First to Kill (33 page)

“Nate, put the NV visor on my head, we should go dark.”

Nathan reached into the duffel bag on the seat between them, grabbed the night-vision visor, and saw blood covering the lower half of his arm. He turned the device on, removed the lens cap, and placed it on Harv’s head before pivoting the scope down to his partner’s eye.

Harvey made a slight adjustment and said, “Good to go.”

Nathan keyed the radio. “Grangeland, we’re switching to night vision. Hang back a little. We’re going dark.”

“Copy.”

Harv killed the headlights and the road disappeared into blackness. Behind them, Grangeland also went dark.

“Turn here, to the right,” Nathan said. Confirming what he already knew, fresh skid marks marred the pavement where Bridgestone had made a four-wheel slide around the corner. They were now paralleling a sandy dry wash on the eastern side of the road, thick with oak trees and underbrush.

“How you doing, Nate?”

“I’m okay. Stay with him.”

Nathan glanced over his shoulder and saw Grangeland make the turn. Through the thin fog, he saw several other vehicles leaving the driveway from Pete’s Truck Palace to join the pursuit. Bring it on. The more the merrier. The cold wind rushing in the windows against his bare skin became an issue. Compounded by the blood acting like water, Nathan was losing body heat quickly. He fought back a shiver and leaned forward as much as he could to avoid the worst of the wind.

“You okay?” Harvey asked.

“Never better. Keep closing, Harv. We’ll intercept him in thirty seconds.”

“I’m on it.”

Chapter  22

Ernie Bridgestone whooped in triumph when he lost sight of the headlights pursuing him. He’d lost them.

“Fuckin’ pussies,” he said aloud. “Now who’s doing the squealing?”

He was sure he’d scored at least one hit, maybe two on McBride, the big man with scars on his face. With a little luck they’d be fatal shots.
Bleed out slowly, you piece of shit
.

Leonard had been wrong about him getting caught after all. Sometimes he wondered if his older brother truly had the balls for this type of thing, trained Ranger or not. He’d been conveniently missing when the time came to head down here and take care of business. Ernie shook his head. He’d actually enjoyed blowing Amber to smithereens. The lousy bitch. She’d betrayed him for the last time. He’d easily spotted the two FBI agents tailing her. Besides, she had it coming for lying to him all these years. Hell, Janey was an adult, she could take of herself. He wasn’t worried about her at all. In fact, she was better off without that sleazy—

He looked in side-view mirror. “What the fu—?”

* * *

Nathan pulled his Sig and hung out the window. When Harv closed to within twenty-five yards, Nathan took aim with both hands and emptied a magazine at the fleeing pickup truck. Each shot he fired illuminated the hood of the SUV in stroboscopic flashes. He aimed low and right, hoping for a skipping shot off the asphalt into the rear tire. He didn’t want to shoot the cab because they needed Ernie alive. He couldn’t risk a lucky head shot. He had an appointment with Ernie’s fingers—an appointment he intended to keep.

Nathan passed the empty gun to Harv and received a fully loaded weapon in return. The chill on his exposed skin felt like a million ice picks. He ignored the hideous sensation and took careful aim. Ernie had begun to swerve back and forth, which actually improved Nathan’s odds of blowing out a tire. Harv kept the Expedition on the centerline of the road. Nathan let loose with another full magazine. Got it. Rubber began to peel away from the punctured tire. A baseball-sized piece whizzed past his head and he pulled himself back into the interior. Shredded chunks of rubber thumped off the Expedition’s shattered windshield.

“Good shooting,” Harv said.

Ernie’s truck swerved right, then back to the left before he regained control. It skidded to a stop on the left shoulder. Ernie jumped out and took off into the dry wash. Harv braked hard and pulled in behind the truck.

“He’s wearing a sidearm, Harv. Looked like a nineteen-eleven.”

“I saw it.”

Nathan was in no shape for a foot chase. Although not life-threatening, his right-calf wound was bleeding at a damned ugly clip. “Get him, Harv, we could lose him in there. Take the thermal imager. I’ll be right behind you.”

Harv didn’t have time to strap on his holster, so he jammed four magazines into his front pockets. “His ass is mine.”

Nathan watched him disappear into the blackness.
Be careful, old friend.

Grangeland pulled in behind the SUV and killed the engine. She rushed to the passenger door and saw Nathan donning a night-vision visor.

“No way,” she said. “Give that to me. You’re in no shape to go out there. Your color’s nearly gone and you’re shaking like a leaf.”

She was right. He wasn’t in good shape—in fact, he was in terrible shape. The blood loss combined with the shock and adrenaline wearing off had hammered him. He handed her the visor. “Harv’s got a ten-second head start. He’s got a thermal imager and night vision with him. We need Bridgestone alive, understood?”

“Yes,” she said. Three seconds later she vanished into the moonless void.

Nathan gathered as much strength as he could and shouted, “Grangeland’s coming, Harv, not me.” He didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one.

He limped to the Crown Vic and found Ferris’s coat in the backseat. The flesh wound on his arm just above the elbow was burning and throbbing. He was pretty sure the bullet had passed clean through without hitting any bones or major blood vessels, but he wasn’t positive. His lower calf wound was a different story. He was tempted to take a look with a flashlight, but decided against it. It was better if he didn’t know. He returned to the SUV and looked for something to slow the bleeding on his leg. Settling for Harv’s Windbreaker on the front seat, he wound it up like a towel about to be used for a prank whipping in a locker room. He decided to leave his ankle sheath in place—it might offer some stability. He wrapped his lower leg and tied a knot. Tight. He also needed something for his arm. Nathan scanned the backseat of the SUV and saw his shirt he’d removed at the truck stop. Although he had no memory of it, Harv must’ve picked it up on their way back to the SUV after the explosions. Using his teeth on one end, he tied it around the wound on his arm. Next, he strapped on his gun belt and reloaded his Sig. He holstered the weapon and checked to make sure his spare magazines were secure in their slots. Finally, he turned off his cell and slipped it into his pocket.

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.”