Alex Kava - Black Friday

Maggie remembered what Henry Lee said about his group influencing government policies.

"It has to be Phoenix."

She hugged him, excited, relieved. She kissed his cheek, but his lips found hers. She let herself sink into him, maybe a moment too long. By the time she pulled away she was out of breath.

"Nick, this isn't a good idea. We're both exhausted."

"I'm not that exhausted."

He ran his hand over her shoulder, fingers caressing the back of her neck. His other hand wrapped around her waist, gently nudging her back against him, enough to show her he wasn't too exhausted. His lips brushed her neck, her earlobe…maybe she wasn't too exhausted either.

A knock at the door decided for them.

"Damn. Can't we ignore it?" But he let her pull away.

"Maybe it's housekeeping?"

"Too early," he said. "And room service doesn't begin until 6:00 a.m. I checked."

She crossed the room, instinctively reminding herself where she had left her Smith amp; Wesson.

When she checked the peephole she had to do a double take. She was exhausted. Was it possible her imagination was playing tricks on her?

She undid the locks and pulled the door wide open.

"Hi," Patrick said, looking embarrassed and shy. His hair was tousled, clothes wrinkled.

"How in the world did you find me?" she asked him.

"I used housekeeping's direct line to the front desk. 'Ms. O'Dell needs more towels. What room is she in?'" He said it with a convincing Spanish accent.

She didn't say another word. Instead she followed her instinct this time and simply hugged him.

Rebecca was sure Dixon was dead.

She couldn't see him in the dark. There was no sliver of light this time from the sealed trapdoor. She listened for moans or breathing but heard only the rumble of the furnace.

She hunched over, paralyzed in the corner. With her hands bound behind her, there was nothing she could do for him if he was alive and hurt.

"Dixon?" she called for the second or third time. Her voice sounded foreign to her, strained and small.

There was no response.

She searched in the dark and found the jagged metal on the corner of the furnace. She stretched, made contact. It hurt to hold her arms at that high of an angle. She hooked the plastic between her wrists onto the metal and started rubbing it back and forth. Her wounded arm throbbed but she kept pulling and sawing the plastic tie against the sharp edge. She had no idea if she was making any progress.

By now her eyes had adjusted to the dark. It wasn't pitch-black. She could make out Dixon's body. Still no movement. She was too far away to see if he was breathing. Her nerves were raw. Every little sound made her catch her breath, stopping to listen. The silence above should have comforted her. Silence meant no one would be coming down to hurt her like they had Dixon. Instead, it set her on edge. Why would they just leave her to be found or to escape?

She kept sawing. God, her arm hurt. Her lungs felt on fire from the gasoline fumes. She wanted to scream and shout. Get angry because it was better than feeling afraid.

"What the hell did you get us into, Dixon Lee?" she yelled.

"Becca?"

She jumped, pulling her wrists down, and heard a pop. Her wrists were free.

"Dixon?"

"Where are you?"

She could see him move, a shadowed bulk still lying on the concrete floor.

"I'm here," she told him as she felt her way over to him. On closer inspection she saw that his arms were bound behind him. He was struggling to sit up, twisting and rocking.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

"I'm okay. Sore. Maybe a bum ankle. How 'bout you? Are you okay?"

She touched his shoulder, startling him.

"You got your wrists undone."

"We'll do yours, too. Let me just check and make sure nothing's broken," she told him as she ran her fingers over his arms.

"There's no time, Becca. We've got to get out of here."

He struggled to stand up and fell against her. She caught him by the waist as he slid to his knees. Her fingers were wet and sticky.

"Oh my God, Dixon, you're bleeding."

"Becca, we've got to get out. They've got the whole place rigged to blow."

Maggie braced herself for A.D. Kunze's reaction. From Patrick's initial telling she knew he might have information that could be helpful. She just wasn't sure Kunze would see it that way. Charlie Wurth saved her again. He called Chief Merrick and asked him to send a police sketch artist instead of an arresting officer.

"It might not do any good," she told them. "If the man Patrick saw is the Project Manager he'll make sure that he looks different."

"I won't forget those eyes," Patrick said. "Or the way he walked."

"Unfortunately, he can change both."

"He may not even be there if he uses another group of young people," Kunze reminded them.

"I don't think he'll use cutaways this time," Maggie said, cautiously watching for Kunze to disagree. He cocked his head to the side, encouraging her to continue. "He doesn't have to go to the trouble. He's already set the stage. Another bombing this soon. Everyone will be looking for young, white, college-aged males."

It was just the five of them: Maggie, Patrick, Nick, Kunze and Wurth in the room set aside for the investigators. Ceimo was scheduled to join them. The sun was out today, streaming through the window, a welcome sight. Maggie couldn't help but notice how beautiful the glittering snowy landscape was.

"So what are you predicting he will do?" Wurth asked.

When she turned away from the window and back to them, they were all watching her, waiting.

"The bomb expert," Wurth continued. "She said the detonator he used was similar to the plans she saw for a dirty bomb. Should I be telling my people that's what we might have here?"

Maggie crossed her arms over her chest. She had changed into trousers and a knit sweater but left her matching blazer in her room. Now she wished she had it. They were looking to her for instruction, for guidance. What if she was wrong? Even Kunze was waiting for her to give them some direction.

"I don't think it'll be a dirty bomb. He's looking for psychological impact, not total carnage. He had the opportunity here at the mall. There could have easily been hundreds killed." She stopped, expecting comments. There were none. "My best guess is that it will be a suitcase bomb. He'll bring it in himself and leave it somewhere in the crowded ticket area or in baggage claim."

"If he puts it on a baggage carousel there's no way we'll find it in time," Wurth said, shoving his shirtsleeves up. "Christ almighty, this is not good."

"That's why we need to catch him as soon as he enters the airport."

"But you said yourself, he'll look different. Even if we have a sketch," Kunze said.

"I know I'll recognize him." Patrick startled all of them. They had forgotten about him, waiting in the corner for the police sketch artist to arrive. "Just put me someplace where I can watch."

"You're not going to Phoenix with us," Maggie said and immediately regretted that she sounded like an overprotective big sister.

She had already explained her rationale for Sky Harbor being the target. Wurth hadn't disagreed with the logic, but said he was putting federal air marshals in every airport on the list.

"You said yourself," Patrick argued, "that he thinks he doesn't need to use anyone else now because they'll be looking for young, white, college guys. So maybe he won't walk differently. Maybe he won't need to disguise himself. I'm telling you, I'll never forget those eyes."

"It couldn't hurt," Wurth said. "I say we bring the kid along."

The trapdoor wouldn't move. Rebecca tried to find something other than her hands to ram it with while Dixon tried to saw his plastic tie. At least she had found a light switch, although the single, low-wattage bulb set between the rafters lit only the area below it.