Alex Kava - Black Friday

He set the small computer on the dash to see the screen better. Before he could press any of the preset buttons a call buzzed in. He checked his phone. He didn't recognize the number though he often instructed his crew to use prepaid cell phones to prevent tracking.

"Asante," he answered into his wireless headset.

"You tried to use my grandson," an angry voice came back at him.

Asante knew immediately who it was. He had already been warned that the man might be a problem. "How did you get this number?"

"What the hell did you think you were doing?"

"Once the project has begun no one has control but me. Those are the rules."

"You meant to kill him, didn't you, you asshole."

"Nor are you to have any contact with me." Asante kept his voice calm and steady even as he disconnected the call.

With one hand clenching the steering wheel and the other on the phone's keypad he tapped several keys, ensuring that number would be blocked.

He checked his eyes again in the rearview mirror, disappointed to find the anxiety turning to anger. Calm. He needed to stay calm. He flexed his fingers and stretched his neck from side to side.

Despite the man's fury and accusation, his grandson, Dixon Lee, had not been a mistake or a glitch. Asante allowed himself a smile. Dead or alive, Dixon Lee had been a well-planned insurance policy. Another quick glance in the mirror. Nobody messed with the Project Manager once the project began. Nobody. Not even the assholes who special ordered the project.

Asante turned into the long-term parking lot at the airport and found a space at the far end, close to where he had stolen the car earlier. He gathered up his belongings, stuffing them into the duffel bag. Then he wiped down every single surface inside the car that he had touched. He left the car just as the airport shuttle pulled into the lot. He glanced at his diver's watch. Plenty of time.

He took another deep breath. He hated glitches. In the old days he could predict and ward off every single one. Perhaps it was time to retire. Buy an island somewhere. He had more than enough money stashed safely away in Zurich, even before this project. He deserved the rest. A nice long relaxation, something more substantial than the short escapes that lasted only as long as a box of Cubans and a couple bottles of Chivas.

Instead of focusing on glitches, instead of thinking about Carrier #3 Asante reminded himself of other successes. It calmed him to run past projects through his mind step by step—the early planning, the stages and then the denouement. So when Asante boarded the shuttle bus he nodded to the driver with a brief smile and in his mind he began the playback of Madrid, March 11, 2004…backpacks, the train station at rush hour, bright flashes of light and most of all…success.

Saint Mary's Hospital

Henry Lee paced the hallway, unclenching his fists only long enough to drag nervous fingers over his bristled head and rub the disbelief from his eyes. At sixty-eight he was still vain enough to take pride in his compact, fit and trim physique. He was strong and healthy and unlike his father and grandfather Henry had done everything in his control to prevent hereditary heart disease from shortening his golden years. Everything, that is, except to make sure that his wife, his sweetheart, his Hannah, had also stayed healthy. It was simply inconceivable to him that she was in surgery right here, right now undergoing the emergency triple bypass that Henry thought for certain he had dodged.

He couldn't help wondering if this was some cruel punishment from God though he thought he had given up on the foolishness of His existence years ago. No God Henry could believe in would take away a daughter as murderously as his own had been taken. Hannah was always the one, the believer, the healer, wanting to make sense out of madness. She was Henry's lifeline, his common sense, his sanity. He couldn't bear to lose her. And then to find out that he almost lost his grandson on the very same day. If God did exist He was, indeed, cruel and vindictive.

Henry looked for the boy, again, checking the waiting room and glancing around the corner. Earlier Dixon had come to the hospital when summoned, physically distraught about his grandmother, his eyes red-rimmed, his fingernails bitten to the quick. When he said he had just come from the mall Henry thought his own heart had stopped, realizing what could have happened had he not called the boy.

While the first reports came in about a possible terrorist attack at the mall, the boy remained quiet. The two of them watched the wall-mounted TV while sitting silently side by side in the surgery waiting room. No one else was there, except for a few staff members wandering in and out. No surgeries were planned the day after Thanksgiving other than emergency ones. It took several reports before Dixon—in between gnawing at his poor thumbnail—confessed and explained about his friends and how they had convinced Dixon to help them. The whole time Henry felt the blood drain from his face.

"We were told we were carrying electronic jamming devices," Dixon told him, his eyes darting around, teeth nipping at another fingernail. "I think it might have been something else."

"That's impossible," Henry said but he knew it to be quite the opposite. "I told you to stay away from those two."

"We've been friends since third grade."

"Doesn't matter. They're trouble."

"I've got to find out if they're okay," Dixon told him. "Can I borrow your phone?"

The boy was so distraught Henry handed over his smartphone without hesitating. It was better he make his own calls from the hospital's public phones. They were less likely to be traced. He certainly didn't want the calls immortalized on his monthly statement.

He dialed the second number, this one from memory instead of a crumpled piece of paper, his fingers still shaking from the first call.

"Hello?"

"Allan, it's Henry. We need to have a meeting."

"For what reason?"

"We need to reconsider."

"Reconsider?"

"Yes. We need to stop this."

Henry expected anger. He was prepared for it. He wasn't prepared, however, for laughter.

He held the phone away from his ear and closed his eyes tight against the sudden pain of his clenched jaw muscles, an involuntary reaction from his early days as a boxer preparing for an upper left. This was worse than any punch. When the laughter silenced he brought the phone back to his ear.

"There's no stopping this now. Go home, Henry. Get some sleep."

A dial tone erupted in Henry's ear before he could respond.

It was twilight by the time their motorcade of black SUVs idled at the first set of police barricades surrounding the mall. Maggie couldn't help but notice that the short ride from the airport yielded a breathtakingly beautiful sunset, the sky clear now except for the pink-purple streaks. The only evidence of a recent storm was the glittering snow that blanketed everything in sight. That and the cold, a bitter cold that you could see in breaths that streamed from brief greetings while getting in and out of vehicles.

"Looks like even the national vultures have already arrived," A.D. Kunze said as they passed by a lopsided line of vans and trucks with TV call letters on their sides and satellite receivers on their roofs. A helicopter flew overhead.

"It's all part of the process," Senator Foster told them, looking out at the reporters and cameramen assembling equipment as close to the action as possible.

Maggie noticed the senator straighten his tie in the reflection of the SUV's window. At first she thought she was mistaken. Perhaps it was an absentminded habit. But then he brushed a hand over his silver hair. She glanced at Deputy Director Wurth, expecting to exchange an eye roll and instead found him doing the same.