Henning stared for a few seconds. “There’s no evidence they had anything to do with Freedom’s Echo. They’re just a couple of hayseeds.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here to find out.”

“Look,” Holly said, “the bureau’s in debt to you for firing that warning shot at the compound. You saved a dozen lives, but you need to understand we’re uncomfortable with this kind of thing. The FBI doesn’t condone it. It’s a serious breach of ethics for us.”

“That was you?” Henning asked. “You were the sniper at Freedom’s Echo?”

“We were,” Nathan said, nodding toward Harv.

Harvey jumped in. “We’re retired. We don’t do this anymore. It’s a personal favor for an old friend.”

“Frank Ortega,” Holly Simpson said.

Harv nodded.

She issued Henning a glance. “Let’s get going.”

“Nice helicopter,” Henning said. “Yours?”

Nathan ignored the question and tucked himself into the back of the sedan.

Henning muttered something and opened the sedan’s trunk with a key. Harv placed their bags inside and let Henning close the lid before getting in next to Nathan.

“Can we stop somewhere for a head call and coffee?” Nathan asked.

From the driver’s seat, Henning looked at Holly Simpson as if the request was a royal pain in the ass.

We just spent four hours in a helicopter, you dumb ass. Nathan was sorely tempted to smack the guy in the back of the head.

“We passed a Denny’s about a mile from here,” she said.

“That’s fine.”

Henning drove through the automatic gate of the airport’s transient aircraft parking area and waited for the gate to close before pulling away. Holly Simpson began briefing them on the Bridgestones’ cousins’ background and the layout of their farmhouse. Basically, these guys were your garden-variety, petty-criminal losers. Most of their adult lives had been spent in jail on a variety of offensives against society. Drunk driving. Drug possession. Larceny. Vagrancy. Poaching. Spitting on the sidewalk. You name it. Both of them were currently on parole and probably would be for the rest of their lives. A matched set, Nathan thought. Give ’em a six-pack and a TV and they’re happy as clams in mud. They lived together on the outskirts of Sacramento and took odd jobs when they could, mostly as auto mechanics for mom-and-pop garages. Their father, Ben Bridgestone, was currently serving a life sentence in Pelican Bay for his third strike.

Henning pulled into the Denny’s parking lot and killed the engine. No one spoke. Nathan exchanged a glance with Harv.

“Do you guys want anything?” Harv asked.

“No, thank you,” she said.

Henning stared straight ahead.

They got out and walked the short distance to the Denny’s entrance.

“Henning’s an asshole,” Nathan said.

“Don’t bust his balls, okay?”

“Keep him out of my hair.”