by Sydney Bauer
York yelped. ‘Please …’
But David didn't listen, merely jerked York up until he was close to standing. And then he released his fingers and shoved George York with the palm of his hand, sending him crashing once again to the floor.
4.47 pm
Sara was trying desperately to think – to think, not to panic. It was virtually impossible because of the fear. The fear was all-consuming. It was like a whale, chasing her, determined to swallow her whole, not bite her but swallow her, so that she was trapped inside it – wet and cold, in the dark, locked away, unable to help, knowing she would exist there. Not die, just live in hell, inside it, for the rest of her life.
She had to think – not like her, like him. She had to become Hunt. He had got under her skin and perhaps this was her ace in the hole. She knew how he operated, how he thought. If she could focus she might be able to second guess him …
And then it came to her, the mistake they were making.
‘The uniform,’ she said, not even aware that she had spoken aloud.
‘What, dear?’ asked Nora.
Sara met her eye as Arthur moved closer. ‘What is it, Sara?’ he asked.
‘Hunt – he knows we know he shot Davenport, and that he took the girl. So he also knows we know he has a gun. So he tells himself he has to start thinking like us. He tells himself we know he got through customs with a gun. Then he realises that we know he is in uniform, that he is impersonating a law enforcement officer, who has the right to bring a weapon on board.
Arthur nodded. ‘You think he'll know we'll be looking for a man in uniform.’
‘Yes,’ said Sara. ‘The uniform makes him a walking target.’
‘So he has to change,’ said Nora.
‘Yes,’ repeated Sara. ‘But that may be a problem given Joe said he was only carrying a small bag, which means he probably doesn't have a change of clothes.’
‘So he needs to find something new to wear,’ said Nora.
Sara nodded. ‘And he's lucky because we're in an airport filled with people carrying bags filled with clothes. But he doesn't want to draw attention to himself so he heads for the one place he can steal a bag without too much attention.’ She looked at Arthur.
‘He's headed to baggage claim,’ he said.
‘It's a possibility,’ said Sara, ‘which is why they've made a mistake.’
‘Who's made a mistake?’ asked Arthur.
‘Joe, Leo … they're focusing on departures but they should be targeting arrivals. Baggage claim is in arrivals.’ Her eyes darted at the crowd around her. ‘We need to move, Arthur – we need to move now.’
‘Sara,’ Arthur began, taking her arm.
She knew he was going to try to stop her. ‘No!’ she said. ‘I am her mother, Arthur.’ There was no other way to say it.
Nora moved between them before turning to Arthur. ‘She's right,’ she said. ‘We need to get to baggage claim. Dr Cole here can tell the police what we're up to,’ she added, gesturing to the still ashen-faced Lucas Cole beside them. ‘And the police can get word to Joe.’
The helpful Cole nodded. ‘I can do that,’ he said.
Arthur considered it. ‘All right,’ he said as Sara nodded back at him. ‘But we stay together.’
She nodded again, before squeezing her beloved boss's hand and running ahead of them into the crowd.
4.51 pm
Baggage claim was packed.
Sara could feel it, the sense of controlled alarm. The passengers had no doubt noted the extensive law enforcement presence and were simultaneously being made aware that the exits to the shuttle buses and taxis were blocked by police and FBI agents who … NO … something was wrong.
She looked south where a single agent was manning the last exit door. He held his hand to his earpiece. He hesitated and then he stepped away – he left the exit. He left it unmanned. And it did not take long for some commuters to notice this, several of them sliding stealthily out of the terminal and into the street outside.
‘Shit, he's letting them out,’ she said, pointing toward the exit.
‘Dear god,’ said Nora as the tide of escaping travellers increased.
‘We have to stop them,’ said a now desperate Sara. ‘Hunt, the Yorks, they could be amongst them.’
Sara began to run toward the exit – run, sprint, as if her daughter's life depended on it. She pushed and she shoved and she kicked baggage aside as the disgruntled travellers responded with abusive comebacks and the carousels moaned and the red lights above each of them flashed as if in warning that the time to act was now.
