Andrew Peterson - First to Kill

The warm glow from the cabins window told a lie. The scream from within told the truth. Bound to a chair with baling wire, the federal agent was thoroughly battered. Eyes swollen shut, fractured cheekbones, chipped teeth, and worse. Kicked aside, six severed fingers lay scattered on the plank floor. The air reeked of cigar smoke and charred flesh from dozens of burns that marched up the mans arms and across his chest like tiny cattle brands. Where hed struggled against the wire, his wrists and ankles were torn and bleeding.

Hes out again. Ernie Bridgestone grabbed the mans hair and yanked his head back. Bridgestone, a trained drill instructor, was tall and lean with a thin mustache, cropped dark hair, and acne-cratered cheeks.

Leave him be. Hes had enough. Leonard Bridgestone towered over his younger brother and outweighed him by sixty pounds. Aside from their clothing, blood-spattered T-shirts, old woodland fatigues and combat boots, they looked nothing alike except for their pale blue eyes-a gift from their mothers side. They never talked about their fathers gifts.

Ernie released him. Ill give the dumb son of a bitch credit, he lasted longer than I wouldve.

Lets hope you never have to find out. Leonard was a trained Army Ranger, but unlike Ernie, hed been decorated during the first Gulf War with a Silver Star, two Purple Hearts, and a Navy Cross for rescuing a downed Hornet driver. He grabbed a five-gallon can of gas and began sloshing its contents around the cabins stark interior. He saved the last two gallons for human flesh and tipped the can just above the agents head. The man shivered and moaned under the stinging fluid.

As the smell of gasoline fouled the air, the rain intensified. The windows flashed white. Once. Twice. Half a second later, thunder rattled the glass.

Damn shame to torch this place, Ernie said.

Leonard parted the curtain and looked out the window where morning twilight crept across the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I figure weve got three days, max. He said his last check-in was five days ago and they expect to hear from him at least once a week.

But Lester saw him in town yesterday. He couldve reported in already.

Naw, he wouldve told us. It only took two fingers to verify he was FBI. Nobody can take what we did to him, not for five hours. No way.

Ernie spat in the mans face. I still cant believe this asshole set us up.

Kinda evens the score a little.

Ernie grabbed the bloody pliers, wire cutters, and ice pick from the table.

Leave those.

Theyre perfectly good tools.

Leave em. Dont let anger cloud your thinking. This isnt about revenge.

The hell it isnt.

Let it go, Ernie.

Easy for you to say. He hurled the pliers across the room.

Leonard understood his brothers anger. In Ernies third year in the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, several inmates had beaten him to the brink of death for stealing a pack of cigarettes. Hed spent fourteen weeks in the infirmary, the first two in a coma.

The fed stirred in his chair and moaned. Leonard approached and crouched down like a catcher. You got something more to say?

Kill me First

Leonard looked at his brother.

Screw him. Let him feel it.

Hes been through enough. Leonard stepped back, pulled his.45, and took aim. But before he could shoot, Ernie shoved him aside and lit an entire book of matches.

Then Ill do it.

Ern, stop!

But his brother tossed the matchbook casually as dice at a craps table. The whoosh of ignition was chilling.

The burning man leaned his head back and howled.

Leonard raised his pistol again, but Ernie grabbed him and yanked him toward the door.

It was too late anyway. They retreated from the growing inferno out to the Bronco. Leonard got behind the wheel, but Ernie stood in the rain watching the fire until the heat forced him into the cab.

Leonard started to speak, but Ernie cut him off. Youre wrong, he said, his eyes glittering with flame. Its always about revenge.

Stretched out in a room of the Crowne Plaza Hotel in San Diego, Nathan Daniel McBride stared at the ceiling. With a sigh, he touched his face where three deep scars reminded him of another time, another world. The longest scar started at his left ear, ran down the side of his face, and ended at the tip of his chin. The next followed a diagonal path from the top of his forehead, across the bridge of his nose, and etched his left cheek. Visibly the worst, the third drew a deep arched line from temple to jaw. Nice touch, that one. At six-foot-five, 240 pounds, he kept himself in top physical condition. His forty-fifth birthday was right around the corner.

He rolled toward the woman beside him. In contrast, Mara had flawless skin. Her kind brown eyes and black hair perfectly complemented an athletic physique. In her mid-twenties, she was nothing short of stunning. But perhaps what he appreciated the most about her was that she rarely broke their silent moments.

Have I ever really thanked you?

She slid a leg over his hips. Thanked me? I should thank you. Youre not like the others.

The others. It felt like slap in the face. Denial was so self-serving. Mara was a prostitute. He was a john. One of her johns, he reminded himself. Sure, theyd seen each other twice a week for the last eight months, but what kind of relationship was that? Empty. Going nowhere. She was so beautiful and he was What? Did the scars make him ugly? Or something else. Like what he used to do for a living? He wondered how different his life would be if he hadnt become a Marine. Would he have a wife and children? A home? Not just a roof over his head, but a real home with a sense of purpose and belonging? None of that mattered now. Fresh out of college, hed joined the Marines and discovered a natural aptitude hed never known about. He could shoot and it didnt take the Marines long to identify him. He spent seven years with the Corps as an elite scout sniper before the CIA recruited him.

More than a decade ago, his career abruptly ended after a botched mission. Hed fallen into the hands of a sadistic interrogator and endured three weeks of pure torment. His Nicaraguan interrogator had carved him like Thanksgiving turkey. An inch apart, dozens of crisscrossing scars marred his torso, making him look like a human wicker basket. At the end, his interrogator crucified him in a tight vertical cage that forced him to stand. After four days and nights on his feet with no food or water, the pain in his legs had been literally blinding. Hed been hammered from infection and fever, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Where are you?

Huh?

You were gone again.

Sorry.

She traced one of the grooves on his chest with a forefinger.

Are you happy, Mara?

Youve never asked me that before. She smiled, but it didnt reach her eyes. I cant meet you Friday.

He sat up. What? Why not?

Shh Its okay. I have another meeting. Some drug company bigwig. Karen set it up.

Mara, if its money

She touched his lips. Youre so generous to me. Its not the money.

You could work at my security company. I can get you an apartment. You dont have to do this. Its dangerous.

Im glad you care. Will I see you next week?

His cell interrupted them. He reached over to the nightstand.

Nathan? Its Karen. That big guys here again. Hes got Cindy!

Ill be there in seven minutes. Can you make it out to the patio?

I think so.

Do it. Turn off all the lights.

Two minutes later he was striding through the hotels lobby with Mara in tow. Once outside the automatic glass doors, he sprinted over to his Mustang. Maras heels clicked on the concrete as she hurried to keep up.