The team was solid, not a weakness among them. Felk regretted that Sparks had refused to sign on. He was the only holdout. Could Sparks be trusted to keep the faith? Should we guarantee that he does? The troubling questions returned to gnaw at Felk until he shoved them aside to focus on the mission.
“News reports of the hit are being carried up here. It’s a big story,” Dillon said.
“We know,” Unger said. “How much farther?”
“About forty-five minutes, give or take.”
Traffic was nonexistent when they turned north on Highway 32, which cut across forests, farm fields and jagged rock exposures. When Highway 32 ended, they turned south on Highway 15, traveled another fifteen minutes beyond Seeley’s Bay toward the Dog Lake area. Dillon slowed to a near stop at an outcropping of house-size rock. The formation nearly concealed the mouth of a dirt road that twisted into a thick forest, disappearing in the darkness.
Private Property Keep Out, a hand-painted scrawl warned from a sign nailed to one of the trees. They bordered the entrance like sentries. Overhanging branches engulfed the road, as if to underscore the notice.
Lit only by the Cherokee’s high beams, Dillon proceeded along the narrow dirt ribbon, hugging small cliff edges.
“Some of the men behind Lincoln’s assassination fled to this region,” Dillon said as branches slapped at the doors and roof and gravel popcorned against the undercarriage.
The Cherokee arrived at a soft sandy path, curtained with tall shrubs. Then, through the bush, the headlights found a clearing and a cottage.
“It belongs to my buddy’s uncle.” Dillon killed the motor. “I told him I had some friends who wanted to fish. I’ve got full use for three weeks.”
It offered seclusion on three acres.
Felk was pleased.
After they hauled in their gear, Dillon showed them around. The cottage was built with cedar logs. The lake shimmered beyond large windows that framed a stone fireplace.
The main floor had an open living-dining area with a large flat-screen TV hooked to a satellite dish. The kitchen had a freezer, stove and a fridge Dillon had fully stocked. The sink had a pump to draw clean well water. There was a small hot-water reservoir. Upstairs, there was a private master bedroom and two large spacious bedroom areas with two extra-wide bunks in the loft area. There was no indoor plumbing. No toilet. No tub or shower. There was an outhouse at the rear. The lake was where people bathed, Dillon said before offering the men cold Canadian beer.
“Luxurious compared to some assignments,” Unger said.
“The Sheraton in Addis Ababa was comfy,” Northcutt added.
“Beats the hell out of Afghanistan,” Rytter said.
“Neighbors are rare in these parts,” Dillon said.
“We’ll cool off here for as long as we need before rolling on to the next stage.” Felk indicated the sports bags. “We need a tally on the take.”
The men opened all the bags containing the cash and other items from the heist. Dillon produced a money counter. As the men loaded cash in the machine, Felk took his gear upstairs to the master bedroom and stepped outside onto the upper balcony. He looked at the lake, tranquil under the starlight.
His attention shot back to the tribal regions of the disputed zone and he ran his hand over his stubbled face, knowing what was coming. The images were seared into his brain…
…the desecrated corpses of his men…corpses hanging from a bridge…dragged naked through a public square…pissed on, then dismembered…given to the dogs to finish off…the diseased three-legged mutt with a hand and forearm clenched in its jaws…
Three of Felk’s men were killed.
Five escaped with him.
The insurgents set their price for the lives of the six they’d captured: two million per man. Totaclass="underline" twelve million in U.S. cash. Whether the insurgents would actually make the cash-for-lives exchange was not a factor for Felk. He would secure the ransom and bring his men home.
He would not fail.
Felk returned to the bedroom and switched on his laptop, a state-of-the-art model fully encrypted with a satellite link. He checked for new emails from the intermediary.
There was one.
It had a video. A new video.
Was this it?
Felk braced to look at it, preparing himself for the worst he could imagine. The insurgents had threatened to make execution videos of the beheadings.
If this was it, he was ready.
The image blurred then focused on a newspaper showing the date, indicating the recording was less than twenty-four hours old. From his limited grasp of Urdu, Felk recognized the newspaper. It was the Daily Dunya Quetta. Sometimes the militants used other newspapers from the region to verify the date of the video. This one was twenty-four hours old.
The newspaper vanished.
Now the camera was showing six unshaven men—his men—sitting on the floor in manacles and flanked by four men wearing hoods and holding large swords.
One of the hooded men stepped in front of the camera.
“Heed this message from the New Guardians of the National Revolutionary Movement,” he said in heavily accented English. “Our court has tried these infidel spies and has found them guilty of crimes against humanity. The penalty is to pay the fine, or execution.”
The footage cut to a hooded man stepping to one of the seated prisoners and forcing him to bow his head as a sword rose over it. The captors shouted at the bound man. Fear filled the eyes of the other hostages. They were haggard, exhibiting signs of beatings, sleep deprivation.
Felk’s stomach churned.
The man chosen for execution began moving, his back heaving up and down. He was sobbing. They’ve broken him, Felk realized, just as a horrible guttural keening distorted the video’s sound.
“Ivan! Don’t let me die!”
The man’s cry pierced Felk.
The prisoner was his younger brother, Clayton.
“Ivan, please! Don’t let me die!”
The first hooded man blocked the image, his head filling the frame again.
“You have twenty-six days to pay fine.”
The video ended.
Felk’s nostrils flared as he struggled to steady his breathing. It took a long moment before he could slow his heartbeat.
Unger knocked at the door.
“Ivan, we’ve got something coming up on a newscast from New York.”
Felk joined the others in the living room. The cash was stacked neatly on the coffee table.
“How much?” Felk asked.
“Six point three,” Northcutt said.
Felk acknowledged the amount just as VNYC cut to a news anchor at a desk. A Breaking News flag stretched across the screen’s bottom.
“And this just in on that I-87 armored car heist that left four people dead in Ramapo, north of New York City. The World Press Alliance, citing unnamed sources, is reporting that one of the victims was an FBI agent who was shot ‘execution style’ while going for his weapon and that investigators have a key eyewitness to his murder. Again, the WPA is reporting…”
“An eyewitness? Jesus Christ, what could they have seen?” Dillon asked.
“Nothing,” Unger said. “No one saw anything. We took every precaution. It’s bull. What do you think, Ivan?”
Staring intensely at the TV news report, the image of his brother still burning into his heart, Felk grappled with self-reproach.