She reached the exit. She moved to pull people aside and stop them from bleeding into the street. And they pushed back, one woman jerking Sara's head hard to the right, shifting her line of vision back toward the middle baggage carousel and the tall man standing beside it.
Daniel Hunt.
5.01 pm
Her entire chest contracted.
Just as Hunt met her eye she was hit, hard, and yanked aside. Her ribs were constricted by two determined strong arms. She fell to the ground, her assailant's grip loosening before tightening on her shoulders. He pulled her up to her feet, not in apology but in justification.
‘I'm sorry, Sara, but this is where you step aside.’
It was Joe. David and Madonna were coming up behind him. Sara spotted Leo King moving quickly but discreetly toward the other side of the carousel. Frank was off to their left whispering into his radio. The police began to circle, FBI agents at the exits nodding to one another as they listened to some form of radio communication, perhaps coming from their Special Agent in Charge, King.
‘He's here,’ she said, turning to David.
The police moved in quickly, corralling passengers, trying to clear the floor.
‘Hunt. I saw him. He's here.’ She pointed toward baggage claim carousel G3. ‘Oh god,’ she said as a fresh wave of panic hit her. ‘David, where did he go?’ She started to sob. ‘He might have made it to that exit.’ Her head wrenched left before jerking back toward David. ‘This agent … he left his post.’ She grabbed his arms. ‘What if we've lost him? Or the Yorks …?’
‘We have the Yorks.’
She looked up at him and she knew what he was telling her: but we don't have Lauren. Hunt has Lauren.
David did not answer. ‘Oh god.’ Sobs began to rack her body. ‘Oh god, oh god, oh god …’
5.09 pm
David felt her crumple into his arms. He wanted to hold her but there was just no time. His job was to find Hunt. His job was to save his daughter and kill the murdering son-of-a-bitch who had stolen her from them.
He passed Sara to Nora, who tried desperately to hold tight to her now convulsing form.
He looked toward Joe, who was moving rapidly through the passengers, scanning faces left and right. Frank was just in front of them, barking orders into his radio. King was nowhere to be seen. Madonna stood steadfast beside him, her expression firm, determined.
‘I can't see him,’ said Arthur.
And neither could David. ‘Where are you?’ he said, terrified, like Sara, that Hunt had slipped from their grip.
He felt the heat rise up inside him. ‘Where the hell are you?’ he said, louder this time. ‘Show yourself.’ Louder. ‘Show yourself, you fucking coward, you goddamned son-of-a- …’
When he saw him he knew that in the end this was what it would come down to. Whatever else, Hunt was not a man to back down. So when they locked eyes David understood that one way or another, this would all end here, which was why he moved quickly at a diagonal, reaching his right arm out in front of him.
He saw the clip was unattached and that the holster was wide and open – which made it all the easier for him to grab Frank McKay's gun.
5.14 pm
‘Cavanaugh,’ said Hunt. He was moving very slowly toward David. David's eyes scanned to the left and the right of him. No Lauren. No Sophia. But there was an elderly couple just behind him. The old man was holding fast onto his grandchild
as they gauged the situation, as if deciding whether it was safer to stand firm or run.
‘You taking the elderly hostage now, Hunt?’ asked David. The gun was out before him. He was making no bones about the fact that he was more than willing to pull the trigger if he did not get what he wanted.
Hunt held his arms out and up to show David he had no weapon. ‘I'm unarmed,’ he said.
But David did not believe him. ‘I know you have a gun, Hunt.’
Hunt did not reply.
David was aware of his surroundings but also not. He knew people were screaming as they fled from the crazy man with the revolver. He could hear Joe's voice calling out somewhere in the distance. He could hear Frank and perhaps Sara. There was a policeman's whistle and frantic movement from men in suits – but none of this noise or activity registered in any meaningful sense. It was like he and Hunt were in an underwater bubble while everyone else floated around them, somewhere outside. They were men from Atlantis, ready to duel after a long private feud, one that had left a trail of blood behind it – blood and heartache and lives destroyed.
