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.
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
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
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.
“Ivan?”
“Ivan?” Northcutt had asked him a question. “We just got a message from Rytter. He’s in Nebraska.”
“Nebraska? Why is he so late?”
“We don’t know. He isn’t answering.”
Trooper Duane Hanson with the Nebraska State Patrol finished his coffee and took stock of the vast windblown plain while rolling westbound on Interstate 80.
He was just beyond the exit for Brule, midway through his shift, thinking about lunch at Thorsen’s Diner in Big Springs and maybe hitting the books again. He had five years with uniformed patrol and was working on getting selected for the Investigative Services Division.
Making the Cold Case Unit was his dream.
He’d studied, applied and written the exam. His interview was in three days. The brass at Troop D headquarters in North Platte was encouraging. Captain Wagner liked him, and Lieutenant Tolba let slip that Hanson had scored the highest he’d ever seen on an ISD exam.
It likely helped that Hanson was a voracious reader and had a near-photographic ability for retaining details, especially when it came to a “Be On the Lookouts.” While most guys scanned the local, state and national BOLOs, Hanson devoured them every day.
It would be sweet to make it into ISD, he thought, plus, there’d be the little pay boost. He flipped down his visor to a pretty woman smiling at him from a small color snapshot.
Darlene.
He’d met her in high school. They’d been married six years now. She was doing well selling real estate. They’d started talking about buying that property down by the river, starting a family.
Something came up on the right lane.
A Chevy pickup passed him, coming close to breaking the limit.
