Alex Kava - Black Friday

Again, they kept the conversation like a husband and wife checking in with each other. He had trained them well, keeping it minimal and never mentioning full names or using a name as traceable as Dixon.

"Good. And what about our friend, Hank? How is he?"

"He's staying put. Seems to be behaving."

"Glad to hear that. So are we ready to clean house tomorrow?"

"Can't wait," she said with a laugh.

A nice added touch, Asante thought.

"In fact," she continued, "we're making the final preparations."

"Call if there are problems. I'll talk to you later."

He found the escalator for baggage claim and got on with a dozen others.

Glitches, he smiled to himself. That was the thing about glitches—they could be fixed, rerouted or simply deleted.

At the bottom of the escalator while everyone else headed for the luggage carousels, Asante went the other direction to a small room off to the side. There, a row of foot lockers lined each wall. He found #83 and expertly fingered the combination padlock. One twist left, two twists to the right and it slid open.

Inside the locker, taped to the inside door was a sealed, plain manila envelope with more cash than he'd need. Stacked one on top of another was a twenty-six inch Pullman and its twin, both black canvas, their corners sufficiently scuffed to look like they belonged to a seasoned traveler. He took the two Pullmans out and dropped the duffel bag on top of one. Then he plucked off the envelope, tucking it into one of the bag's side pockets. Finished, he hung his coat in the locker, closed the door and replaced the padlock.

Now all that was left was finding a ride.

He headed for the exits. The warm air hit him in the face. What a difference a few hours and a thousand miles made. Despite going from one extreme to another and despite already breaking a sweat, the warmth felt good.

He started looking for the shuttle buses. He'd catch the next one going to long-term parking. At this time of night he was certain he'd be able to pick out the vehicle of his choice.

Saint Mary's Hospital

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Still in scrubs, Maggie climbed into Ceimo's SUV. He'd been waiting in the emergency room parking lot, at the emergency room entrance, the only way to enter or leave the hospital after midnight. Thankfully he had the vehicle's heater turned up. She reached over and clicked the button for her seat to heat up, too. It'd take more than this, however, to get rid of the chill that Henry Lee had left her with.

Before she had time to get comfortable Ceimo told her, "Kunze and Wurth have called. I had to tell him we were following up on a lead. But that's all I told them."

She nodded, grateful.

She had confessed to David Ceimo as soon as she asked for his help that she wouldn't be telling anyone else but him, not until after she had talked to Henry Lee. She knew A.D. Kunze wouldn't have allowed her to go. This was one of those times she would have to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.

Yes, she bent the rules every once in a while, but not without caution. At least, she had learned that lesson. Okay, so her version of "caution" didn't always coincide with her superiors'. There was a time or two that even Cunningham had not been pleased with her. When lives are concerned and time is ticking away, following the rules just to be following the rules, didn't make sense. A.D. Kunze wouldn't agree. That's why earlier, as soon as Maggie had entered the hospital, she turned off her phone, clicking it on temporarily only for Henry Lee to download the list.

"So," Ceimo asked. "Were you able to find out anything at all?"

"Sunday," she said. "There's another attack planned on Sunday."

"Sunday as in this Sunday? As in tomorrow?"

She glanced at the vehicle's green-lighted dials and searched for the clock. She'd lost track of time. Of course, he was right. It was already Saturday morning. They had less than twenty-four hours.

"Yes, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the second busiest day for airline travel."

"Son of a bitch."

"I have a list of possible airports. Seven of them. We don't know which one's been targeted."

"Minneapolis?"

"Not on the list."

She heard him let out a sigh of relief.

"Sorry," he said, catching himself.

"No need to apologize."

She watched out the side window. Snow covered everything: bus stop benches, light poles, newspaper dispensers. The wind swirled it around and made it dance in the headlights. The white lights on trees already decorated for the holidays, twinkled on frosted branches. It looked like a winter wonderland.

"What can I do?" He wanted to know.

She chose carefully what to ask for and even more carefully what to tell David Ceimo, deciding it was best to leave any speculation out. She gave him as many facts and details as she could about Dixon Lee's abduction. That was the promise she would need help in delivering, though at the moment it seemed impossible with the little information they had.

Ceimo assured her that the governor would be willing to do whatever was necessary. Henry Lee and his empire of Fortune 500 businesses were important to the state of Minnesota. They employed over 6,000 people and brought in irreplaceable state tax revenues. Ceimo agreed that they'd need to work quickly and secretly. The fewer people involved the better chances they had to find Dixon Lee still alive.

However, she mentioned nothing to Ceimo about the outrageous supposition that the Project Manager, the man responsible for the mall bombing, could be the infamous John Doe #2, the so-called third terrorist who was rumored to have assisted—or according to some conspiracy theorists, guided—Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols in the Oklahoma City bombing. The idea was crazy. Or was it?

By the time Ceimo dropped Maggie off at the hotel, the crowds had dissipated. This time when she took a detour for her ice and Diet Pepsi, there were, thankfully, no lines to elbow and nudge her way through. Several blue-blazered hotel clerks smiled at her. One told her where there were still some refreshments. Another asked if there was anything else they could do for her. It wasn't until she got into the elevators and caught a glance of herself in the mirrored walls that she realized why they had paid so much attention to her. She was still in hospital scrubs and the white lab coat.

This time she tried to block out the Christmas music that followed her from the elevator to her room. There was nothing soothing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. She was exhausted. Her bruised side ached where the Sudanese boy had shoved her against a car grill. Her stomach reminded her it was still empty. And her shoulders felt a tremendous new weight, a burden put there by Henry Lee's revelation.

As soon as she got inside her room she popped the Diet Pepsi open and began sipping. Then she pulled out her phone and started dialing what would be the first of several calls.

She steeled herself. It was time to call A.D. Kunze and Charlie Wurth. She'd need to tell them everything. Earlier she'd made a judgment call to not ask for Kunze's permission but now it was time to ask forgiveness.

Patrick struggled to breathe. There were ventilation traps in these things, weren't there? He was sure of it. There had to be. He told himself it wasn't like being underwater or stuffed in an airtight compartment. He couldn't suck up all the air. There'd be enough. He needed to settle down. He needed to just breathe.

He told himself that firefighters oftentimes found themselves in tight squeezes. Didn't they? What had he read? What had they taught him in any of his Fire Science classes? Could he access some information, some advice, some trick? Some "what if" you're caught without your pickax? Pickax? He didn't even have a screwdriver.