Brad Thor - Full Black

Was she even safe in the airport? She’d noticed the two Middle Eastern businessmen standing several people in front of her. Could they be terrorists? She supposed they could, but it just seemed so far-fetched. What were the odds she’d get into a line with two terrorists?

Christie chastised herself for having those thoughts. She refused to allow herself to look at every Muslim person as a potential terrorist. They were regular people until shown to be otherwise.

She wondered how many others were having the same thoughts she was having. Muslims of good conscience were going to have to stand and denounce the violence. If they did that, Christie Jacobson would be proud to stand with them.

She tried not to look at the two businessmen. Plenty of other people were probably staring at them and she didn’t want to add to their number. In fact, if she were going to look at them at all, it would be with a smile. No matter how many accusatory looks they received today, they’d remember the kind one.

The line shuffled forward and Christie found herself in a position to deliver her encouraging smile. Catching the eyes of one of the men, she smiled and nodded. Immediately, the man’s face darkened and he turned his head away.

His friend, though, saw Christie’s gesture and nodded curtly. He then turned to the other man and began speaking to him quietly. The man didn’t seem to care. He was concentrating on thumbing out a text or an email on his BlackBerry. Christie felt foolish.

She tried to console herself with the notion that maybe it was a cultural difference. Maybe where these men came from, women didn’t directly engage them and smile at them. She decided to leave them alone. They didn’t have to acknowledge her kindness.

To take her mind off the interminably long and slow-moving line, she scanned the other faces in the crowd. She enjoyed people watching. It was fun imagining people’s backgrounds and what their professions might be.

There were plenty who might have been incredibly interesting, but most just kind of looked blah and unkempt. The game was more fun to play with unusual-looking people. Though she’d never confess it to her husband, Christie found the game the most fun with unusually good-looking people, like the man who was standing several steps back from her.

Because of the way the line wrapped around, they were now facing each other. She tried not to stare, but it was hard. He was really good-looking. The man was over six feet with bright blue eyes and one of those taut jawlines that screamed physically fit.

Studying the man, she tried to imagine what his profession might be. He was big enough to have been a professional athlete of some sort. He was probably in his early to mid forties. Bush pilot had a nice ring to it and seemed a good fit.

Not wanting to stare, she had averted her gaze, but as she now risked a glance back at him, she noticed his expression had changed. There was suddenly an intensity to his face that was very unsettling. He was moving away from her. That’s when she saw him draw the gun.

“Show me your hands!” he yelled. “Open palms! Away from your body! Do it now!”

It took Christie a moment to realize that he wasn’t talking to her, but rather the two Middle Eastern men. Half the people standing in line had dropped to the floor, while the other half were quickly backing away, knocking over the retracta-belts and stanchions.

Intuitively sensing she was in the way, Christie dropped to the floor. No sooner had she hit than she heard the earsplitting thunder of the man’s weapon going off.

She looked up to see the head of the man she had smiled at snap backward as a pink mist materialized in the air. All around people were screaming.

She looked at the other Middle Eastern man. His hand looked to be wrapped in a death grip around the handle of his rolling bag.

As the man plunged the handle down, she was reminded of an old-fashioned dynamite detonator box.

If there was any consolation, it was that the explosion was so intense that Christie Jacobson and the others in the terminal never felt any pain.

Harvath had hopped into the Escalade’s driver’s seat and was halfway down to the ground floor when he heard the explosion. “What the hell just happened?” he demanded.

“One of the bombers detonated,” replied Nicholas. “Terminal Two.”

“Damn it,” he shouted.

“The Lincoln Town Car is on the move.”

Harvath accelerated.

“Stop. Stop. Stop,” Nicholas ordered. “He’s going up.”

“Up? Why the hell would he be going up?”

“I don’t know.”

Harvath threw the big SUV into reverse and stepped on the accelerator. He only made it thirty feet before a car suddenly appeared in his rearview mirror. Slamming on his brakes, he threw the Escalade into drive and raced down the ramp. “I can’t get back up this way,” he said as Sarhan bounced around in back. “I have to use the up ramp. Watch that Town Car and tell me what he does.”

“Will do.”

Racing onto the up ramp, Harvath backed off the gas just a bit. If the Town Car was a VBIED as they believed, rolling up on him way too quickly was only going to spook the driver into detonating in the garage. Surely he had heard the explosion as well, and knew that the attack was on. That meant Harvath needed to be doubly careful. One wrong move and it was all over.

“He’s just exited the ramp on the third floor,” said Nicholas.

Why the third floor? Harvath wondered.

Nicholas had the answer seconds later. “He’s going to try to exit onto the upper-deck roadway through the entrance.”

“Doesn’t it have spikes?”

“If it does, he doesn’t seem to care.”

Harvath pushed the Escalade faster. He pulled the wheel hard to the side, popped up onto the third floor, and raced for the upper-deck roadway.

Nicholas’s voice came over his earbud. “He jumped the curb and took out the ticket machine! The far left lane!”

“Which way did he turn?”

“To the right. He’s headed toward Terminal Two!”

Harvath pinned the gas pedal to the floor. “Have all the other bombers in the other terminals been interdicted?”

“Affirmative.”

“What about the other VBIEDs?”

“LAPD is trying to move in on them now.”

The entire upper deck was going to be crowded with people, especially outside Terminal Two, where the explosion had happened. “Tell LAPD that they can’t ram the vehicles,” Harvath insisted. “They have to shoot the drivers. Tell TSA to try to get everyone off the sidewalks. Now!”

Harvath had no idea if the other three vehicles had started their run or not. All he knew was that his best option was to get the Town Car. The LAPD would have to get the others. He just hoped they’d all be able to do their jobs on time.

Racing toward the entrance, Harvath could see where the Town Car had made its exit. Hitting the curb at over sixty miles an hour, he applied his brakes and pulled the wheel hard to the right as he shot out of the parking structure.

He came barreling out in the wrong direction and sideswiped two oncoming vehicles. It was a lucky break. If they hadn’t been there, he might very well have flipped the Escalade as he spun out of the garage and pulled hard to his right.

Punching the accelerator again, he raced ahead. There was no need to ask Nicholas where the Town Car was headed. It had to be Terminal Two. That was where it was going to do the most damage.

Seconds later, he veered onto the main upper-deck roadway that circled the airport. He could see Terminal Two dead ahead. He could also see the Town Car. There was no way he was going to catch it in time.

He heard the rapid crack of weapons fire as law enforcement officers engaged the Town Car, and Harvath watched in horror as the vehicle headed right for them.