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.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You will be,” Nathan said. “You will be.” He held his hand up and started counting. “I count fourteen knuckles, Harv. Sound about right?”

“Fourteen on each hand,” Harv corrected.

“Brutal. Think he can take it?”

“Don’t know, only one way to find out.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Grangeland asked. Like Harv, she was breathing hard from the sprint up the sandy wash.

“I’m going to start cutting this jerk’s fingers off. One knuckle at a time.”

“The hell you are, McBride. The FBI doesn’t torture its prisoners.”

“We aren’t FBI.”

“I want my fucking phone call,” Ernie said.

“That’s what your cousins said before you killed them.” Harv shoved Bridgestone’s face into the sand.

“You are not torturing this man,” Grangeland said.

“Special Agent Grangeland, take a walk with me. You got him, Harv?”

“Oh, I got him all right.” Harv kept his knee on Bridgestone’s back and leaned on the dislocated shoulder. Ernie grunted and spit sand.

Nathan led Grangeland fifty yards up the sandy wash and stopped. “I need the truth. Is my cell phone being tapped?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

He pulled it from his pocket, turned it on, and entered Washington, DC number from memory. Holly had given him Director Lansing’s cell number.

It rang four times. The voice answering was sleepy and a little annoyed. “This had better be good.”

“It’s good,” Nathan said.

“Who is this?”

“Nathan McBride.”

“Do you mind telling me why you’re calling at… four in the morning?”

“I’ve got Ernie Bridgestone in custody.”