Alex Kava - Black Friday

Rebecca glanced over her shoulder. He was there at the top of the escalator, only a dozen or so steps behind. She avoided eye contact but could feel his stare.

The escalator made it feel like they were moving in slow motion. There was no way for her to push forward and take advantage of the temporary barrier between them. No one dared to rush down the steps. By now all that were left on the third floor were the trailers, those slowed by shock or injuries, old age or physical handicaps. The first waves were already down on the main level of the mall, piling at the exits.

Rebecca gripped the cell phone in her hand and with her thumb punched in:

WHAT DID YOU GET ME INTO?

The response chimed back quickly:

THANK GOD U R OK. WHAT ABOUT CHAD amp; TYLER?

They were getting to the bottom of the escalator. Her thumb flew over the miniature keypad:

SOMEONE'S AFTER ME.

WHO IS HE, DIXON???????

They were on the second floor and Rebecca tried to stay with the safety net group but they were breaking apart, going separate ways. Another glance back. He was stuck on the escalator for a few more seconds, looking miserably impatient, his hand ready to shove the old women out of his way.

She dashed around the corner, stumbled through a kiosk of sunglasses that had been knocked over. She slipped but kept her balance. Her arm throbbed. Again, she felt light-headed and nauseated. In the reflection of a storefront window she could see him coming, already turning the corner. A brisk walk. Not running. Not yet.

His head swiveled from side to side, watching everyone and taking in everything around them. She kept track of him in the store window reflections as she passed by, avoiding looking back at him and wasting time. All the storefronts were already closed, metal grates across the entrances preventing her from ducking into one of them.

Rebecca kept a steady pace. There was another group approaching the next set of down escalators. She hurried to join them. She wedged herself into the middle just as they started getting on the escalator. A quick glance over her shoulder. He was there at the top, following, not even ten feet behind.

She gripped the moving railing with her left hand and snatched it back.

Blood. And lots of it.

Her hand was wet and sticky with it. The realization that it was her own sent her stomach reeling again. The wound in her arm was bleeding more than she thought.

In her right hand she held the cell phone and began texting again:

WHERE R U? WHICH HOSPITAL?

"Becca."

She heard her name called and twisted around.

Was it possible the man knew who she was?

She saw him looking up and followed his eyes. Leaning over the second floor railing was Patrick waving at her.

Patrick. Steady, reliable Patrick.

Tall, lean, looking strong…and worried. Something black smeared the side of his face. His hand waved, trailing a bloodstained wrap.

She smiled up at him.

God, it was good to see him.

Something unclenched inside her. It would be okay. She'd be okay. She wasn't alone. They were almost to the bottom of the escalator. She'd hang tight to the group, wait for Patrick to catch up. Another look over her shoulder and she saw him at the top of the escalator. The man in the PARAMEDIC cap saw him, too. He had something in his hand, something that flashed before he pocketed it.

A knife? A gun? The syringe?

The cell phone chimed Dixon's reply:

ST MARY'S. COME HERE.

DON'T TRUST ANYONE.

NOT EVEN PATRICK.

In flight

Maggie set the file folder aside. She was more interested in Homeland Security Deputy Director Wurth's phone call. He took what looked like meticulous notes, while he nodded and inserted "Yes, I understand" several times. For the rest of them seated around him and listening, it was impossible to know what was going on.

FBI Assistant Director Kunze didn't bother to hide his impatience. He waved a beefy hand at Wurth, palm up accompanied by a shoulder shrug. It was as plain as if he were saying, "What the hell's going on?" Wurth ignored him. He continued to take notes in the small leather folio, underlining words and redotting i's in between writing. Maggie saw it as a nervous habit of a man with too much energy. Also a way of controlling information and ignoring the rest of them. Perhaps the deputy director had a few political tricks up his own sleeve.

"Three bombs," Wurth told them even as he was tapping the button on the phone to end his call. "Mall security noticed at least three men with identical red backpacks earlier this morning. They started tracking them just minutes before the blasts."

"Arabs?" Foster made no excuse for his first question.

"Mall security cameras are pretty crappy," Wurth said. "No one seems willing to make that assessment at this stage. They also aren't willing to discount anything either. Right now their focus is making sure there aren't any more bombs in the mall. Some of these sickos get their kicks from waiting for and taking out the first responders."

Maggie remembered all too well. That was exactly the case two months ago when she and Assistant Director Cunningham responded to what they believed was a bomb threat. A quiet suburban neighborhood. An ordinary house. Only the woman and her daughter who lived there had not been the real targets. She didn't want to think about it. Didn't need to relive it again for the hundredth time.

She glanced at A.D. Kunze fingering his too-tight collar and loosening his tie as he shoved into his mouth the last bite of a bagel loaded with cream cheese. Between chews and as he wiped at the corner of his lip he asked, "So how many dead?"

At that very moment, Maggie realized how much she missed Cunningham, his brisk but polite manner, that crinkle of concern indented in his brow, his quiet authority that seemed to enter the room with him. She even missed his nagging. Kyle Cunningham had been Maggie's mentor for over ten years. She'd learned so much from him, taking her cues not only on how to work a case but how to relate to colleagues, when to remain quiet, what to look for, even how to dress. In some ways Cunningham had replaced her father. And losing him felt like losing her father all over again. She didn't need her degree in psychology to understand that was why she was having nightmares again. Nightmares of going through her father's funeral over and over, still from the eyes of a twelve-year-old.

"It's too early." Wurth brought her back to the inside of their jet and not alongside her father's coffin. He was sidestepping Kunze's question. "You know how these things are in the preliminary stages. We can't rely on mall security to give us an accurate read of what's happening."

"Why not?" Maggie asked and surprised Wurth with her challenge. "You believed their report about three bombs, three men with three red identical backpacks."

Kunze stopped eating and actually sat forward, interested in Wurth's answer.

The deputy director looked from Maggie to Kunze then to Senator Foster who continued to sip his martini but raised an eyebrow to show that he, too, was waiting for the response.

"Right now they think the explosions were confined to the third floor. But the day after Thanksgiving the place was packed. Estimates are anywhere from 150,000 to 200,000 people inside. Depending on the detonation power inside each backpack…" Wurth shrugged—his best guess was as good as theirs. "We don't have a body count, if that's what all of you are looking for. But I will tell you that early reports indicate it's bad, very bad."

Mall of America

Asante had missed his opportunity. He hated loose ends.