“I want to believe he’s still alive, but it’s unlikely. The Bridgestones tried to frag my entire SWAT team. If James Ortega was discovered, they would’ve interrogated him and killed him outright. I can’t see any reason they’d keep him alive. My people have searched every building within a five-mile radius of the compound, but he’s nowhere. We’ve also set up roadblocks on every road leading in and out of here. We’re bringing in cadaver dog teams tomorrow in case he’s buried up here. Later today, I’ll have two FBI helicopters searching the area out to a twenty-mile radius coordinating with CDF and Lassen County Sheriffs’ horseback teams on the ground. We’re doing everything possible to find him with the limited resources we have available.”

“I’ll call Sierra Army Depot’s commander, see if he can muster a couple of platoons for you. Maybe a Black Hawk or two.”

“That would really help. The more people we have up here searching, the better chance we have of finding him.”

“If it’s any consolation, Special Agent Gifford, I’m going to nail those Bridgestone brothers to a cross.”

“Thank you, Senator,” said Gifford. “I’ll be there with the hammer.”

* * *

It promised to be another long day for Nathan and Harv. Yesterday, after speaking with ASAC Gifford, they’d received some stitches and small field dressings on their legs. Sitting on their wounds hadn’t been especially pleasant during the flight back to San Diego, but other than that, the flight had been uneventful. They’d arrived well after dark. Then, early this morning, they met with the Ortegas at a coffee shop in Mission Valley and given them a complete update on the Freedom’s Echo raid, including their latest phone updates from Gifford. Although disappointment was evident in their voices and body language, they seemed encouraged by the new assignment Nathan and Harv had accepted.

After the Ortegas, they again went their separate ways and agreed to meet back at Montgomery Field at 1800 hours for the return flight to Sacramento. Harv told Nathan he needed to make a brief stop at the office to follow up on some potential contracts before heading home to say happy birthday to his oldest son, Lucas.

Nathan needed sleep. He could barely concentrate. One rule he’d taken to heart while in the Marines: Sleep when you can. He’d had less than six hours of shut-eye in the last two days and he faced another long night of flying. He needed to call Mara and find out if Toby had caused any additional problems. He dialed her cell number from memory.

“Any sign of our problem child?”