Nathan’s Clairemont home was similar to every other on the block, meticulously landscaped with a pastel stucco exterior and tile roof. What set Nathan’s apart was its state-of-the-art security system. Some would call it overkill, but Nathan called it an indulgence. He and Harvey Fontana owned a company that installed such systems. Why shouldn’t he own the best?

A metallic-blue Mercedes pulled into Nathan’s driveway and its driver climbed out. Harvey, the same age as Nathan, stood six inches shorter. His light hazel eyes were an extreme contrast to his tanned, Latino complexion. Gray hair was definitely winning the battle. Nathan thought Harv had the classic look of a politician, but wouldn’t hold that against him.

“You know I’m here,” Harv muttered. He sounded like James Earl Jones with a Spanish accent. “The least you could do is meet me outside.”

“I am outside,” Nathan said.

Harv whipped around. “Damn it, Nate. I hate it when you do that.”

“Why do you drive that big thing?”

“I’m a big man, I need a big ride. What’s it to you?”

“You’re an average-sized man.… Everywhere.”

“It’s good to see you too, Nate.”

“How’s the family?”

“If you’d visit once in awhile, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

“You know how it is.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Nathan’s tone changed. “From one to ten, what’s the urgency of tonight’s meeting with Ortega?”

“Ten.”

* * *

They drove south on I-5, enjoying a comfortable silence. After a few miles, Harv merged east onto I-8.

“You get a chance to look at the financials I sent last week?”

Nathan grunted.

“Our net worth went up another eight-hundred grand this quarter.”

“Just paper.”

“I know money bores you, but honestly. You own a helicopter, for cryin’ out loud, and your home in La Jolla is to kill for.” Harvey shook his head. “If you ever get truly bored with your share of our company, you can always sell it to me.”

“Don’t worry, it’s yours for free when I kick the bucket.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way. My world is much more interesting with you in it.”

“So,” Nathan’s tone signaled a change of subject, “you and Ortega go pretty far back.”

“I know his son, Greg, better. He was doing Middle East satellite intel for the CIA at the same time we were in Nicaragua. He transferred to counterterrorism work in the FBI eight years ago.”

Nathan said nothing. He already knew all of this. Harv was setting a stage.

“He’s a good guy, okay?” said Harvey.

Nathan didn’t respond. He fully planned on helping Frank Ortega, but had some nonnegotiable conditions.