by Alex Kava
CHAPTER
20
“Keep her still. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” Patrick told the large, black woman in the too-tight blue uniform.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her purple latex-gloved hands, quick and expert fingers working on the wound in Rebecca’s arm.
The wound looked deep. Really deep.
No, he didn’t think keeping Rebecca still would be a problem. If anything he thought Rebecca looked too still. He wished she would say something, anything. Open her eyes for longer than a series of unfocused blinks.
“We’re gonna need some plasma over here,” the woman yelled over her shoulder, making Patrick jump. She noticed him jump, but pretended not to. He appreciated that small gesture. Instead she continued to give him instructions.
“And warm. You need to keep her warm,” she told him as she pointed with her chin at the blanket.
He immediately pulled it up and started tucking it in along the sides of Rebecca.
“You’re doing good,” the woman told him. “Real good.”
He knew she was giving him things to do to keep him from going into shock, too. He wanted to tell her he was a volunteer with a fire department back home in Connecticut and had some experience with this kind of thing but just as he thought of it, he quickly dismissed it. He realized he didn’t have experience with anything at all like this. Not bombs going off. Not friends hurt and unconscious. It was different with Rebecca lying here.
He had barely caught up with her, squeezing and shoving his way through a swarm of people trying to exit the mall. Rebecca had been tapping frantically at Dixon’s iPhone while being jostled about. One minute she was trying to tell him something, drowned out by the noise engulfing them and the next minute she was slipping down into the mob, like a swimmer being sucked up under a wave.
He had to pull her up. She was faint and feverish, her eyes rolling back into her head. She grabbed onto his arm and her hand was filled with blood. He had already noticed the wound in her arm. Glass impaled the skin, too deep for him to pluck it out. He knew it would bleed even more if he did that. Somehow he had managed to separate her from the mob and get her to sit down before she collapsed completely.
“You got that plasma?” the woman yelled again, startling Patrick again, but this time, at least, he didn’t jump.
He watched her finish the last sutures.
“Is she gonna be okay?” He knew it was a lame question but he needed to ask it anyway.
“Of course she is.” But she didn’t look up at him, concentrating instead on the rhythm of her fingers. Her right hand sutured while her left hand dabbed at the blood. “Your girlfriend’s gonna be just fine.”
Patrick opened his mouth to correct her but stopped himself. Rebecca wasn’t his girlfriend. She would have been the first one to protest if she could. Not because they didn’t like each other. It was an independence thing. At least that’s what she called it. She connected independence with being totally on her own. He actually got that. Understood it completely. Or maybe recognized it since it was close to his own philosophy, his own creed.
That fierce independence was probably what connected them in the first place. Although Patrick didn’t refer to it as independence so much as a lack of trust. When you grew up without anyone to count on you learned quickly to count on yourself. His mom had done her best but as a single mom she was gone a lot, working long hours. Patrick didn’t blame her. It was what it was. Besides, he turned out just fine. Maybe grew up a bit sooner than his classmates. Nothing wrong with that.
He had never felt like he belonged with kids his own age anyway. They were always too immature. Like Dixon Lee, full of unrealistic ideals. Patrick didn’t have the time or luxury to worry about and protest things like immigration when it took all his energy just to keep his own job and work full-time so he could pay for his rent and tuition. He didn’t make time for guys like Dixon Lee. Didn’t let them in. Didn’t trust them. Or anyone, for that matter. It was part of the creed. You can only trust yourself. But then came Rebecca messing up his resolve.
She was witty—that dry humor that takes you by surprise—and smart. Not just book smart but capable of debating an issue, reasoning, quipping with a polite sarcasm he found totally charming. Most importantly, she knew how to listen. He’d throw out bits and pieces of himself—the safe stuff, not anything that would reveal his true secrets—expecting her to bat them aside. Only Rebecca absorbed it all. Not just absorbed, but sorted and sifted and tried to put the bits and pieces together. Patrick had never met anyone quite like her.
And oh, by the way, did he mention she was pretty easy on the eyes? Small with an athletic build and enough curves to offset her tomboy attitude. Big brown eyes and creamy skin, although right now, she looked too pale. Her shoulder-length hair was wet with perspiration, the feathery bangs stuck to her forehead. Her normally full lips were now thin and tight from fighting the pain.
Her eyes fluttered open and he reached for her hand underneath the blanket. He decided he liked the sound of her being his girlfriend though he wouldn’t admit it out loud. If you let someone in they usually expected to know everything, including all your secrets. Patrick wasn’t ready for that.
The plasma arrived and the woman in the blue uniform started preparing the lines and checking Rebecca’s other arm for an entry vein. She didn’t ask Patrick to let go of Rebecca’s hand as she positioned the arm to her liking.
“You’re gonna be just fine,” she said and Patrick nodded before he realized she was talking to Rebecca now.
Her eyes focused on him and stayed there. She squeezed his hand and he smiled at her. Had he ever told her she had the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen? Of course he hadn’t.
He wanted to tell her she could count on him. Right now. For as long as she wanted or needed. She could set aside that fierce independence and lean on him. And it didn’t have to mean anything. But instead, he didn’t say anything and he knew he would regret it.
