At 2:45 a.m., Ivan Felk woke in his hotel bed.
He did not know why he had awakened until his secure satellite cell phone rang again.
The caller’s number was blocked.
He answered, heard four seconds of static, then an automated message: “The N.G.N.R.M. has sent you an important communication.”
Felk sat up.
Wide awake, he went to his laptop, logged on to his encrypted email account to find a new video attachment. He connected his headphones and turned up the volume. As it loaded, he braced for the worst.
The new footage was confusing. It focused first on another laptop screen, blurring as it sharpened to the online edition of the
It then scanned headlines before locking on one that Felk already knew: Ramapo Heist Suspect Dies In Nebraska
The camera held the headline for several moments then the laptop lowered to the head and shoulders of a hooded figure who spoke in clear, accented English.
“This new communique from the New Guardians of the National Revolutionary Movement amends the fate of the invading criminals who are guilty of crimes against humanity.”
The camera panned to Felk’s men all kneeling on a barren concrete floor. They were skeletal as a result of being underfed. Their full beards accentuated their hollow eyes. Several large men in hoods worked at positioning the hostages’ hands behind their backs with flex-cuffs.
The hooded spokesman resumed.
“The news report shows us your recent failure and deteriorating ability to gather the funds necessary to pay the fine to spare the infidels from their execution.”
The camera pulled in on a cinder block set between the legs of the first kneeling hostage. Two men set his hands on top of it.
“To inspire you to deliver the fine in full by the deadline, the court has authorized us to begin prosecution by removing—”
“Oh, Jesus,” Felk said aloud in his quiet room as the captors spread the man’s fingers so that one index finger was exposed on the cinder block.
“—a finger from each man now.”
A large blade glinted, pressed down on the finger, swiftly crunched, as if cutting celery, severing it cleanly from the hand. Spurting blood cascaded over the cinder block as the man’s screaming pierced Felk’s ears.
“God, no. Damn it, no!”
The injured man’s hand was wrapped in a towel, the finger held to the camera, then tossed out of frame. Off-camera dogs yelped and Felk shut his eyes to the horror. For the next thirty minutes, he endured the screaming as one by one each of his men lost a finger, including his brother, Clayton.
Felk shook with rage as tears rolled down his face.
“I swear we are coming to get you and we will waste the motherfuckers. I swear to God.”
After it had ended, Felk sat on the side of his bed with his head in his hands until dawn broke over San Francisco. The entire time his thinking had been crystalline while hate-fueled adrenaline pulsated through him as if he were in a firefight.
He analyzed their situation.
The mutilations resulted from Rytter’s arrest and death. Rytter’s arrest must’ve arisen from information police possessed. What did they know? The press had reported early in the case that the FBI had a key eyewitness to the federal agent’s shooting.
If it was true, that witness had to be the woman beside him.
She’d looked right at Felk, pleaded for her life.
By 5:00 a.m., Felk had summoned the others to a briefing in his room for 6:00 a.m. He showed them the grisly video, explaining its link to Rytter’s arrest, which had to be linked to the witness.
“What did the FBI get from her?” Felk said. “What could they know?”
“How can we be sure it’s her and not someone in our network who may have gone to the FBI for the reward?” Northcutt asked.
“Because anyone who knows anything of our mission is involved,” Felk said. “Everyone helping us has a connection to our men who are being held hostage. There’s no way in hell they would give us up.”
“So what could this woman have seen?” Unger shook his head. “We were so goddamn careful. We took shell casings. We left nothing—no DNA, no debris. We took out their security cameras.”
“We were covered in racing suits,” Northcutt said. “We wore helmets with dark glass, gloves. Nobody could see anything.”
“How close was this woman to you?” Dillon asked Felk.
“Less than three feet, maybe two,” Felk said. “She was on her stomach, on the floor, right beside the agent.”
“Why don’t we reenact it and see if that helps?” Dillon said.
“Okay, get the gear. Bring up my suit, gloves, helmet to the room. We’ll do this ASAP.”
Within twenty minutes Dillon had returned with a large sports bag. Felk stripped down to his T-shirt and boxers, then got into the one-piece leather racing suit. He pulled on his boots, strapped on his motorcycle helmet and tugged on his gloves.
“Unger, you’re the agent, get on the floor on your gut, here,” Felk directed him. “Northcutt, you’re the witness, get next to him here and turn your head like this.
“All right, I was standing like this and I put my gun on his head like this.” Felk slowly shaped the fingers of his right hand into a gun and lowered it to Unger’s head. “Northcutt, your head is turned facing Unger’s, so you’re watching the gun on him. What do you see?”
As Felk extended his gun hand, the cuff of his racing suit slipped back.
“Freeze,” Northcutt said, raising his hand to touch the Red Cobra Team 9 tattoo wrapped around Felk’s wrist. “I see your tattoo.”
Felk raised his wrist to study it in disbelief.
“Fuck!” Felk said. The others looked at their own wrists as if they were passports to doom. Felk tore off his helmet, unzipped his suit, cursing under his breath. He shoved his gear in the bag, dressed, went to his laptop and started working.
“What are we going to do?” Dillon asked.
“Stay true to our mission,” Felk said. “We’ve taken losses, but we’re not going to abandon our people. We’re handcuffed to the schedule of that armored car shipment to Oakland International. We’ve got to hang on for four days.”
“But we’re vulnerable, Ivan.” Unger took uneasy inventory of the others.
“Don’t you think I know that?” Felk said.
His anger rising, Felk rummaged through his other bag until he found Lisa Palmer’s photo-ID employee card for Good Buy Supermart.
He held it up to the others.
“This bitch will not bring us down!”
