Alex Kava - Black Friday

Right now he didn't care about anything else. Didn't care that their strategy had gone so terribly wrong. Or had it? Is this exactly what they wanted to happen?

Henry was beginning to understand that what he considered patriotism and honor, his so-called business associates appeared to see as only methods to raise profit margins and leverage political power. Henry had made a mistake. He realized that now. Family was what mattered most. Family was the most important thing. Everything else—country, business, even honor, were secondary. The tragic irony was that it was his sense of family that had sent him down this path in the first place. Only he had strayed too far. He'd forgotten what his original mission was, letting his pride and pigheaded stubborn ideals jeopardize everything else. Everything including what family he had left. How the hell could he ever make this right again?

On TV the local channels were still live at Mall of America. A press conference was going on but in the corner of the screen a chase scene from earlier played out. Still no confirmation on how many were dead though the estimate had been put at anywhere from twenty-five to fifty. Hundreds more had been injured.

Henry rubbed at his eyes then rubbed his hands together. His fingers were trembling. He glanced down the hallway. Where the hell was Dixon? They had told him earlier that he could use the phone in the waiting room for local calls. He just needed to dial a 9 first. He grabbed the receiver and punched in the number for his cell phone.

Sometimes a boy needed to be reminded of his obligations. Family needed to stick together. And damn it! He needed Dixon here with him, not off checking on his friends.

The phone rang four, five times before a voice answered that Henry didn't recognize.

"It took you long enough to call."

"Who is this?"

"Never mind that. I'm sure you'll want to talk to your grandson."

There was a muffled sound and then, "Granddad? What's going on?"

Only Dixon sounded muffled, too, as though he were being kept a distance from the phone. Then he heard the boy yell out in pain and this time Henry Lee felt his knees give out completely.

Patrick had wandered around the hotel for long enough. He'd been up and down every hallway on every floor, checking stairwells, riding freight elevators and popping through doors to laundry rooms, ready to apologize each time. Rebecca wasn't here.

It was freezing cold outside. He kept alongside the busy highway though there were no sidewalks and little room for pedestrians. On this night he wasn't alone. There was a lot of chaos in and out of the parking lots of businesses that bordered Mall of America.

Would Rebecca have risked going to one of the restaurants? He didn't think so. There were absolutely no taxi cabs. Rescue vehicles and police cruisers still lined the edges, red and blue lights flashing but the sirens off now. News vans with satellites on their roofs and reporters and camera crews took up any other available space. Uniformed cops directed traffic in and out of the hotel parking lot. All of the mall's entrances looked like they were barricaded. A Red Cross RV was stationed near the front of the mall with shuttle vans.

No, there was enough chaos that no one noticed Patrick walking in and out of traffic. And no one would have noticed Rebecca either.

He stopped at a busy intersection, this one still using the traffic lights instead of a uniformed cop. Vehicles headed for the interstate could speed off to the ramp with no wait, unlike those stalled in the other direction. They had to wait in stop-and-go traffic inching their way toward the mall and the hotel.

Earlier he'd tried directory assistance to get a phone number for Dixon Lee. Nothing. There were no directories for cell phones. He got a number for Henry Lee. Practiced what he'd say to the man if he answered.

He dialed. Waited. Only an answering machine.

Of course, Mr. Lee was probably still at the hospital. Patrick didn't have a message rehearsed for the answering machine so he hung up. He was running out of ideas. He was cold. He was hungry and he was worried about Rebecca.

That's when he saw her.

Across the street he recognized her. She had just come out of the Gas 'N Shop. Tentative at first, holding onto the door of the shop as if she might need to run back in.

"Rebecca," he yelled. His voice got lost in the hum of four lanes of traffic between them. He tried to cross against the light and the blast of a car's horn stopped him. One lane of traffic moved slowly. The other didn't need to wait for him and let him know. Evidently the Good Samaritan patience was wearing thin.

He found himself shifting, pacing, while waiting to run across as soon as the light changed. In the meantime, he watched helplessly as Rebecca hesitated then relinquished her hold on the shop's door. Slowly she approached a white sedan, bending to a rolled-down passenger window before getting into the car.

A sigh of relief. Patrick recognized the car. He'd spent two days in that vehicle, riding and driving from Connecticut to Minnesota. Yes, now he could see the

Batman: The Dark Knight

decal on the back window. It was Dixon's car.

Thank goodness.

Patrick started crossing the street as the car left the shop. He ran against the wind and ice. Twice he slipped, almost falling. He waved his arms though the car was driving away from him, leaving the parking lot. He raced around the gas pumps, zigzagging between vehicles, taking a short cut. Dixon's car pulled onto the highway just as a van honked, almost hitting Patrick, so close he could feel the heat of its engine at his side. He jumped onto a curb, out of the woman's way. Now all he could do was watch as Dixon's car gunned its engine and sped toward the interstate ramp without even noticing him.

He was out of breath. His high-tops were caked with snow, his fingertips numb, his hair wet and plastered to his head. He stood there watching the red taillights disappear as pellets of ice pricked at his face.

It was okay, he told himself. He could relax. At least Rebecca was safe.

Maggie shouldered her way through the crowded hallway. The entire floor of conference rooms at the hotel had become a makeshift command center. She passed one door she recognized as the triage room and another where victims reunited with families. Room 119 was at the end of the hall.

She had changed into blue jeans, a turtleneck sweater and leather flats. Her Smith amp; Wesson stayed back inside her room's safe, along with her badge. All she carried was her smartphone, her ID, a credit card, room key card and a twenty-dollar bill she'd slid into her jeans pocket.

Nick and Jerry Yarden waited outside the door, both smiling at her. She could tell they'd seen the chase scene by now. So had the others. It was obvious as soon as she walked into the room. Heads turned and nodded. Eyes glanced then stayed and stared.

It was a small group. Maybe a dozen. Police chief Daryl Merrick's group was in another room. Merrick had won jurisdiction and ended up lead on the case. He had his hands full recovering bodies and rescuing injured, setting up information centers for victims and families, not to mention juggling a media nightmare. However, it'd be up to the federal agencies—Homeland Security and the FBI—to conduct the investigation, issue warrants and track down the killers. That was this group, gathered in Room 119. Most of its members were still at the scene, sifting through debris and interviewing witnesses. They would still be cataloguing evidence and piecing together theories in the days, even weeks after tonight.

Charlie Wurth was back from the press conference and at the front of the room, setting up a huge dry-erase board. Alongside him a CSI tech plugged in a computer and arranged a projection screen. Nick introduced Maggie to David Ceimo and a bomb expert, named Jamie, while Yarden made his way to the front of the room to hand off a jump drive containing the grainy, blurred images—the best shots they'd found—of the five suspects. Maggie listened to Nick and David Ceimo explain their connection while she watched Yarden with Charlie Wurth. There appeared to be some discussion, then Wurth was pointing to the computer. It looked like he wanted Yarden to stay and help run the show.