.
“I didn’t kill him,” Nathan said. “The circumstances didn’t warrant it.”
“I would’ve helped.”
“There wasn’t time. I broke a few traffic laws getting there and a few bones after I arrived.”
“How many?”
“Bones or laws?”
“Is there a difference?”
“Radius, ulna, and a nose. Nothing serious.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you. Now, is everything okay with you?”
“I’m fine. But Frank Ortega’s not. He’s worried about his grandson.”
“Frank Ortega? The former FBI director?”
“The same.”
“Who’s his grandson?”
“Third-generation FBI. He’s currently undercover inside some kind of arms smuggling racket.”
“What kind of arms?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Where?”
“Up north. Lassen County. Nate, he’s missing. Ortega wants our help. I didn’t promise anything, but I said we’d meet with him.”
“What, tonight?” Nathan heard his partner sigh.
“Yeah, tonight. Hold tight. I’m already on my way.”
Chapter 2
Nathan’s Clairemont home was similar to every other on the block, meticulously landscaped with a pastel stucco exterior and tile roof. What set Nathan’s apart was its state-of-the-art security system. Some would call it overkill, but Nathan called it an indulgence. He and Harvey Fontana owned a company that installed such systems. Why shouldn’t he own the best?
A metallic-blue Mercedes pulled into Nathan’s driveway and its driver climbed out. Harvey, the same age as Nathan, stood six inches shorter. His light hazel eyes were an extreme contrast to his tanned, Latino complexion. Gray hair was definitely winning the battle. Nathan thought Harv had the classic look of a politician, but wouldn’t hold that against him.
“You know I’m here,” Harv muttered. He sounded like James Earl Jones with a Spanish accent. “The least you could do is meet me outside.”
“I am outside,” Nathan said.
Harv whipped around. “Damn it, Nate. I hate it when you do that.”
“Why do you drive that big thing?”
“I’m a big man, I need a big ride. What’s it to you?”
“You’re an average-sized man.… Everywhere.”
“It’s good to see you too, Nate.”
“How’s the family?”
“If you’d visit once in awhile, you wouldn’t have to ask.”
“You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Nathan’s tone changed. “From one to ten, what’s the urgency of tonight’s meeting with Ortega?”
“Ten.”
* * *
They drove south on I-5, enjoying a comfortable silence. After a few miles, Harv merged east onto I-8.
“You get a chance to look at the financials I sent last week?”
Nathan grunted.
“Our net worth went up another eight-hundred grand this quarter.”
“Just paper.”
“I know money bores you, but honestly. You own a helicopter, for cryin’ out loud, and your home in La Jolla is to kill for.” Harvey shook his head. “If you ever get truly bored with your share of our company, you can always sell it to me.”
“Don’t worry, it’s yours for free when I kick the bucket.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way. My world is much more interesting with you in it.”
“So,” Nathan’s tone signaled a change of subject, “you and Ortega go pretty far back.”
“I know his son, Greg, better. He was doing Middle East satellite intel for the CIA at the same time we were in Nicaragua. He transferred to counterterrorism work in the FBI eight years ago.”
Nathan said nothing. He already knew all of this. Harv was setting a stage.
“He’s a good guy, okay?” said Harvey.
Nathan didn’t respond. He fully planned on helping Frank Ortega, but had some nonnegotiable conditions.
“I couldn’t have rescued you without Greg’s help,” Harvey continued. “I know you know that. But Greg knows it too. We spent long nights studying satellite imagery together. He volunteered his time freely, without strings. I owe him, Nate. Big-time. We owe him.”
They rode in silence for the rest of the trip. Everything Harv said was true, and Nathan didn’t resent it being said. Harv had saved his life. He wouldn’t have lasted another day in that damned cage. In fact, he had no memory of being carried three miles through the jungle. Mercifully, he’d been in and out of consciousness, mostly out.
During their botched mission, Nathan had sacrificed himself to ensure Harv’s escape. They’d been surrounded by guerilla soldiers hell-bent on capturing them alive. They separated to give themselves the best chance of making it out, but Nathan had doubled back to cover Harv’s exit. He’d purposely given his position away by firing shots to draw the mercenaries away from Harv.
Bottom line? He and Harv were closer than family and either of them would give their lives for the other-no questions asked. If helping the Ortegas was that important to Harv, Nathan would be there for him.
They pulled into Frank Ortega’s driveway at 11:50 pm. It was a steep climb, snaking up to a Mediterranean Spanish-style home with a terra-cotta roof. Lit with spots, mature palms lined both sides of the driveway, creating an impressive colonnade. A dark Ford Taurus was parked in front of a detached, three-car garage. Nathan figured it for an FBI vehicle, probably Greg Ortega’s ride. The white stucco house was big, but not overly so, and the classic symmetry of design was pleasing to the eye. A wheelchair ramp had been constructed to one side of the entrance, bypassing the steps up to the front door. As their Mercedes rolled to a stop, a Rottweiler bounded out from the side yard and challenged their intrusion.
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.