Alex Kava - Black Friday

"Text messages indicate Dixon is at the hospital."

"He's okay?" Asante chose his words carefully. But then he already knew the boy was alive. His grandfather had as much as confirmed that in his angry phone call.

"His grandmother is having emergency heart surgery. Rebecca is on her way."

"So they're together?" He punched up the map of the mall's third floor on his computer screen.

"She asked what he got her into."

Asante slid his finger over the small computer screen, zooming in on the map where Carrier #3's bomb had exploded. GPS devices were packed in the backpacks, but every carrier was also given a brand-new iPhone so they could track both carrier and bomb in case one of them decided to leave the backpack behind. He had chosen to keep them all on one floor, the combined blasts close to each other, causing the greatest structural damage as well as creating a larger blast area. That had been his priority. Now he checked to see exactly where Carrier #3's backpack was when it exploded. Zooming in he could see it quite plainly: the women's restroom. The young woman not only had Dixon Lee's iPhone, she had been carrying his backpack.

"Sir?"

"Continue."

"Her name is Rebecca Cory. She's a student at the University of New Haven, a resident of Hartford, Connecticut. Her father is William Cory of—"

"Credit cards? ATM card? Driver's license?" he interrupted as he peeled off his clothes. He didn't need to know the entire portfolio they had amassed. Just those details that mattered.

"ATM card through First Bank of Hartford," the female voice continued, pleasant and soothing as though she were reciting menu items for a special dinner. "She took out a cash withdrawal of fifty dollars two days ago in Toledo. However, a MasterCard looks to be her choice of payment. She uses it for everyday incidentals. Up until two days ago, a daily Starbucks charge in West Haven. Connecticut driver's license."

"Revoke all three. Immediately."

"Yes, sir."

"I want her feeling disabled." He stood before the mirror now in only socks and boxers, thinking this is exactly how he wanted Rebecca Cory—stripped and vulnerable. Figuratively speaking. At least until it was safe to kill her. "Tell Danko that he can find the girl and Dixon Lee at the hospital."

"And if he does?"

"Extract both."

"Yes, sir."

Asante would find another way to use the boy. An extra cutaway when the time was right. A bargaining chip, perhaps.

"What about the other young man?" he asked.

"His name is Patrick Murphy. I'm still working on him."

Asante gave her instructions for what came next, including what to do with Murphy. Before he hung up he gave her a new contact number to use. Then Asante removed the SIM card from the cell phone, destroyed it, and flushed it down the toilet. The portable memory chip held all the traceable data including personal identity information and a record of incoming as well as outgoing calls. From the duffel bag pocket he pulled out a new SIM card and slid it into the cell phone. In seconds he keyed in the password for his wireless headset, punched in a couple of codes and the phone was as good as new and ready to use. He put it and the headset on the sink, safely out of his way.

The shaver indicated that it was fully charged. Within seconds he shaved off his goatee. He reset the shaver's rotating heads so they wouldn't go all the way to the skin but would leave a half inch. Then he started path after path over his head, watching the dark hair, some of it three to four inches long, fall to the sink.

Next came the hair color. The formula was his own special mixture. He squirted it into the palms of his hands and rubbed it over the new stubble, watching his hair turn honey-colored before his eyes. He massaged it into his eyebrows, too.

Cleanup took only a few minutes. Everything he no longer needed, including the syringe, was flushed away or washed down the drain. The hiking boots went into the trash can along with the rest of his clothes. From the garment bag he unzipped an expensive suit, navy blue and tailored to fit him perfectly, as did the white shirt. He left the collar open and stuffed the tie in the duffel bag. He replaced his over-the-ear wireless headset and tucked the cell phone into his breast pocket.

Finished with discarding the Project Manager, he flipped open his wallet to his driver's license and held it up. Once again, he looked like Robert Asante, an ordinary businessman traveling to his next appointment. More importantly, the man in the mirror matched the man in the driver's license photo.

It was time to move on to the next site. Time for the next stage of the project.

"We already have our company investigator reviewing the tapes," the small man named Jerry Yarden told Maggie as he led her through a back hallway.

Maggie couldn't believe it. The security company was reviewing its own tapes? She stopped herself from asking whose authority and what protocol gave them that go-ahead? She'd learned years ago that questioning the locals risked offending them. The result only made her job tougher. It was better if they believed she was on their side. Most people already believed that federal law enforcement would sooner point fingers and place blame than present solutions and share credit.

"I understand someone in security noticed the young men before the bombs went off?"

"Oh yeah, we noticed. Three identical red backpacks." He glanced back at her over his shoulder, not slowing his rapid, almost erratic pace. "You betcha we noticed."

Yarden was Maggie's height, small-framed but long-limbed, arms pumping and swinging loosely as he walked. He reminded Maggie of a propeller with a thatch of red unruly hair.

"How did you know they were red?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your surveillance cameras are black-and-white, right?"

"Oh sure. We started following them up on the floor," Yarden explained. "We're trained to watch what people bring into the mall with them. We see something suspicious, we follow on the floor. You know, large purses, shopping bags with return items, backpacks, even baby strollers. We had a woman last month sneaking cashmere sweaters under her baby. You'd be surprised what people do."

Maggie smiled to herself. Actually she wouldn't be surprised.

His Midwest manners kept track of her, politely leading the way and holding doors open. Now he pointed to a door at the end of the hall.

"We thought they were shoplifters," he said. "None of us expected those backpacks to have bombs in them."

He beat her by four lengths to the end of the hallway, yanked the door and again held it open for her, his feet spread apart and both arms engaged like the door was a ton of lead. She pushed aside the fact that she could probably bench-press Yarden's weight let alone hold open the door for herself. Instead she thanked him and stepped inside.

He led her through a maze of offices and back to another door. When he opened this one she immediately noticed the room was dim and lit from only the wall of monitors, four rows of ten across with a long control panel of keypads, switches and color-coded buttons.

Sitting at the panel with his back to them was the lone investigator, square-shouldered, dark hair. There was something familiar about the man. Before he swiveled around Maggie recognized Nick Morrelli.

He, however, was not prepared. He did a double take, looking from Yarden to Maggie and back to Maggie.

"Fancy seeing you here," he said with his trademark smile, the one that employed dimples and white teeth in the glow of the computer monitors.

"Hi Nick."

"You two know each other?" Yarden seemed disappointed.

"We've worked together before," Maggie answered, leaving it at that and watching to see if Nick would be compelled to add more. "So you've left the D.A.'s office? You're an investigator now?"