“Then what?” Ford asked.
“You give me twenty-four hours to go upstate and get the witness exclusive. We write what we know, then tell the FBI that we’re going with the story, tell them what it is, ask for comment and then we let it go as our exclusive?”
Gannon glanced at all the editors as they considered his proposal, then he looked at the wall with the time zone clocks.
“I like that approach,” Cooke said.
“By seeking comment we’re alerting the FBI to what we have, I think that’s fair,” O’Neill said.
Lisker grabbed his BlackBerry and started a message.
“I’m alerting Beland. Gannon, you’ve got twenty-four hours to pull this all together.”
48
Lake George, New York
Maybe the worst is behind us.
After talking with Jack Gannon, Lisa echoed the same hope she’d had the last time she’d driven on this highway, when she’d signed the papers to sell the cabin.
It was over a week ago, but it felt like a thousand lifetimes as memories pulled her back…to Ramapo and…the gunfire…the killing of the guards…the agent beside her…the killer is on them…the agent’s eyes…I love you, Jennifer…the warm bloody spatter…the killer drilling his gun into her…she sees Bobby…he tells her to fight…it’s not your time…fight for everything that matters…
Bobby.
She missed him, ached for him as she glanced in her rearview mirror at Ethan and Taylor, sleeping.
Lisa blinked back her tears as she drove.
She was seething at the killers.
What gave them the right to destroy lives? Who were these animals? She hated them, thanked God they were caught. Three arrested in San Francisco and one dead in Nebraska; the tally was now four, the radio news report said.
Four. It was done.
Lisa had found a degree of comfort in the outcome. And if the FBI got them because of her help, she was glad. But she prayed she would never have to face those murdering bastards again.
Not in court, not anywhere.
Not ever.
She questioned whether she should’ve called Chan or Morrow to let them know that she was going out of town. “Keep us informed of your whereabouts in case we need to contact you,” they’d told her at the outset. But they seemed to have forgotten about her, or were slow to confirm with a phone call what she’d already learned on the case from the press. She dismissed the thought of calling the FBI.
It was over.
She needed to look after her kids, move on with their lives.
As Lisa drove she embraced the beauty of this secluded section of the state. The magnificent Adirondacks rose in the west. Vermont, with its rolling Green Mountains, was a few miles east. She felt safe here, sheltered and ready to do all the things she needed to do. She looked forward to seeing Jack Gannon again, to telling him her story. She liked him.
He was a good guy.
Talking to him, letting the world know exactly what happened would be therapeutic for her, it would help her heal. She could close a chapter of her life and start living the next one by focusing on everything that matters.
…fight for everything that matters…
She glanced in her rearview mirror again.
Ethan and Taylor had awakened and were peacefully watching the scenery roll by.
Her angels.
On the seat between them was the handmade wooden box holding the marble cremation urn containing Bobby’s ashes. Ethan and Taylor each rested a hand protectively on it in a scene that warmed Lisa’s heart.
Yes, she thought, concentrating on the road ahead, maybe the worst was now behind them.
49
Lake George, New York
Following several hundred yards back of Lisa’s car, in a rented SUV, Ivan Felk adjusted the tuning dial on the dash-mounted radio.
“Did you hear that?”
“Just the tail end before it cut out,” Unger said from behind the wheel.
It was a few seconds after the hour and one static-filled station’s newscast had led with something about “the armored car heist in Ramapo.”
Felk found a clearer station in time to hear a fuller news report, which summarized the Associated Press story.
“…three people have been arrested in San Francisco in connection with the murders of three guards and an FBI agent during a 6.3-million-dollar armored car heist in Greater New York City. The arrests follow the death of another suspect—Erik Rytter, a German national with a military background who was fatally wounded while struggling for a state trooper’s gun after a traffic stop in Nebraska…”
After swallowing the news, the muscles along Felk’s jawline spasmed and he glared at the mountains.
“Three? Who else did they get?” Unger asked.
“Maybe Dante, or Upshaw, all because of her!” Felk glowered at Lisa’s Ford far ahead in the distance then slammed both palms violently on the dash. For nearly half a mile, his anger faded into the tense hum of the SUV’s radials on the asphalt. Unger tightened his grip on the wheel.
Thinking.
Police actually had three of their people. They should get out of the country, now. It was worse than Unger thought.
“Ivan, what if she’s leading us into a trap? What if they’re watching us? We could still pull out…the mission’s over.”
“It’s not over. Not while I’m breathing.”
Felk dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.
His squad was decimated, his other men, his brother, were all facing death. Clay’s pleas on the video, and Felk’s own from the frozen pond in Ohio pierced him—“Don’t let me die! Ivan, please! Don’t let me die!”—Felk’s world was in ruins because of that bitch.
No, it would not end here. No goddamn way. He would not fail in this critical operation because of a fucking cashier from Queens.
“What do we do, Ivan?”
“We finish her, then we salvage the mission.”
“Salvage the mission?”
“We already have more than six million overseas. We offer them the six million, a million per man. They won’t turn down six million in cash.”
“But there’s only the two of us.”
“We get our people in Kuwait to hire contractors to join us and then we’ll carry out the mission and waste these motherfuckers.”
“What about our guys here?”
“When we rescue our people overseas, we’ll regroup and devise plans to help our men taken prisoner here. But first—” Felk’s eyes blazed at Lisa’s car “—first, we’re going to collect our payback up there.”
50
Lake George, New York
By the time Lisa and the children had reached the turnoff for the cabin, the afternoon sky had dimmed. Rolls of dark, ragged-edged rain clouds gathered above the mountains.
The threat of a storm hung over them as they traveled along a secondary road that wound through sweet-smelling forests for two miles before coming to an intersection. It gave access to the cabins scattered for miles in the vast wooded reaches along Lake George’s eastern shore.
The crossroad was marked by Hallick’s General Store.
The one-story framed building, with its overflowing flower boxes, was run by Jed and Violet Hallick, who lived thirteen miles away in Southbay. The store had a single gas pump and offered fishing supplies, outdoor gear and groceries in this isolated corner of the region. Their nearly napping dog yawned a welcome from the base of the pay phone on the shaded porch as Lisa and the kids entered.