“Did you know Frank Ortega had a daughter?” Nathan asked. “I’d always thought Greg was an only child.”
“What brings that up?”
“I saw a picture in Frank’s office.”
“It’s a sore subject. She was killed fifteen or twenty years ago. She’d just passed the bar exam when it happened, the very same day, as I recall. Some kind of traffic accident.”
“That’s a bad deal. Sorry to hear it.”
“It was really bad for awhile. Greg never talked about it. It was too painful. I think he was pretty close to his sister. He took her death really badly. We didn’t talk for over a year. I didn’t push and he didn’t need any pressure from me.”
“I can imagine.”
When the main rotor stopped, Nathan made a final shutdown check of all the systems and switches before climbing out to join Harv. It was a cool evening with a light wind. In an unbroken tradition, he gave the Bell an affectionate pat on the fuselage after locking her up. They walked in silence toward the terminal.
It took the taxi twenty minutes to arrive, and twenty minutes after that, they were checked into the Hyatt Regency in downtown Sacramento for the night.
The following morning Nathan met Harv in the lobby of the hotel just after sunrise. Over breakfast, they talked briefly about their expectations regarding the raid, in particular about what Frank Ortega had said about not being able to guarantee their presence at the raid would be known. Nathan wasn’t concerned, in fact, he preferred it that way. They were used to working alone.
After breakfast, they returned to Nathan’s room, where they took a closer look at the file Frank had provided. They reviewed every little detail, from topographic maps and aerial photos to the military personnel files on the Bridgestone brothers. Internal FBI memos, along with James Ortega’s transcribed reports, were also studied. It was a lot to absorb, but when they were finished, they had a pretty good picture of things. They retired to their rooms to catch some last-minute shut-eye before the afternoon raid.
Unfortunately, sleep didn’t come for Nathan. Staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t get his mind off James Ortega and what the poor kid could be going through at this very moment. In agony. Alone. Frightened. Hopeless. It really burned him picturing the Bridgestones doing anything they wanted. Was James tied to a chair, wired with electrodes? Screaming until his throat bled? Nathan closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts. There was nothing he could do for James right now. They had to find him first. Deep down, he hoped the kid was dead, not still being tortured. He made a promise to himself: If the Bridgestones had tortured James Ortega, they were both dead men.
Later that morning, Harv drove the rented Tahoe over to the airport, where they retrieved their gear from the helicopter. Within ten minutes, they left Sacramento behind. Once they’d cleared the city, it was an easy cruise north on Highway 70 through Marysville and Oroville until it turned northeast into the Sierra Nevada Mountains and became a designated scenic highway. The road gradually climbed into one of California’s greatest natural treasures. Oaks and grassland gave way to hundreds of thousands of acres of pine forest. An hour later, Harv found their turn onto the logging road they’d identified in the aerial photos. Using his handheld GPS device to find the exact spot they wanted, Harv followed the gravel track for eight miles before he pulled the Tahoe off the road and parked it deep within the trees where it wouldn’t be seen by a passing vehicle.
They quickly changed from civilian clothes into their woodland MARPAT combat utility uniforms, which would merge them into the native colors of the forest. They exchanged their shoes for combat boots. Nathan had cut one of the cleats away from his right boot while Harv’s left boot had the same missing cleat. Their footprints would be distinct and recognizable in the event they had to separate for any reason.
Harv secured his Kowa spotting scope along with twenty-five stripper clips, each clip holding five rounds of hand-loaded.308 ammo, into his backpack while Nathan inspected his cloth-wrapped Remington 700 sniper rifle from end to end. Each of them made one final check of all their gear, making sure nothing was left behind. Harv removed two Sig Sauer P-226 pistol belts from a duffel and handed one to Nathan. Next, they tied their ghillie suits onto their backpacks. The last thing they did was apply green, brown, and black body paint to their exposed areas of skin.
Nathan didn’t talk during this part of the operation-it wasn’t necessary-but still he noticed the occasional glances Harv was giving him. They were both thinking the same thing. It didn’t need to be vocalized. They’d come to terms with it over a decade ago. Harv patted his shoulder. It felt good. Reassuring. He couldn’t imagine his life without Harv. He nodded a silent approval to his partner.
Harv locked the Tahoe and put the keys atop the right front tire. They didn’t want an untimely jingling in a pocket. Although the sound was inaudible to humans, it wasn’t to dogs and dogs were always a concern. Shooting an attacking dog was a surefire way to give away your presence. Besides, Nathan really liked dogs, more than most people.
All set to go, they started up the mountain, keeping fifty feet of lateral separation between them. Although getting footholds was easier due to the damp earth from last night’s storm, it was still a difficult climb over decomposed granite, sand, and loose rock. After several hundred yards, they took a breather. Nathan motioned Harv over to his position.
“Time,” he asked.
Harv slid his sleeve up and looked at his watch where he’d smeared soap over the dial to prevent a glint of light from the sun. “Thirty-seven minutes.”
“Let’s do an RF check.” Nathan pulled the DAR-3 radio frequency detector from Harv’s pack and handed it to him. With a price tag over 4,000 dollars, it was a high-tech device and very reliable. About the size of a shoebox, it employed half-a-dozen dials, various jacks for input and output, and a small six-inch antenna. The DAR-3 could pick up signals from 50 kilohertz all the way up to 12 gigahertz.
Harv turned it on and after a minute or so said, “We’re good.”
Nathan secured the detector back into Harv’s pack, and they resumed their hike up the canyon’s wall. High overhead, a red tail hawk rode a thermal. The lonely whisper of wind through the pines was the only sound present. They diverted 200 feet to the east to avoid a granite face they couldn’t negotiate without climbing gear. Near the summit, Nathan slowed their pace. He turned toward Harv, pointed to his own eyes with two fingers, then pointed to the left. Harv went in that direction while he swept around to the right. He wanted to be certain there weren’t any sentries overlooking the compound. There were countless places to hide up here. The summit’s ridgeline was dense with pines, some reaching over 100 feet high.
After making sure the ridgeline was clear, they began scanning for a shooting position that would give them a clear view of the compound below. Although he was more than capable of hitting targets at longer distances, he didn’t want to be any farther than 600 yards. Six hundred yards was a good distance because the bullet arrived before the report of the rifle. From their current location, they needed to advance another 700 yards closer. Using field glasses, they took a few minutes to study the layout of the compound. Just as the aerial photos had shown, Freedom’s Echo was situated in a grass valley interspersed with mature pines. Twenty or so small cabins surrounded a larger central lodge along with several other metal outbuildings, presumably used for storage. The cabins were constructed in the classic log-cabin style with steep metal roofs. Several camouflage-painted pickups were parked next to the largest outbuilding.
Harv secured their field glasses into his pack before they started down.
Nathan kept his head up, always scanning the area. Wind, about ten miles an hour from the west. Temperature, about 60 degrees. Humidity was low, probably 20 to 30 thirty percent. The scent of pines hung in the air and triggered a memory of his early camping experiences. He issued warble-type whistle. Harv stopped and faced him. Nathan pointed to a small outcropping of rocks flanked by mature pines several hundred yards closer to the compound. Harv nodded his understanding. The approach to that location was going to be a little risky. The trees were sparse near the rock outcropping so they’d be out in the open for the traverse. They’d crawl the last fifteen yards on their bellies, camouflaged by their ghillie suits. Anyone looking in their direction wouldn’t see a human outline and by crawling slowly, an observer wouldn’t see any discernable movement, and movement is what usually caught the eye.