“Jennifer, my name is Lisa Palmer. You have my deepest condolences.”
Jennifer nodded, but nothing registered.
“I was with your husband when he died.”
Chan turned and Watson shot a look at Lisa, who with measured words continued attempting to penetrate Jennifer’s grief.
“I was there when it happened.”
“Excuse me—” Chan’s voice was soft “—this isn’t the appropriate time.”
Jennifer blinked as if awakened, her attention focusing.
“There’s something I must tell you,” Lisa said, bending, nearly on her knees so that she was face-to-face with Jennifer, never letting go of her hand. “I have to tell you what he said before he died.”
Jennifer’s free hand flew to her mouth, her face crumpling with fear and an aching to know at the same time.
“We’re so sorry…” Chan grasped Lisa’s shoulder firmly.
“Yes,” Jennifer said to Lisa. “Tell me.”
“He said, ‘Jennifer, I love you.’ Those were his last words. I know, I was on the floor next to him. He tried to do the right thing. To save people. I held his hand as long as I could.”
A harsh, throaty cry rose from deep within Jennifer, forcing her to lift her head back to release it. All attention went to her and to Lisa. Her father put his arms around her as concerned mourners strained to see, prompting Jennifer’s doctor to approach her.
Chan and Watson tried to move Lisa away, but Jennifer wouldn’t release her hand.
“No!” Jennifer groaned to the others. “Let her be, let her be.”
Lisa remained rooted until Jennifer was able to speak again.
“You know, I felt him that day, felt him call out to me,” Jennifer managed to say, her voice a rasped whisper. She pulled Lisa to her and the two women, bonded in grief, held on to each other.
“Thank you for this. Thank you for telling me,” Jennifer said.
Much of the return drive to New York was passed in silence as Lisa suffered the unspoken wrath of Agents Chan and Watson for her perceived violation of FBI etiquette or protocol.
Lisa did not care.
Widow to widow, she knew what had to be done.
Lisa had to give Jennifer Dutton what was rightfully hers.
33
San Francisco, California
Where’s Rytter?
Ivan Felk swallowed whiskey, gritted his teeth and looked out from the hotel’s rooftop bar at the lights necklaced across the Bay Bridge.
It was late.
Unger, Northcutt and Dillon had checked in, but not Rytter. Where the hell was he? As Felk searched his phone yet again for messages, he’d received a new one from their support man in Kuwait City.
All props arrived safely. We’re awaiting next stage of the production.
That was good, significantly good. But Felk’s relief was short-lived.
The operation’s next stage would originate across the street in less than a week, at the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco. He needed every squad member here, now.
Rytter was missing.
Today was rendezvous day. It was critical they prepare. They had to check their gear and then drill. Felk put his phone away, gulped the last of his drink, tossed some bills on the bar. He turned to leave, when the flat screen above the bar stopped him cold.
A national news network was reporting from Bridgeport, Connecticut, on the funeral for FBI agent Gregory Scott Dutton “…who, along with three guards, was murdered in a commando-style six-million-dollar armored-car heist in Greater New York City. Our correspondent Frances Felder is at the ceremony where dignitaries from Washington, D.C., paid tribute to the fallen agent. Frances… Yes, John, it was an emotional service with Agent Dutton’s pregnant widow receiving the FBI’s Memorial Star on what the director of the FBI called a painful day in the bureau’s history—”
Painful? Those fuckers don’t know what pain is, Felk thought.
My men were betrayed and sacrificed defending you and assholes like you. And you praise this guy for his stupidity—for trying to stop the rescue operation of our brave people. You praise him? He’s not a hero, he’s a lesson, and you’d better learn it—anyone who gets in our way is an enemy combatant.
The news report ended, but Felk’s anger roiled as the glass-pod elevator descended seventeen stories inside the hotel’s colossal atrium. The others were waiting in the main-floor bar. Unger had flown directly to San Francisco. Northcutt flew to Los Angeles then drove up. Dillon flew to Seattle and drove down. Rytter had flown to Chicago and was driving across the States from there.
“Anybody heard from Erik?” Felk asked the others.
No one had anything to report.
“Shit. We can’t wait. Let’s move out. Dillon’s got a van.”
They went southbound on the 280, a multilane freeway of red-and-white lights that wove through a galaxy of terrace-hilled suburbs to Daly City. The self-storage outlet was near the Metro Mall and the Home Depot.
“You take care of things, Dillon?” Felk asked.
“Yes, the van’s rented on one of the counterfeit cards.”
Felk wanted this inspection done late at night. Fewer eyes around. As with most stages, they’d been supported through their network of trusted friends. Details were sent to Felk through an encrypted email and a key had been left at the hotel for him, under his alias. Using the information, he guided Unger as they navigated around the facility to unit 90, their unit.
They backed the van to it.
They had 24/7 outside access.
Felk pressed the unit’s password on the keypad then inserted the key into the steel lock. Metal rumbled as they raised the steel door. It was ten feet by twenty, plenty of room for their needs. It held motorcycles and large storage crates. They set to work inspecting their equipment, weapons, ammunition, clothing, wiring, hardware and other items. One isolated tub contained several white blocks of C4 packed in white Mylar-film wrapping.
“Looks good,” Unger said.
The snap-click-clack of the men making a closer examination of the M9 Beretta pistols and the M4 carbines pulled Felk back to Red Cobra Team 9’s assignment—the last mission.
Under layer upon layer of secrecy, they were subcontracted through a private security firm that was hired through the CIA to hunt and neutralize terrorists in the western frontier—a no-man’s-land straddling the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan that had been lost to al-Qaeda.
The territory was a whirlwind of militia cells, insurgents and tribal forces responsible for hostilities against all western troops. It took years before coalition leadership negotiated conditional peace with clan leaders, sweetened with humanitarian aid, but balanced on the condition that western troops would never enter the designated zones of the territory.
The peace actually took hold until western intelligence suggested insurgents were using those zones to plot devastating attacks against local governments who’d allied with western governments. Red Cobra Team 9 was hired for a covert mission to remove targeted leaders in the forbidden zones.
The night drop was done with radio silence.
Felk’s squad fell to earth never knowing that the intelligence on which they had staked their lives was false, that it was part of a calculated strategy to draw out militia cells for a larger “eradicating” action by coalition groups. But it could never be known that it was the western alliance that had violated the agreement. All Felk knew at the time of his team’s unsanctioned mission was that he needed every man on his squad to do the job.
Just as he needed every man now to finish it.