First to Kill (11 page)

Knife glared at his brother with pure hatred in his eyes.

“Your bro here sounds upset,” Nathan said. “I’m a little disappointed you didn’t mention it earlier, Billy.”

“Look man, I’m sorry, I wanted to, I really did. You don’t understand, they said they’d kill us. Our cousins are crazy.”

Nathan faced Knife. “It’s simple, really. If anything happens to your beloved cousins, like life imprisonment or death, the cash would be yours, right? They’d be out of the picture, so it’s easy money. There’s no need to ask where your cousins are, because if you knew, you’d give them up. Then the money would be yours. Right?”

Knife didn’t respond.

Nathan looked at Billy. “Right?”

“I guess.”

“You mean you hadn’t thought of that? Your brother sure had.”

“You’re so fuckin’ stupid, Billy.”

“Easy now,” Nathan said. “He saved you a ton of pain. I would’ve wrung it out of you eventually. You might need a wheelchair and a colostomy bag for the rest of your life, but you would’ve told me. In fact, I think you owe your brother a thank-you for sparing you all that discomfort.”

Knife wouldn’t look at his brother. “Thanks.”

“That wasn’t so bad, was it? Don’t you feel better now?”

“Yeah right, whatever.”

“Billy is going to show me where the money’s buried. You stay put, okay?”

Knife just stared. There was more than hatred in his eyes. Something else, something harder to pinpoint. Fear? Anxiety?

Nathan winked at his partner. “If he even looks at you funny, give him another phone call.”

Harv answered in his best gangster voice, “You got it, boss.”

“Cover us for a second.”

Harv pulled his Sig, triggered the laser, and pointed it at Billy’s chest.

Billy looked down at the tiny rose of death. “Hey, man, take it easy, okay?”

Nathan cut the tape from Billy’s torso. “Hands behind your back, Billy. Do it now.” Nathan was all business again. Although he doubted Billy’s blabbering cowardice was an act, he wasn’t willing to take any chances. He secured Billy’s wrists behind his back with several layers of duct tape. “Outside. Let’s go.”

Holly Simpson was standing just outside the door when they stepped through. She had her Glock 22 in her right hand and a flashlight in the other hand. “We need to get up to that cabin right away,” she said.

“They aren’t there,” Nathan said.

“How can you be sure? You really think there’s money buried out here?”

“I seen it,” Billy said. “They got it stashed in ammo cans right over there. Three of ’em.”

“And you believe him?” Simpson asked.

Nathan shrugged.

“You better be right about this.” She turned on her flashlight and shined it on Billy’s chest. “Show us.”

They followed Billy through a maze of junked cars, rusted farm equipment, and fifty-gallon drums. Coming from every direction, the symphony of ten thousand crickets filled the night. Gun held at the ready, Holly swept her flashlight back and forth through the jungle of Americana crap. Nathan knew she was looking for threats. This was a good place to get ambushed. Lots of hiding places.

Billy stopped at the corner of the single garage. The bottom of its stucco walls were stained with reddish-brown mud from rain splatter dripping off the eaves. “Right here,” Billy said. “I’m standing on them.”

“How deep?” Holly asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe a foot.”

“Shovel.”

“In there.” He nodded toward the garage.

SAC Simpson tucked her flashlight under her arm, pulled her radio, and thumbed the button. “Copy?”

“
Copy,
” came the response.

“Hustle up here. We’re at the garage north of the farmhouse.”

Henning acknowledged with a click. Thirty seconds later he arrived, but stopped about one hundred feet short. He flashed his light twice. Holly pointed her flashlight in his direction and issued three flashes in response. Henning’s beam bounced as he closed the distance.

Nathan was impressed. They’d used a predetermined signal in case Simpson was being held hostage and forced to use her radio. If Henning hadn’t received the three flashes in return, he’d instantly know Simpson was in trouble. Breathing a little heavy from his run, he closed the distance and focused on Billy.

Holly looked at Nathan, then back to Henning. “We’re going to open the garage door. You two okay?”

They both nodded.

Henning crouched down at the opposite corner of the garage.

Holly did the same on her corner. “On the deck, Billy,” she said, “right here in front of me.”

“In the dirt? I’m soakin’ wet.”

“Do it now.”