CHAPTER
21
Asante lost the GPS signal halfway to the airport. That happened sometimes with control towers and radar from incoming and outgoing airlines. It didn’t matter. He needed to let Danko handle the loose ends while he moved on to the next phase. There could be nothing that got in the way.
The snow tapered off. Trucks with blades and sand were already out on the streets. Asante had to slow for them. As soon as he’d speed up again he’d have to hit the brakes and skid around nervous drivers. The first snow of the season and everyone seemed to have forgotten how to drive. He had counted on that fact as being an advantage. Now it was simply annoying.
He caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. The adrenaline had been replaced by anxiety. He told those simmering blue eyes to stay calm, to be patient. Then he took several deep breaths, holding each one before letting it out slow and easy.
He told himself that no project ran completely without flaws. The brilliance of a project manager like himself relied on his ability to react and readjust. And at the same time he had to make it look effortless, to cast the illusion of calm, to let his crew see only confidence, nothing less.
Though handpicked they were followers at heart when you peeled away their individual layers of talent, whether those talents included technosavvy intelligence or physical strength. Asante believed he possessed a gift in reading other people, seeing potential where others saw mediocrity. But he could also detect weakness. Everyone had some vulnerability no matter how well hidden. Asante could find it and, if necessary, exploit it.
From his inner circle, he insisted on perfection. He expected nothing less. Anyone chosen for his crew knew this. Being selected was a commendation as well as a burden. Glitches were unacceptable. A weak link could be quickly removed and the removal was permanent. This is what made him a great project manager.
He set the small computer on the dash to see the screen better. Before he could press any of the preset buttons a call buzzed in. He chec
ked his phone. He didn’t recognize the number though he often instructed his crew to use prepaid cell phones to prevent tracking.
“Asante,” he answered into his wireless headset.
“You tried to use my grandson,” an angry voice came back at him.
Asante knew immediately who it was. He had already been warned that the man might be a problem. “How did you get this number?”
“What the hell did you think you were doing?”
“Once the project has begun no one has control but me. Those are the rules.”
“You meant to kill him, didn’t you, you asshole.”
“Nor are you to have any contact with me.” Asante kept his voice calm and steady even as he disconnected the call.
With one hand clenching the steering wheel and the other on the phone’s keypad he tapped several keys, ensuring that number would be blocked.
He checked his eyes again in the rearview mirror, disappointed to find the anxiety turning to anger. Calm. He needed to stay calm. He flexed his fingers and stretched his neck from side to side.
Despite the man’s fury and accusation, his grandson, Dixon Lee, had not been a mistake or a glitch. Asante allowed himself a smile. Dead or alive, Dixon Lee had been a well-planned insurance policy. Another quick glance in the mirror. Nobody messed with the Project Manager once the project began. Nobody. Not even the assholes who special ordered the project.
Asante turned into the long-term parking lot at the airport and found a space at the far end, close to where he had stolen the car earlier. He gathered up his belongings, stuffing them into the duffel bag. Then he wiped down every single surface inside the car that he had touched. He left the car just as the airport shuttle pulled into the lot. He glanced at his diver’s watch. Plenty of time.
He took another deep breath. He hated glitches. In the old days he could predict and ward off every single one. Perhaps it was time to retire. Buy an island somewhere. He had more than enough money stashed safely away in Zurich, even before this project. He deserved the rest. A nice long relaxation, something more substantial than the short escapes that lasted only as long as a box of Cubans and a couple bottles of Chivas.
Instead of focusing on glitches, instead of thinking about Carrier #3 Asante reminded himself of other successes. It calmed him to run past projects through his mind step by step—the early planning, the stages and then the denouement. So when Asante boarded the shuttle bus he nodded to the driver with a brief smile and in his mind he began the playback of Madrid, March 11, 2004…backpacks, the train station at rush hour, bright flashes of light and most of all…success.
CHAPTER
22
Saint Mary’s Hospital
Henry Lee paced the hallway, unclenching his fists only long enough to drag nervous fingers over his bristled head and rub the disbelief from his eyes. At sixty-eight he was still vain enough to take pride in his compact, fit and trim physique. He was strong and healthy and unlike his father and grandfather Henry had done everything in his control to prevent hereditary heart disease from shortening his golden years. Everything, that is, except to make sure that his wife, his sweetheart, his Hannah, had also stayed healthy. It was simply inconceivable to him that she was in surgery right here, right now undergoing the emergency triple bypass that Henry thought for certain he had dodged.
He couldn’t help wondering if this was some cruel punishment from God though he thought he had given up on the foolishness of His existence years ago. No God Henry could believe in would take away a daughter as murderously as his own had been taken. Hannah was always the one, the believer, the healer, wanting to make sense out of madness. She was Henry’s lifeline, his common sense, his sanity. He couldn’t bear to lose her. And then to find out that he almost lost his grandson on the very same day. If God did exist He was, indeed, cruel and vindictive.
