9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  With one hand in my pocket holding the Glock, I strolled out from behind the escalators and made my way toward the man with the purse. When I was within fifteen feet he turned his head toward me and smiled. The features were feminine enough, but this didn’t look like the Mrs. Cho I’d seen in the pictures Beth had provided. Still, a subtle disguise can be effective. I stopped where I was and pretended I hadn’t seen the smile.

  A moment later, the POI stood and started toward me, the purse held with both hands in front of him. My muscles tensed for action. Just then a small oriental woman rushed past me, brushing my arm with the raft of shopping bags that blossomed from one elbow. She ran up to the man and, before he could defend himself with the purse, threw her arms – bags and all – around his neck in an enthusiastic embrace. He freed one hand from the Louis Vuitton and slipped his arm around her waist.

  They spoke in Korean – it’s the same language, whether North or South. I had picked up enough of it during my service years to understand the gist of their conversation.

  She’d found some remarkable bargains, apparently, and was very thankful for his patience . . . and for holding her purse. If he wouldn’t mind watching her additional array of shopping bags, she just had a few more stores she would like to visit, that is, if it was alright with him.

  It was a conversation most husbands and wives have had at shopping malls at one time or another. This fellow just smiled at his wife – I had noted their wedding rings – and told her to take her time.

  She lined the bags up on the bench where he’d been sitting, and with a blown kiss, bustled off to find more bargains. The husband smiled as he watched her depart then rearranged the booty to make room for himself to sit.

  I no longer considered him a POI, large purse or not. I would have to keep looking. But I had a gut feeling about this atrium and wasn’t going to move on until that feeling went away.

  CHAPTER 59

  Southdale Mall. Suburban Minneapolis.

  Agent Costa had assembled a substantial array of law enforcement agencies to assist with the capture of Mrs. Cho, and to prevent Southdale Mall from becoming the nation’s latest terror victim. Uniformed police with black and white squad cars blocked the mall’s many street entrances, turning away hundreds of wide-eyed would-be mall patrons, while corralling a hoard of irritable exiting shoppers in a “holding area” at the periphery of the mall property.

  Plain clothes FBI agents, armed with pictures of Mrs. Cho and instructions to identify “suspicious packages,” had begun sweeping the mall’s interior.

  They were methodical and thorough, funneling extraneous shoppers toward exit doors, all the time remaining alert for a possible Mrs. Cho or her suspicious package. They cleared the large department stores first then moved to the mall’s interior. To their credit, the agents were able to keep knowledge of their presence and activities mostly behind them, while the patrons to their front shopped on, oblivious to the massive police action occurring just beyond their lines of sight.

  “I think I see her.” The voice came through the encrypted radio channel and into Costa’s earpiece.

  Costa perked up, but continued silently listening, letting those agents with eyes on the subject coordinate the operation.

  “She just bought an Orange Julius at the second level dining pavilion. Pink dress with a giant Louis Vuitton bag. Does anyone else copy her?”

  It didn’t take long before eight agents, guns drawn, had converged on the edges of the Food Court, skulking behind structural pylons and hiding among racks of women’s clothing. The POI hadn’t seemed to notice the activity. In fact, she was about to exit the “dining pavilion,” sipping her drink and settling the large tote on one shoulder, when the four nearest FBI agents pounced, sending her Julius flying.

  Other than a milky orange puddle that some janitor would need to mop up, the takedown was a success. The agents had secured the handbag and cuffed the POI before she even knew what was happening. That didn’t stop her from screaming, though.

  “Help! Police! It is a mugging! Help! Help!”

  * * *

  Outside the mall proper, and near to the place the POI had parked her rented Caddy, Agent Costa sat inside his air conditioned sedan awaiting her arrival. Soon word came via his earpiece that Mrs. Cho was nearing his location.

  As he exited his car, he saw the black FBI vehicle rolling slowly down the parking aisle toward him. The car came to a stop just short of the place where Costa stood, and two agents in black suits with white shirts and skinny black ties got out. Costa had to check twice, but it appeared one of the agents was a woman.

  At the sight of someone who might be in charge of this fiasco, the POI resumed her verbal assault of law enforcement, banging on the car’s rear window for emphasis.

  “Stupid American dogs! Let me go. I want lawyer. Get me lawyer. Let me go.”

  Costa compared her rage-contorted face to the photos in his hand.

  “Looks like you got her,” he said. “How about the ricin?”

  “No luck so far. Her purse is clean. We’re evacuating the rest of the innocents from the mall now. Once they’re clear, we can turn the search over to the dogs to sniff it out.”

  The strategy met with Costa’s approval.

  “There is no rush once everybody’s out. Just make certain to be thorough.”

  “Meanwhile, you can take her to St. Paul.” Costa said, indicating the screaming woman in the car. “I shall come by to interview her shortly.”

  Costa returned to the air conditioning of his company car, and withdrawing the tin of Skoal from an inside pocket, tapped it twice with a knuckle and removed the lid. He wore a satisfied smile as he pinched the moist tobacco between thumb and forefinger and packed it inside one cheek.