“It’s just a garage,” he muttered. Because Billy’s hands were secured behind his back, he had to drop to his knees first, then slide his legs out from under him. He plopped over with a grunt and lay still.

Holly nodded to Nathan. “Okay, lift it slowly.”

Nathan pulled his gun and stepped to the middle of the garage door. He grabbed its galvanized handle and began lifting. “Watch for trip wires,” he said.

Henning crouched lower and swept his flashlight in an arc across the garage floor, his gun tracking the beam.

“Clear,” he said.

“Clear,” Holly echoed.

“Check the rafters,” Nathan said.

They both swept the ceiling area.

Nathan raised the door the rest of the way. The garage was mostly empty. Its concrete slab was cracked in random lines, like a black widow’s web. A red Suzuki Enduro occupied one corner and looked like it had rarely been ridden. A small storage rack was mounted above the Enduro’s rear wheel. In the opposite corner, several shovels, hoes, and rakes were secured in a linear bracket screwed into the wall. A workbench occupied the left side. Various household tools were hung on hooks: Saws. Hammers. Pliers. Screwdrivers. Wrenches. Everything was arranged by type and function and nothing was out of place. The opposite wall hosted all kinds of power tools. They looked new or well maintained. And yes, there was a grinder. Most of the empty power-tool boxes were neatly stacked against the rear wall of the garage. Nathan frowned. This didn’t look right.

Henning stepped into the garage and was about to flip a light switch.

“Wait!” Nathan yelled. He looked at Holly.

She nodded her understanding. “It could be rigged.”

Henning stared at the switch for several seconds before backing away from it.

“Okay,” Holly said, returning her attention to Billy. “Stay put.”

“Better let Billy dig up the ammo cans,” Nathan offered. “They could be booby-trapped.”

“Good thought.”

“They aren’t,” Billy said.

“Your cousins tried to frag a dozen federal employees yesterday,” Holly said. “We’re a little short on trust.”

Henning stepped forward and cut the tape binding Billy’s hands. “On your feet. If you run, I’ll shoot you in the back. Clear?”

“I ain’t gonna run,” Billy said, tearing the tape from his wrists.

She and Henning tracked him with their pistols across the garage floor and back.

“I’m going to check the perimeter,” Henning said. “Two minutes.”

“Two minutes,” Holly acknowledged.

Henning disappeared into the darkness.

Tight and professional, Nathan thought.

Holly refocused on Billy. “Start digging.”

Nathan and Holly backed away to a safe distance. It was close enough to plug Billy if he tried to bolt and hopefully far enough away from any sort of IED the Bridgestones might have rigged. He looked at Holly again. She was really quite striking, even in the reflective glow of their flashlights. She had well-defined Slavic cheekbones and a small compact figure. She stood five-three or four. She acted confident and self-assured.

Holly kept her voice low. “I’m sorry about Henning’s attitude.”

“Already forgotten,” he said.

“I reviewed your classified file.”

Nathan said nothing.

“I wouldn’t agree to your involvement unless I knew exactly who you two were.”

“Understood,” Nathan said. “I would’ve played it the same way.”

“Not many would’ve survived what you went through.”

“I did the best I could under the circumstances.”

They were silent for a few seconds. Billy’s shovel clanked on metal.

“You don’t have many friends,” she said.

He kept his voice low so Billy couldn’t hear him. “Just Harv.”

“I don’t either. You didn’t seriously hurt them in there, did you?”

“Not really.”

“Did you want to?”

“No.”

“We should get up to that cabin.”

“Let’s play this out. A few more minutes won’t make or break things. James Ortega’s been missing for over a week.”

Henning retuned and joined them. “What have we got?”

“We’re about to find out,” she said.

Billy was just finishing the dig. On his knees, he cleared the last of the dirt away with his hands. He looked up.

Holly told him to pull the first one out slowly.

“Could be a gun in one or more of them,” Nathan said.

“Agreed.”

Billy did as he was told. He reached into the hole, tore the plastic garbage bag away, and tugged one of the handles. He hefted the ammo can out and set it on the ground. It was matte-green and about the size of a large shoe box. Nathan read the five lines of yellow stenciled lettering and knew the can used to hold a disintegrating link of one hundred, armor-piercing, incendiary, fifty-caliber rounds with every fifth round being a tracer.