‘You need to put that gun down, David,’ said Hunt. He was advancing again, around the turning curve of the baggage carousel. The carousel was still moving, its rubber slats interlocking like gnashing black teeth.
‘Go to hell. Where is my daughter?’ David held the gun higher, aiming it directly at Hunt's chest.
‘She's safe,’ said Hunt. ‘She's with the girl – Sophia.’
David swallowed. ‘I know about your plans for Sophia. You –’
‘Cavanaugh …’ David heard the voice from the other side of the carousel. It belonged to Leo King. David's eyes refocused on King to see he was brandishing a gun of his own. He was covering Hunt and David, his weapon up with the safety off. ‘You need to put the gun down and let us handle this thing.’
‘No,’ said David. ‘This is my fight, Leo. She is my daughter.’ He was vaguely aware that his voice had faltered.
‘You put that gun down and I'll take you to your daughter,’ said Hunt. He was lowering his arms now. He took another step forward, advancing on David.
‘You tell me where she is or I will put a bullet through your head.’ David lifted his weapon that inch higher. He heard Sara say his name somewhere outside the bubble.
‘Killing does not serve a purpose,’ said Hunt.
David almost laughed. ‘Listen to who's talking about killing and purpose. The man who set up the murder of his own daughter, killed his employee, framed an innocent woman, murdered his partner, abducted a pregnant girl and …’ David's thoughts went to Lauren, and he felt his grip tighten on the revolver.
Hunt took another step forward. ‘You need to put that gun down,’ he repeated.
But David did the opposite, he cocked the weapon, ready to roll.
‘David.’ It was King again. He was advancing from David's left, his weapon still up and out but his left hand was now held fast to his ear, as if he was receiving a communication. ‘Listen to me, I just got a report. My men, they found Sophia. She's in FBI custody, and she has your daughter. Lauren is safe, David. Lauren is safe.’
David's eyes flicked toward Leo and then, as if in desperate need of confirmation, toward his best friend, Joe. Joe was standing ten yards to the left and slightly behind him. He had his weapon out also. He had remained silent during the entire exchange.
Joe tilted his ear toward the radio attached to his shoulder strap. David saw the muscles in his arm flex and then release. ‘It's like Leo says,’ said Joe. ‘She's safe, David. We have her. You can stand down, buddy. You can stand down.’
Joe took a step toward him as David felt the most overwhelming sensation of relief. It was a feeling so powerful, so intense, that it made his entire body shudder. His heart skipped, his skin tingled and the air about him suddenly became cool and fresh and clean. But then he looked at Hunt and the heat returned in the form of a blazing fury. And he found himself wanting to lift the revolver again, to place his finger around that trigger and slowly begin to squeeze.
But he sensed the presence of Joe and Frank behind him. Their weapons – Frank having secured another police-issue Glock – were locked on the man they knew was responsible for taking David's daughter. But it was not Joe or Frank who confused him, it was Simba and his FBI men, Glocks up and advancing. They too had found their target but it was not Hunt … it was … it was …
The shot consumed the space around him, filling his ears with its echo. He had lost all sense of reality. He'd raised his arm and squeezed the trigger and fired at the man he hated more than any other. The recoil jerked him up and then back and then down as the bitter smell of gunpowder bit into his sinuses and stung his eyes.
But he was wrong again. His arm was not up. On the contrary, the hand that held Frank's gun was hot and heavy, like lead. The gun in it was cool, removed, until a thick, sticky heat began to slither around his fingers and bind the weapon to him. He looked down and saw his bloodied right hand hanging limp and lifeless as the revolver slipped unfeelingly from his grasp. And in those brief seconds before the world went black he realised that he had been wrong from the beginning – no, that he had been right about everything except the one thing that really mattered – Daniel Hunt.
PART EIGHT
79
Two days later
In his dream he was floating. Face up. The water was tepid around him – thick and warm, like a blanket. He was looking up. The sky was the ideal blue people sing about. The clouds were white, and perfectly formed like bunches of bleached cotton candy.
