“Despite how you feel about him, Ortega was right. He is a good man.”
“He’s a politician. It’s all about money. The size of his damned war chest. Kissing babies is total BS. It’s all about campaign contributions. Television and radio time. Mass mailings. What’s the biggest issue facing a career politician? The economy? Crime? Unemployment? Illegal immigration? It’s none of those things. It’s getting reelected to another term. Can you believe he has the balls to send me campaign contribution letters?”
“Come on, that’s not fair either. Your dad cares about all those issues.”
“I suppose you’re right. Sorry, I’m just venting.”
“Your father, he really does that?”
“Does what?”
“The fund-raising thing? He sends you letters?”
“Yeah, he does.”
“I’d call it reaching out.”
“I call it reaching for my wallet.”
“Do you send him money?”
He knew he couldn’t lie to Harv and get away with it. “Yeah, I do. The maximum amount allowed for an individual. Every year.”
“No wonder he keeps sending them.”
Nathan grunted.
“It’s no different than any other profession,” Harv continued. “People want to keep their jobs. It’s hard work being a politician, especially on the federal level. They make a lot of personal sacrifices.”
Nathan knew all too well about the great Stonewall McBride’s personal sacrifices because he was one of them. He had an absentee dad during his childhood. Deep down, he’d come to terms with it, but there was still a sliver of resentment left over, like the smell of an extinguished candle. He didn’t hate his father, he just didn’t feel any kind of familial bond with him. How could he? He hardly knew the man. Diane Ortega’s comment was still fresh in his mind.
“You should cut him some slack,” Harv said, “maybe try to patch things up.”
“You know, you’re the only person in the world I’d let say that to me, besides my mother.”
“Why do you think I said it? You need to hear it. He’s getting up there.”
Nathan said nothing.
“For your mother’s sake.”
They flew in silence for several minutes.
“Harv?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.” He turned on the Bell’s landing light a little early as a courtesy to the tower. They were now a bright spot in the sky, easy to see. “You did a great job on the radio through LA’s bravo airspace. You want to make the landing?”
“I do, but stay close to the controls, okay?”
“Will do.” Nathan spotted the airport’s beacon and made a tiny course change to put them on a straight-in final. Even as experienced and seasoned as he was, spotting the green-and-white flashing beacon of their destination airport at night was always a welcome sight. “Okay, she’s yours. You’ve got the controls.”
“I’ve got the controls,” Harv echoed.
“I’m on the radio,” Nathan said.
In the distance, Sacramento looked like a million multicolored jewels laid out on black velvet. Visibility was good at fifty miles plus, a positive aftermath of rain. At two miles, Nathan keyed the transmit trigger. “Helicopter Five-November-Charlie’s on a two-mile final.”
The tower gave them clearance to land on Taxiway Hotel.
Harv made a near-flawless approach, handling the two-and-a-half-ton Bell 407 with precision and confidence. His only hitch was slowing the helicopter down a little early. It wasn’t dangerous, but on a busy day with multiple aircraft in the pattern, the tower would probably ask for an expedited landing, meaning
“Nice job,” Nathan said, taking off his helmet.
“Thanks.”
While Nathan went through the shutdown procedure, Harv got out and checked the baggage compartment. He knew his friend was making sure everything was secure. Their duffel bags contained everything they’d need for tomorrow’s operation. Nathan’s Remington 700 was in a separate aluminum case. The duffels held their ammunition, binoculars, spotter’s scope, transmitter detector, woodland MARPAT uniforms, backpacks, bottled water, and perhaps the two most important items, their ghillie suits. A sniper’s ghillie suit was an amazing piece of gear. Once donned, it broke up the sharp-edged outline of a human body by employing thousands of shaggy, tattered pieces of fabric that hung in random disarray from every square inch of its surface. The wearer ended up looking like the Swamp Thing from the classic comic book series. Harv returned with their overnight bags.
“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