Billy looked up and squinted against the flashlight beams.

“Pull the others out,” Holly said, “and place them five feet apart with their latches facing us. Stand behind the one on your left, reach over the top, and pull its lid open. Do it slowly.”

Nathan knew that wasn’t going to work, but didn’t say anything. To open an ammo can like that, especially one that had been buried, you had to hold the carrying handle below its latch with one hand and yank the latch cover with the other hand. Unless it was filled with ammunition weighing it down, it would take two hands. He also saw dried sealant, probably silicon, under the rims of the lids. As predicted, Billy struggled with the can. Every attempt he made to lift the hinged cover didn’t work. The entire can lifted into the air. He wasn’t getting the necessary leverage.

“May I?” Nathan asked.

She nodded.

“Step away, Billy,” Nathan said as he holstered his gun. He walked forward and showed Billy the exact technique needed to open the can. “It takes two hands, like this.” He grabbed the carrying handle with his left hand and grabbed the latch cover mechanism with his other. “You have to give it a quick tug in opposite directions.” He stepped back and crouched down.

Holly and Henning followed suit. Billy grabbed the ammo can like he’d been shown and gave the latch a yank. The lip popped open. Billy stared straight down into its contents. “Oh, man.”

“Open the others,” Holly said.

Five seconds later all three ammo can were open. Billy couldn’t take his eyes off the contents.

“Move away, Billy. On the ground again.”

Billy didn’t comply. He just stood there, licking his lips.

“Back away, Billy, on the ground. Do it right now,” she said more forcefully.

The three of them walked forward and looked down. Staring up at them were bundles of used bills. Lots of them. Stacked upright in two rows along each can’s long axis, the bundles were a near-perfect fit. The distinctive smell of greenbacks scented the air.

Henning let out a low whistle.

Nathan crouched down and pulled a bundle from each can. The middle can held stacks of one-hundred dollar bills and the other two cans held stacks of twenties. Each stack was about half-an-inch thick and secured with a rubber band. Probably one-hundred bills. Nathan counted the bundles. There were twenty-two stacks of one-hundred dollar bills and forty-four stacks of twenties. Nathan ran the calculation. “Two hundred-twenty plus eighty-eight. That’s… three hundred and eight grand, assuming that each of those bundles contain one-hundred notes of the same denomination.”

“Incredible,” Holly whispered. “You think they have stashes like this in other locations?”

“Count on it,” Nathan said. “I’m going to check on my partner.” Ten feet from the front door, Nathan stopped and issued a whistle. He received the same whistle from inside. He found Harv sitting on the chair, facing Knife. “Billy wasn’t lying about the money.”

“How much?”

“Just over three hundred grand.”

“Nice little stash.”

“Yep.”

“What now?”

Nathan looked at Knife. “After you and your brother change into dry clothes, you’re taking us up to that cabin.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes after the discovery of the buried cash, a caravan of three FBI sedans was ready to leave Sacramento and motor toward the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The ammo cans were locked in Holly’s trunk. Larry Gifford and two SWAT team members had arrived with two additional vehicles, one of them designed for transporting perps in custody. There was no way to know what to expect up there, so the extra firepower was a prudent call on Holly’s part. The SWAT agents were dressed in black overalls, but they hadn’t donned their SWAT gear yet. There wasn’t a need until they arrived at the cabin. Gifford, who he’d met at the Bridgestones’ compound, wore blue jeans and a navy-blue golf shirt. Like Holly and Henning, his gun belt held a standard-issue Glock 22, two spare magazines, and a set of handcuffs. He looked a lot different out of SWAT gear, but he had the same intense expression Nathan remembered when they’d first met.

Nathan and Harv shook hands with Larry Gifford and the two SWAT team members. Nathan was pretty sure these were the same SWAT agents who’d made the leapfrog approach to them yesterday. It made sense. They had already seen Nathan and Harv and already knew of their involvement.

“Special Agents Collins and Dowdy, if I recall,” Nathan said, pumping their hands, “but I don’t know who’s who.”

Holly smiled.

Henning glared.

“We’ve got a long drive ahead of us, let’s get moving,” Holly said.

An awkward moment followed.

Nathan looked at Harv for several seconds, but said nothing.