Henry looked for the boy, again, checking the waiting room and glancing around the corner. Earlier Dixon had come to the hospital when summoned, physically distraught about his grandmother, his eyes red-rimmed, his fingernails bitten to the quick. When he said he had just come from the mall Henry thought his own heart had stopped, realizing what could have happened had he not called the boy.
While the first reports came in about a possible terrorist attack at the mall, the boy remained quiet. The two of them watched the wall-mounted TV while sitting silently side by side in the surgery waiting room. No one else was there, except for a few staff members wandering in and out. No surgeries were planned the day after Thanksgiving other than emergency ones. It took several reports before Dixon—in between gnawing at his poor thumbnail—confessed and explained about his friends and how they had convinced Dixon to help them. The whole time Henry felt the blood drain from his face.
“We were told we were carrying electronic jamming devices,” Dixon told him, his eyes darting around, teeth nipping at another fingernail. “I think it might have been something else.”
“That’s impossible,” Henry said but he knew it to be quite the opposite. “I told you to stay away from those two.”
“We’ve been friends since third grade.”
“Doesn’t matter. They’re trouble.”
“I’ve got to find out if they’re okay,” Dixon told him.
“Can I borrow your phone?”
The boy was so distraught Henry handed over his smartphone without hesitating. It was better he make his own calls from the hospital’s public phones. They were less likely to be traced. He certainly didn’t want the calls immortalized on his monthly statement.
He dialed the second number, this one from memory instead of a crumpled piece of paper, his fingers still shaking from the first call.
“Hello?”
“Allan, it’s Henry. We need to have a meeting.”
“For what reason?”
“We need to reconsider.”
“Reconsider?”
“Yes. We need to stop this.”
Henry expected anger. He was prepared for it. He wasn’t prepared, however, for laughter.
He held the phone away from his ear and closed his eyes tight against the sudden pain of his clenched jaw muscles, an involuntary reaction from his early days as a boxer preparing for an upper left. This was worse than any punch. When the laughter silenced he brought the phone back to his ear.
“There’s no stopping this now. Go home, Henry. Get some sleep.”
A dial tone erupted in Henry’s ear before he could respond.
CHAPTER
23
It was twilight by the time their motorcade of black SUVs idled at the first set of police barricades surrounding the mall. Maggie couldn’t help but notice that the short ride from the airport yielded a breathtakingly beautiful sunset, the sky clear now except for the pink-purple streaks. The only evidence of a recent storm was the glittering snow that blanketed everything in sight. That and the cold, a bitter cold that you could see in breaths that streamed from brief greetings while getting in and out of vehicles.
“Looks like even the national vultures have already arrived,” A.D. Kunze said as they passed by a lopsided line of vans and trucks with TV call letters on their sides and satellite receivers on their roofs. A helicopter flew overhead.
“It’s all part of the process,” Senator Foster told them, looking out at the reporters and cameramen assembling equipment as close to the action as possible.
Maggie noticed the senator straighten his tie in the reflection of the SUV’s window. At first she thought she was mistaken. Perhaps it was an absentminded habit. But then he brushed a hand over his silver hair. She glanced at Deputy Director Wurth, expecting to exchange an eye roll and instead found him doing the same.
“This isn’t gonna be pretty,” Kunze warned. “I was on the site at Oklahoma City. I’m telling you, nothing smells worse than charred flesh.” He pulled out of his pocket a small container of Vicks VapoRub, unscrewed the lid and offered it to the others.
Maggie declined. She had actuall
y smelled charred flesh before.
“I didn’t think anything could smell worse than bloated flesh,” Wurth said, but dipped his finger in the proffered container and smeared a dab over his lip.
And she’d smelled bloated flesh, too. Maggie remembered without much prompting. She knew Wurth’s experience had been with hurricane victims. Her own was from floaters, victims whose killers chose a watery grave hoping to dehumanize and impersonalize them even more.
Senator Foster hesitated at Kunze’s offer, watching as the interim director rubbed a generous fingertipful over his own lip and even up into his nostrils.
“I certainly don’t want to get in the way of people trying to do their jobs,” Senator Foster finally said. “I’m here to show my support.”
Kunze and Wurth nodded. Maggie refrained and kept herself from saying, “Sure, why not take advantage of some free reelection publicity without dealing with the gruesome reality.” She watched A.D. Kunze and as they all got out of the SUV and made their way to the entrance she couldn’t help wondering if that’s exactly why Kunze was here. A high-profile case could turn his interim title into a permanent one. But why drag her along?
It was time to find out.
“I’ll need someone from security to show me where I can view the tapes,” she told Kunze as she trudged through the snow alongside him.
Maggie was grateful she remembered the slipover boots. Kunze jerked twice trying to keep his balance. It was good timing on her part. He didn’t question or challenge her, instead he simply said, “Yeah, yeah, of course.”
As soon as they got inside Kunze grabbed Wurth by the elbow, already taking control.
“We need access to those security tapes, Charlie.”
“Not a problem.” But Wurth’s eyes were already upward along with his attention. Maggie realized the man couldn’t wait to get to the third floor.
Kunze noticed the distraction, too. “The sooner we connect the bombers the sooner we can get some warrants.”