  He wondered what Mr. Becker would have to say now . . . now that he’d caught Mrs. Cho and defused the ricin threat. He didn’t know, but he was definitely looking forward to the conversation.

  CHAPTER 60

  Zumbrota, Minnesota.

  Gunner and Kyle had reached the outskirts of the City of Zumbrota . . . more of a town, actually, with a human population of 3,200. The animal population might have exceeded that number today, the day of the largest weekly livestock auction.

  To minimize his law enforcement profile, Gunner had shut down the flashers and siren and slowed to normal highway speed a mile before reaching town. With a little luck, no one would notice his arrival on the street just outside the Central Livestock Market.

  He glanced at his watch for the twentieth time as he wrenched the shift lever into Park. It was now ten minutes later than Bull had asked, and thirty later than he himself had hoped for.

  Gunner and Kyle both got out. Gunner checked his sidearm, a .40 caliber Smith and Wesson, releasing the magazine to confirm it was loaded, slapping it back into place, and chambering a round. Following the lead of his senior officer, Kyle did the same.

  “We’re just gonna take a little stroll, Kyle,” Gunner said. “If anybody asks you what we’re doin’ here, just say ‘child support.’ That should put ‘em off.”

  “Got it, Chief. ‘Child support.’ But what am I really doing?”

  “Like I said, Kyle, just stay a few steps behind me and cover my ass.”

  “Yessir,” Kyle replied. Sometimes a subordinate didn’t need to know all the details. Kyle was okay with that.

  “Let’s go,” Gunner said. And they headed into the auction market on foot.

  * * *

  Kent Evans double checked his costume selection for today. He had abandoned the sport coat he was wearing when he left the house back in Ames in favor of a denim jacket. His jeans should be fine, and how could he go wrong with a seed cap? After comparing other outfits he saw patrons wearing as they approached the sales barn, he was satisfied that he would blend in. Now he needed to scope out the place – plan his attack and his emergency exits, just in case they were necessary.

  The first step would be inspecting the livestock in thei
r pens. Pulling the bright green cap low over his brow and assuming an eyes-down posture, Kent made his way to the inspection area. The cap should hide his face from the prying eyes of security cameras, while the off-putting posture would discourage conversation.

  In the inspection area, beef cattle jostled in tightly packed pens maybe fifteen feet square, though there were differing sizes depending on the number of cattle that would be sold in a given “Lot.”

  This sales barn allowed potential bidders to actually climb up on the steel fence rails to view the cattle up close. You couldn’t do that everywhere, but it suited Kent’s purposes just fine. He hopped on a rail to getter a closer look. With his targets literally with arms’ reach, Kent had to fight the urge to infect the cattle right here and right now. Had he chosen a handkerchief as his weapon, he might just have done it, too. But shooting cows with a water pistol among the crowd of fellow bidders would draw too much attention. He would need to keep looking.

  Other than the chance to preview Lots in the holding pens, bidders had little access to internal market operations. Farther inside the facility, under an expansive metal roof, he could see the occasional flash and hear the rattle of orange livestock sorting paddles. These paddles, he knew, were the tools of the handlers, the men, and occasionally women, who guided the cattle and hogs through dusty narrow lanes, closer and closer to the auction ring.

  He had seen in the video that the cattle sold here also received various veterinary treatments before sale. If he could gain access to that area, perhaps one more squirt in the mouth would go unnoticed among the vet techs and farmers administering oral vaccines, especially since their work was fast-paced, with the next animal always awaiting treatment before they had finished with the previous.

  The details of that YouTube video had been most helpful.

  Unfortunately, and unsurprisingly, access to the vet med area was restricted to employees only. If he returned here as a cattle seller, he was certain he could get inside there. But returning wasn’t an option. Time was up and today was the day.

  He’d seen about all he could from outside the main building, so inside was his next stop.

  A voice from the loudspeaker horns announced that the auction would be starting shortly. Kent followed a stream of bidders from the yard toward the auction ring. Many of the potential buyers stopped at the lunch counter to pick up a snack or a beverage before the auction began. Kent kept moving.

  When he reached the seating area for the auction ring, Kent took the first available front row seat and began running through attack options. The theater seats where bidders sat were located eight feet back from a five foot high steel railing that separated the theater from the livestock ring – a relatively small area flanked by an entrance gate on one side and an exit gate on the other.

  The auction was beginning and handlers ushered the first lot – a group of five black Angus steers – into the viewing ring, as the auctioneer began his chant.

  A stream from the water pistol could certainly reach the animals from where he sat, but there was no way such an act would go unnoticed. In addition, there were several ceiling-mounted cameras recording the auction proceedings, no doubt to discourage reckless bidders from reneging on a deal. Security here was stiffer than elsewhere on the premises.

  Kent had seen enough of the ring. This was the last venue available for his attack, and it wouldn’t work at all. Kent stood, walked down the stairs and through the hallway, and finally exited to the outdoors.

  The previewing area held his best opportunity for success. And now that many of the bidders had gone inside to the auction ring, the previewing area was much less crowded.

