“The news is not good. It was James Ortega. The ME confirmed his identity from dental records. I just found out ten minutes ago. He’d been subjected to severe blunt-force trauma. Six of his fingers were missing. They found smoke residue in his lungs.” Her voice cracked. “Nathan, they burned him alive.”

He squinted and looked at his partner. Harv’s jaw started working.

“You still there?” she asked.

“I’m really sorry, Holly.”

“We wouldn’t have found him this quickly without your help. I never thanked you guys last night.”

“I kept hoping we’d find him alive, dehydrated and hungry, but alive.”

“Me too.”

“We’ll tell the family.”

“I appreciate it. I have to go. It’s a real mess over here. Call me later?”

“I will.” He hung up and looked at Harv. No words were necessary.

The situation had just turned personal. This isn’t over, you lousy shit birds. This isn’t over at all, not by a long shot. He knew their call to Frank Ortega was going to be an emotional train wreck. Although Frank had suspected his grandson was dead, having it confirmed was another matter. Until you had absolute proof, there was always a glimmer of hope, however small. Now there was none. James Ortega, third-generation FBI, was dead, killed in the line of duty. No, not just killed. Tortured, humiliated, and burned alive by two cold-blooded thugs. It made Nathan sick to his stomach thinking about what James Ortega must have gone through. Wasn’t there even the tiniest speck of humanity left in the Bridgestones? They could’ve easily killed him first. A hard blow to the head. A bullet to the temple. A slit throat. A plastic bag over his head. Anything. Why burn him alive? Why? It was a message. Loud and clear, with no chance of being misunderstood: Mess with us and you’ll die badly.

Nathan looked at Harv. “We should call Ortega. Want me to do it?”

“No.” Harv reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. He stared at the phone number.

“Harv?”

“I’m okay.”

But Nathan knew his friend wasn’t okay. Far from it. Nathan walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Dark blue eyes stared back. With his teeth clenched, he balled his hands into fists so tight they hurt from the pressure. Had James Ortega pleaded at the end? Had he begged to be killed first? Had they looked at each other in mock sympathy and then laughed at the request before tossing the match? Had they stayed and listened to his screams of agony?

He drove his fist into the mirror.

It shattered into a thousand pieces.

He staggered back and sat on the edge of the tub. Damn those assholes.

Harv appeared at the bathroom door. “Lemme see that hand.”