Black Friday. Alex KavaЧитать онлайн книгу.
electronic games. Their reasoning being that they wanted to prevent the addiction and destruction of American youths.
Picnics, boycotts, rallies, advertising campaigns—none of it sounded like a group capable of bombing a crowded shopping mall.
Maggie was about to ask what basis they had to take these particular threats seriously when a flight attendant interrupted.
“What can I get for the four of you?”
Kunze ordered coffee, black. The other two men nodded in unison for Maggie to go next. Kunze wasn’t rattled in the least, nor apologetic.
“A Diet Pepsi,” Maggie said.
Wurth asked for the same. Then Senator Foster gave instructions for a gin martini that required a three-step process.
“Do you have anything onboard to eat?” Maggie stopped the attendant before she turned to leave. “I haven’t eaten yet today.” She thought of the spread of food she had prepared and left for her friends and her stomach felt hollow.
“I’m certain I can find something.”
“Yeah, food would be a good idea,” Wurth agreed.
This time Maggie saw Kunze scowl at the deputy director.
She kept a smile to herself as she went back to sifting through the file folder. Perhaps she had found an ally in Wurth.
Chapter
16
Mall of America
BECCA, DON’T TRUST ANYONE—DIXON
That was the text message that had flashed on the screen of Dixon’s iPhone. Rebecca noticed it when she started ripping out the lining of her coat and the phone fell out of her coat pocket. She had forgotten about having the phone. Hadn’t even remembered it when she heard the Batman theme ring tone earlier.
Without the warning from Dixon, Rebecca still would have run. There was something creepy, something totally wrong about this guy in the PARAMEDIC cap. From her pre-vet experience she knew drugging a wounded animal was best for the animal and the rescuer, but certainly that’s not how it worked with people. Was it? And what about the others lying just yards away in much worse shape?
Her instincts had been correct. The guy gave chase, almost grabbing her wounded arm. He was still following though now keeping his distance when she managed to insert herself into a group headed down the escalator. Rebecca pressed in between an elderly couple and a group of women with screaming children in their arms. Behind them were two old women with their arms around each other, bracing each other up and making it impossible for anyone to pass by them on the escalator.
Rebecca glanced over her shoulder. He was there at the top of the escalator, only a dozen or so steps behind. She avoided eye contact but could feel his stare.
The escalator made it feel like they were moving in slow motion. There was no way for her to push forward and take advantage of the temporary barrier between them. No one dared to rush down the steps. By now all that were left on the third floor were the trailers, those slowed by shock or injuries, old age or physical handicaps. The first waves were already down on the main level of the mall, piling at the exits.
Rebecca gripped the cell phone in her hand and with her thumb punched in:
WHAT DID YOU GET ME INTO?
The response chimed back quickly:
THANK GOD U R OK. WHAT ABOUT CHAD & TYLER?
They were getting to the bottom of the escalator. Her thumb flew over the miniature keypad:
SOMEONE’S AFTER ME.
WHO IS HE, DIXON???????
They were on the second floor and Rebecca tried to stay with the safety net group but they were breaking apart, going separate ways. Another glance back. He was stuck on the escalator for a few more seconds, looking miserably impatient, his hand ready to shove the old women out of his way.
She dashed around the corner, stumbled through a kiosk of sunglasses that had been knocked over. She slipped but kept her balance. Her arm throbbed. Again, she felt light-headed and nauseated. In the reflection of a storefront window she could see him coming, already turning the corner. A brisk walk. Not running. Not yet.
His head swiveled from side to side, watching everyone and taking in everything around them. She kept track of him in the store window reflections as she passed by, avoiding looking back at him and wasting time. All the storefronts were already closed, metal grates across the entrances preventing her from ducking into one of them.
Rebecca kept a steady pace. There was another group approaching the next set of down escalators. She hurried to join them. She wedged herself into the middle just as they started getting on the escalator. A quick glance over her shoulder. He was there at the top, following, not even ten feet behind.
She gripped the moving railing with her left hand and snatched it back.
Blood. And lots of it.
Her hand was wet and sticky with it. The realization that it was her own sent her stomach reeling again. The wound in her arm was bleeding more than she thought.
In her right hand she held the cell phone and began texting again:
WHERE R U? WHICH HOSPITAL?
“Becca.”
She heard her name called and twisted around.
Was it possible the man knew who she was?
She saw him looking up and followed his eyes. Leaning over the second floor railing was Patrick waving at her.
Patrick. Steady, reliable Patrick.
Tall, lean, looking strong…and worried. Something black smeared the side of his face. His hand waved, trailing a bloodstained wrap.
She smiled up at him.
God, it was good to see him.
Something unclenched inside her. It would be okay. She’d be okay. She wasn’t alone. They were almost to the bottom of the escalator. She’d hang tight to the group, wait for Patrick to catch up. Another look over her shoulder and she saw him at the top of the escalator. The man in the PARAMEDIC cap saw him, too. He had something in his hand, something that flashed before he pocketed it.
A knife? A gun? The syringe?
The cell phone chimed Dixon’s reply:
ST MARY’S. COME HERE.
DON’T TRUST ANYONE.
NOT EVEN PATRICK.
Chapter
17
In flight
Maggie set the file folder aside. She was more interested in Homeland Security Deputy Director Wurth’s phone call. He took what looked like meticulous notes, while he nodded and inserted “Yes, I understand” several times. For the rest of them seated around him and listening, it was impossible to know what was going on.
FBI Assistant Director Kunze didn’t bother to hide his impatience. He waved a beefy hand at Wurth, palm up accompanied by a shoulder shrug. It was as plain as if he were saying, “What the hell’s going on?” Wurth ignored him. He continued to take notes in the small leather folio, underlining words and redotting i’s in between writing. Maggie saw it as a nervous habit of a man with too much energy. Also a way of controlling information and ignoring the rest of them. Perhaps the deputy director had a few political tricks up his own sleeve.
“Three bombs,” Wurth told them even as he was tapping the button on the phone to end his call. “Mall security noticed at least three men with identical red backpacks earlier this morning. They started tracking them just minutes before the blasts.”