His mind was playing tricks on him. Cruel and wonderful tricks. He saw her face. He saw her soft blonde hair and her smooth olive skin and those wide green eyes. And then she was gone. She coasted up and out of his line of vision, and his mind tried desperately to pull her back. But her face was replaced by another. This one kind and soft, and the eyes … the eyes were also green but they were not Lauren's. These belonged to a woman much older and wiser, someone who had seen too much.
‘Mr Cavanaugh,’ said the face. He saw her lips move and her mouth lift into a smile and maybe … maybe he even felt her soft hand rest gently on his forearm.
She turned away. ‘He's waking up,’ she said.
David managed to turn his head just an inch or so to the right and he saw Sara, who was crying – and Lauren, who was smiling – and he heard the word Daddy and his heart ached with so much joy that he sensed this dream might not be a dream after all.
‘Lauren?’ he thought he heard himself say.
‘Daddy,’ he thought he heard her reply.
And then Sara came forward and took his hand and she felt so warm, so soft, so real.
But then the dream turned sour again. He was here – Hunt. He was in the room with them. He was standing next to Sara, next to his daughter … and to … to Sienna, which made no sense at all. His client looked different. She was wearing a charcoal suit with a crisp white shirt. Her hair was groomed, pulled back, her face serious until she met his eye and smiled.
‘David,’ she said.
And then he remembered the shot … and the last thought he'd had before the blackness swallowed him whole. And then everything started to take shape, like a reflection in a river settling as the waters began to calm.
Hunt moved around the bed to David's left and approached him. Sienna followed from behind.
‘David,’ he said, ‘you've been shot in the shoulder but you're going to be okay. The bullet splintered your clavicle but you've had surgery to repair it, and in time you'll be back fighting for the good guys again.’
David turned to Sara. She nodded at him in relief.
‘David.’ It was Sienna. ‘I'm sorry. I can only imagine how confusing this must be for you.’ She shifted her weight to move that bit closer. ‘There's so much we need to talk about … I … I …’
Daniel Hunt shifted also, his left hand brushing Sienna's right ever so slightly before he looked at David again.
‘I think I should introduce myself – properly, I mean,’ he said as he held out his hand. ‘Special Agent Michael Carlson, FBI.’
David knew he should have been surprised, but he wasn't – in fact, all he felt was a hollow sense of emptiness. He could have taken Carlson's hand but he didn't. He wasn't ready. He was a long way from ready.
‘You shot me,’ he said.
‘No,’ said the voice from behind them – it was the old woman, the one with the pale green eyes. ‘I am afraid that was me.’
David nodded, the river's surface starting to blur as the darkness began to swallow him once again.
‘Not to worry,’ said the old woman. ‘You're on the mend now so there'll be plenty of time for you to take it all in. But for now you must rest,’ she said. ‘And don't worry – Sara, Lauren, they'll be right here when you wake up. They're quite attached to you, you see, and they won't be going anywhere until you open your eyes once again.’
80
Exactly one week later, David, Sara and Joe were sitting in Leo King's office at the FBI's Boston Field Office at 1 Center Plaza, King sitting at the head of the conference table with the older woman who had gone by the name of Esther Wallace on his right and Sienna and Michael Carlson on his left.
David had put some of the final pieces together, of course – those he had not previously placed into the puzzle. The truth was, prior to that showdown at the airport he had, despite the odds against him, managed to construct a close to flawless jigsaw – hundreds of tiny interlocking links minus the ones that mattered the most. But that had been their intent, of course, the reason for involving him from the outset.
The surgery to repair the damage caused by the bullet that had shattered his collarbone and shredded the cartilage surrounding his shoulder joint had been extensive and painful. David was still officially a patient of Massachusetts General, where he existed under the constant eye of his surgeon, his sister Lisa, and her new boyfriend Lucas Cole – but he had insisted on this temporary leave to attend the meeting he, Sara and Joe had been insisting upon for the past seven days. Eventually Leo King had agreed, but only on the condition that this would be the first and only time they would be told – by everyone involved in what had turned out to be one of the most intricate federal fuck-ups in history – the entire truth of it, including all its repercussions and consequences, from beginning to end.