“Somebody To Love.”
It was not until they’d pulled into their driveway and Lisa killed the Ford’s engine that her phone rang. At last, she thought, unlocking her back door and deactivating her home security system with one hand, keeping the phone to her head with the other.
But it was not the FBI calling.
“My God,” Rita said. “Did you hear the news?”
“About Nebraska?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I saw it at work in the lunchroom.”
“It’s fantastic, Lisa. Did the FBI tell you what happened?”
“Not yet. I got messages in, but they’re not getting back to me and it’s starting to piss me off.”
“Well, it’s still all good news. I mean, they got him way out west, a billion miles from here. And the creep is freakin’ dead.”
“Yes, that’s good.”
Lisa made the kids spaghetti for supper but used every free moment to go online and to monitor news reports on TV for more on the case. It was futile. She was unable to find anything beyond the first report.
Rita was right.
Lisa had to accept that what happened was “all good.” The fact they got one, and got him so far away, and that he was dead made her feel safer, lightened the weight of her worry.
She smiled to herself when she glimpsed Ethan’s map on their corkboard near the fridge. He’d done a good job. It reminded her that they had important things to take care of. She had to get ready for their trip—the last one—up to the cabin.
She had to get ready for the rest of her life.
By early evening, after they’d finished supper, after Lisa had washed the dishes and put them away, she still hadn’t heard a response from the FBI. It ate at her—feeling shut out—and she resented it. She couldn’t understand and would never accept why Morrow and the others were ignoring her, especially after all she’d been through; after all she’d done to help them with the case.
Maybe something else was at work; something more going on?
If that was the case, she deserved to know.
At that moment, it dawned on her that all the news reports had attributed the story to the World Press Alliance, the wire service where that reporter, Jack Gannon, worked. Lisa’s keyboard clattered as she searched his name and his story emerged online.
Life-and-Death Struggle with Murder Suspect on a Nebraska HighwayJack GannonWorld Press AllianceNORTH PLATTE, Neb.—Minutes after Trooper Duane Hanson pulled over a speeding car from Illinois cutting west along a windblown stretch of Interstate 80, he was locked into a battle for his life. It ended in the death of a fugitive suspect wanted for the cold-blooded murders of three armored car guards and an FBI agent in the recent 6.3- million-dollar heist out of Greater New York City…
Lisa read Gannon’s entire story.
It was compelling and it proved to her that he knew a great deal about the case, certainly more than she did. It brought her back to her questions and concerns over why the FBI had not responded to her calls. She contended with a growing fear that something was going on, something that the FBI agents were unwilling to share with her.
“Mom!” Ethan called downstairs from his room. “Is it bath night tonight?”
“Yes, do you need towels? I’ll be right up!”
Lisa continued searching Gannon online, finding photos from his days at the
Lisa saw that he worked out of the WPA’s world headquarters in Manhattan; saw the phone number and his email.
She bit her bottom lip.
Should she contact him for help?
Ivan Felk was in his hotel room, reviewing street maps on his laptop, when his screen chimed with a news alert.
The
Felk read the story fast.
The car was a rental from Chicago, heading west on the interstate. The driver was shot after he struggled for the trooper’s gun and died later in hospital. The
Rytter was not named, and there were few other details. Still, the facts, and what Felk knew, were enough to convince him it was Rytter who had died.
A moment passed as he absorbed it.
What happened?
They were all professionals, the best of the best. They all knew going into this that there was no guarantee they’d come out alive. But they were not prone to mistakes. Rytter was careful, meticulous at eliminating risks.
Felk went to his window, looked down at the Federal Reserve Bank across the street and assessed the situation. Rytter was a strong soldier, a good man. They needed him. Every member of the team had a specific job that was crucial to the next stage of the operation. Rytter was his lead explosives expert, his best C4 man.
Felk forced himself to stay calm, to think. They had to adapt just as they did in battle. When you lost a man, you adjusted and you advanced the mission.
Someone was knocking on the door.
In the peephole, Felk saw a fish-eyed version of Dillon and let him in.
“You see what happened in Nebraska?” Dillon asked.
“I saw. Where are the others right now?”
