The Burning Edge

The doors closed and the glass-capsule elevator car rose. Floor by floor the open-terraced balconies that ringed the massive soaring seventeen-story lobby sailed by. A tinny transmission leaked from the cop’s earpiece, just loud enough for Felk to hear because of his proximity.

“…they got our guy in room 1640 and we’ve got to…”

Felk’s eyes widened slightly.

That’s Dillon’s room near the top floor.

“On my way,” the cop said softly into the walkie-talkie wired to his earpiece.

Felk swallowed. What the hell—they got Dillon?

Every instinct told him police were here to take them down.

They’re moving on us right now.

As the elevator slowed for its first stop, Felk saw clear across the expanse to the lobby’s distant far side at the moment— Damn, that’s Northcutt walking to his room.

Felk calmly excused himself around the cop to get off on the seventh floor with two giggling seniors. The cop stayed in the elevator. Felk went to the balcony and focused on Northcutt, who was one floor below and half a football field across from him.

He could not risk shouting a warning and it was too far to run.

Felk took out his encrypted cell phone and called Northcutt’s phone. Northcutt was ten paces from his door when his phone rang. Come on. He saw Northcutt answer while fishing out his room key.

“Yes,” Northcutt said as he inserted the plastic key into the lock.

“Do not go in!”

“What?” Northcutt pushed the door.

“It’s me. Step away from your door—”

Too late.

Northcutt stepped into the room. As the door started closing behind him, Felk saw shadows move, then, through the phone, he heard Northcutt’s shout drowned out by desperate scuffling.

Everything went quiet.

But Felk’s connection to Northcutt’s phone remained live. He heard breathing for one moment, two, three, four—damn—then Felk shut his phone off. And even though his was untraceable, he removed the battery to kill any chance of tracking his signal.

Shit! Fuck! Christ!

All the saliva evaporated from his mouth like he was in a firefight. They were under attack and they were losing.

Fuck!

Felk dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. Don’t go to your room! Get out, now! He had his laptop in his satchel, passports, cash and credit cards, nothing in his room but clothes, toiletries, fucking fingerprints and fucking DNA.

Fuck!

He got back on the elevator and descended to the lobby, went to a public phone and called Unger.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?”

“About a block away from the hotel.”

“Don’t go to your room!”

“What’s up?”

“DO NOT GO TO YOUR ROOM!”

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“Enact the withdrawal plan now!”

Some ninety minutes later, Felk and Unger were at a sandwich shop table near gate five, in the post-security area of Oakland International Airport’s terminal one.

Felk’s concentration was welded to his laptop’s screen and keyboard as he worked. Unger pretended to read the copy of USA TODAY that was concealing his face. In fact, he was scanning the area for threats.

Earlier, Unger had nearly lost his breakfast as they passed through security. He’d made a comment about lost luggage when the security officer asked about his all-but-empty new travel bag and new toiletries. Unger had kept the sleeves on his denim shirt buttoned to the cuff and struggled to remain calm, but his stomach had spasmed.

They’d made it through. They were lucky—this time.

Every move was a high-stakes risk now. Sooner or later the FBI would identify them. Sooner or later their pictures would be everywhere. They’d have to run forever. The mission was falling to pieces.

“You haven’t answered me. What are we supposed to do now, Ivan?” Unger kept his voice low. “They got Rytter, Dillon and Northcutt. It’s only a matter of time before they get us. It’s over, done. Finished.”

Felk’s nostrils flared as he worked. He was consumed with rage so intense it blinded him to all reason. Even the logic he understood was overtaken by the bile and vengeance coursing through him. It shot from the images that assailed him—images of Clay and the icy water, his mother’s funeral, his father’s suicide, the degradation of his men, the video of dismemberment, the threat to behead his brother.

Nothing could save them now.

It all came back to the witness.

It had to be because of her—no, it was because of her.

Their sacrifice, their blood, all their rescue work destroyed because of this fucking supermarket clerk.

Lisa Palmer’s New York State driver’s-license photo stared back at Felk. He’d contacted intelligence sources who’d provided him with her home address in Queens.

Felk turned the laptop for Unger to see.

“This is our target,” Felk said. “She will suffer beyond comprehension for what she’s brought down on us.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“She’s an enemy combatant.”

“What are you talking about, Ivan? I thought we were going to disappear.”

“I need you for one last mission.”

Unger’s eyes filled with fear and the realization that Felk was losing his sanity, just as a boarding call for their United flight was announced.

Direct to La Guardia in Queens, New York.

Like Dillon, Ian Northcutt had been identified through his fingerprints.

Northcutt, like Dillon, had the cobra tattoo around his wrist.

And like Dillon, Northcutt had refused to speak to Morrow.

Upon searching Northcutt’s room and trash, agents found notes about the Federal Reserve Bank. Morrow noticed in the case files that a snapshot obtained by German police of Erik Rytter showed him in combat fatigues with his arm around Northcutt, against a scenic mountain range.

Morrow’s team and a second team with the San Francisco police waited in hotel rooms for the two other men.

All they had were aliases, no photos, no IDs. The San Francisco FBI’s Evidence Response Team was standing by for the warrants needed to collect fingerprints and DNA from the toiletries. Other investigators tried tracking credit card and phone records for the rooms and the names used by the guests, which were aliases.

Hours passed without either of the two men showing.

During the whole time, Dillon and Northcutt never voiced a single word.