At 3:47 PM, in a safe house in Greenwich Village, Lewis sat with Wyatt Watterson, both of them armed and watching the street below through partially closed blinds. Lewis's phone rang—an unknown number. He let it go to voicemail.
The message was brief: "Agent Lewis. This is Eliot King. We need to talk. Call me back at this number. It's important."
Lewis showed the message to Wyatt. "King is calling me directly."
"It's a trap. He wants to know where you are."
"Or he wants to make a deal. Offer immunity or money in exchange for recanting our testimony about the evidence."
"You're not seriously considering talking to him?"
Lewis wasn't sure. His career was over, he was facing possible prosecution, and one of their team members was already dead. If King was offering a way out...
His phone rang again—same number. This time he answered.
"Agent Lewis. Thank you for taking my call."
"What do you want, King?"
"To offer you a choice. You participated in Agent Jogensen's illegal investigation. You conducted unauthorized surveillance, gathered inadmissible evidence, and violated numerous federal regulations. Right now, you're looking at suspension, possible prosecution, the end of your career. I can make all of that go away."
"In exchange for what?"
"A signed statement saying that Agent Jogensen coerced you into participating, that you had concerns about the legality of his investigation but were threatened if you didn't cooperate, and that the evidence you gathered was manufactured or misrepresented to appear more damaging than it actually is."
Webb felt cold anger. "You want me to lie, throw Noah under the bus, and help you discredit the evidence."
"I want you to tell a version of the truth that serves your interests instead of Noah's. He's already destroyed—suspended, facing criminal charges, his career over. Nothing you say or don't say will change that. But you still have a chance to salvage your life. Take it."
"Fuck you, King. I'm not betraying Noah."
"Noble sentiment. Let's see how noble you feel when the FBI arrests you for illegal surveillance. When you're facing five years in federal prison. When your family is struggling financially because you can't work. Noah made his choice, Agent Lewis. Now you need to make yours."
King hung up.
Wyatt was staring at Lewis. "Please tell me you're not considering it."
"I'm not. But he's right about one thing—we're all facing serious consequences. Noah knew that when he started this, and we knew it when we joined him. But actually facing those consequences, actually looking at prison time..." Lewis shook his head. "It's different than the abstract idea of it."
"Chris Bolt is dead because he helped investigate HTBB. If we back out now, if we let King intimidate us, his death meant nothing."
Before Lewis could respond, his phone buzzed with a news alert: "BREAKING: DEA Agent Noah Jogensen Suspended Pending Investigation Into Illegal Surveillance."
The media had the story. Lewis's phone immediately started buzzing with calls from reporters, colleagues, friends. His name was about to be public, connected to the illegal investigation. His career was effectively over.
And somewhere in the city, Eliot King and Vancouver Sell were planning their next move.
At 7:23 PM, in a luxury apartment in TriBeCa that HTBB had maintained under a shell corporation, Eliot King and Vancouver Sell sat in near darkness, watching news coverage of the scandal.
"Thirty-two clients have terminated their relationships with us in the past twelve hours," King said, his voice eerily calm. "Financial accounts totaling over four hundred million dollars have been closed or frozen. Our entire operational structure is compromised. We're finished."
Vancouver stared at the television. His face was on the screen, labeled as "Fugitive - Wanted for Murder and Money Laundering." "We should have killed Noah when we had the chance. Before he started this investigation."
"Killing a federal agent creates too much heat. We made the right call eliminating Perez and Vega, but Noah was too high-profile."
"And now he's destroyed us. What's our play?"
King pulled out his phone and showed Vancouver a series of airline reservations, offshore account transfers, and new identity documents. "We disappear. Tonight. There's a private plane fueled and waiting at Teterboro. We fly to Mexico City, then connect to São Paulo. From there, we use the new identities to relocate to a country without US extradition."
"You planned this."
"I always have contingencies. The moment Noah released that evidence, this became inevitable. We can't fight a federal investigation with this much public attention. We can't manage the media narrative when the evidence is this damning. Our only option is to disappear and rebuild elsewhere."
Vancouver thought about the past fifteen years, about the organization they'd built from nothing. "What about our people? The operatives still in the US, the ones who worked for us?"
"They're on their own. Anyone who gets arrested, anyone who's pressured to cooperate—that's their problem now. We don't have the resources or time to protect them."
"And Noah? We're just going to let him win?"
King's expression hardened. "Before we leave, we send one final message. Noah destroyed our organization, ruined our lives, forced us into exile. He needs to understand there are consequences for that."
"You want to kill him."
"I want him to lose something he values, the way we've lost everything. His team—the people who helped him with the investigation. We eliminate them. Not immediately, not all at once. But over time, methodically, we make sure everyone who participated in Noah's illegal investigation pays the price."
Vancouver considered this. Killing federal agents and cooperating witnesses would bring down unprecedented law enforcement response. But they'd already crossed that line with Perez and Vega. And if they were fleeing the country anyway, if they were never coming back...
"Chris Bolt was the first message," Vancouver said. "Who's next?"
"Lewis. He was Benjamin Perez's friend, he helped coordinate the surveillance. Make it look like an accident, nothing that screams assassination. But make sure Noah knows it was us."
Vancouver nodded. "I'll handle it tonight. Before we leave."
As he stood to leave, King's phone rang—his attorney, Mitchell Carver. King put it on speaker.
"Eliot, FBI just obtained arrest warrants for you and Vancouver. Multiple charges—money laundering, conspiracy to commit murder, obstruction of justice, corruption of federal officials. Every federal agent in New York is looking for you. If you're planning to run, do it now."
"Already in motion. By midnight we'll be out of US airspace."
"Before you go—Noah's evidence package. My team has been analyzing it. Most of it is inadmissible, gathered through illegal surveillance. But some of it—the financial records, the video of Mallman meeting with Vancouver—that could be corroborated through legal means. If the FBI builds a proper case using Noah's evidence as a roadmap, they could still prosecute."
"That's their problem, not ours. We're not staying to fight this in court."
"Understood. Good luck, Eliot. I hope you make it."
After hanging up, King looked at Vancouver. "Change of plans. We leave immediately, not tonight. Take care of Webb en route to the airport. We don't have time for elaborate staging."
"Direct action?"
"Quick and clean. Send the message, then disappear."
Vancouver grabbed his weapon—a suppressed pistol, the same one he'd used on Marcus Vega, on Benjamin Perez. He checked the magazine, chambered a round, and headed for the door.
"Vancouver," King called out. "After this, we're done with violence. We disappear, we rebuild somewhere else, and we never take these kinds of risks again. Understood?"
"Understood."
But as Vancouver left the apartment, he wasn't thinking about rebuilding. He was thinking about Noah Jogensen, about the investigator who'd destroyed everything they'd built, who'd turned their empire into ashes with one night's evidence release.
Noah had won this round. But the game wasn't over.