  It was decided then. Now . . . to get it over with.

  Strolling casually down an aisle alongside the viewing enclosures, Kent looked side to side before stopping beside a pen holding a Lot of five Angus young stock. Their small size and lack of body fat made them good candidates for “feeders” – younger animals purchased by farmers to be held in feed lots and fattened until they were ready for slaughter. The spread of the virus at the auction market was very likely, but in a commercial feed lot, it would be a virtual certainty. He would start here, and if nobody saw him, he might infect a few more Lots, just for good measure.

  Standing atop the lowest metal rung of the fence, Kent slid the weapon from his jacket pocket, pointed it at the face of the nearest steer, and holding the pistol in both shaking hands, squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER 61

  Bloomington, Minnesota.

  I released what I noticed to be a rather tight grip on my Glock and withdrew my hand from the pocket. A couple flexes cleared what may have been a burgeoning cramp from the back of my gun hand.

  Twenty years ago that hand would have stayed relaxed and there would have been no need to worry about cramps. But time passes, and with that passage, certain skills deteriorate. I shouldn’t have to remind myself of such things, and yet, I had let my brain chemicals control that hand as it clenched around the gun in my pocket.

  There was no danger of accidental discharge, of course, because no responsible handgun user would put a finger inside the trigger guard until he was ready to shoot. But the muscle response in my hand was one more sign that too much time had passed since I had trained in an authentic stress-inducing environment.

  My powers of observation had, no doubt, also diminished. I hoped they hadn’t declined to the point where Mrs. Cho would be able to make good on her apparent ricin threat.

  The very fact that, at this crucial moment, I was questioning my training was another bad sign. Doubts are for dead men.

  I realized that I had been staring at the young oriental man and his bench filled with shopping bags for the several seconds it took my mind to wander through that dangerous territory. I shook both the stare and the doubt from my head.

  Focus.

  I was about to leave the atrium area and begin patrolling my remaining share of the Upper East Side when I noticed that the young couple with the birthday boy had left . . . but the bouquet of helium balloons was still there.

  Balloons! Balloons would be a perfect delivery vehicle for the ricin powder. No fiery explosion to damage the living organisms. And balloons could be popped remotely using small timers, remote controls, or even by someone with a dart gun.

  I scanned the entire area again looking for suspicious activity. Maybe I was losing my touch, but I saw no one. Then again, maybe that was a good thing.

  I wasted no time in moving to the balloons for closer inspection.

  Just as I reached the place where they were tied, two teens, a boy and most likely, his girlfriend, sat down on the adjacent bench. I turned to them.

  “Hey,” I growled. “Get lost.”

  The response from the young man was immediate.

  “Bite me, Dude.”

  I didn’t have time to explain the severity of the situation to the feisty gentleman. So I did something I never do. I slipped the Glock out of my pocket just far enough for both of them to see. Four eyes widened to hubcaps.

  “Not kidding,” I said. “Get lost. Now.”

  The added authority of the Glock seemed to slice through the false hubris of youthful immortality, because the young lovers departed with all haste.

  Directing my attention back to the threat, I saw that the ribbons holding the balloons were looped loosely through the railing and tied to a small gift bag on the floor. The lift of the helium rocked the bag back and forth as mall breezes caught the balloons, but they never quite pulled hard enough to tip it over.

  No time to waste now.

  My gut told me this was our ricin threat, but I still needed to confirm the notion . . . and then neutralize the danger. It wasn’t time to call Bull yet. What if I was wrong?

  I tossed my backpack to the terrazzo floor and snapped a latex glove onto one hand. What was in this gift bag?

  Using a thumb and two fingers, and with all the serenity and care I could muster, I stretched the top of
the bag open just far enough to peek inside.

  Tissue paper. That would have to come out. Holding my breath, I slowly withdrew the crumpled paper . . . and was relieved when no white powder came out with it.

  Peering back into the gift bag I could see two or three small packages tied up in cellophane. I reached my gloved hand back inside for the first one.

  Jordan almonds. It was possible they had been coated with ricin. But they didn’t appear to be an immediate concern. I bagged the almonds in a Ziploc and dove back in for the next packet. It, too, contained candy . . . in this case, gummi bears. They were colored red, white, and blue. That was patriotic, I thought, before recalling that the North Korean flag bore the same color motif as our own. Once again, the bears posed no imminent danger. I bagged them separately from the almonds.

  I tipped the bag for a better view. At first glance, I thought it was empty. Then I noticed a small white envelope lying flat on the bag’s equally white bottom. Reaching my latex glove into the gift bag one last time, I pinched the envelope and pulled it out. Now the bag was truly empty.

  The credit card-size envelope had lain face down in the bag. I flipped it over in my hand. The addressee read simply, Joe.

  G.I. Joe perhaps?

  A quick peek inside the envelope revealed a refrigerator magnet emblazoned with the North Korean flag. At least I could now be certain that I was in the right spot. I called Bull on my cell while I examined the balloons more closely.