J
ust Patrick’s luck. Looked like security guard Frank used this laundry room as his break room.
Patrick climbed into and folded himself inside one of the large commercial dryers, barely clicking the door shut before the giant sauntered in. He pressed himself against the metal drum, hoping anything that showed through the round window would only look like a pile of clothes waiting to be sorted. He could see just a sliver of Frank and what looked like a three-day supply of vending machine snacks. The security guard sat down at one of the tables, popped a can of soda, ripped open a bag of chips and propped up a paperback novel.
Great. A nice, long break.
Patrick tried to ignore the cramp in his legs. One leg twisted up under the other. He’d better get used to it. Frank was settling in. The dryer next door rattled and vibrated with the towels and his clothes, thumping his own high-tops against the back of Patrick’s head. He might get away with some movement. The sound would get lost in the hum of the other dryer, but he couldn’t chance setting his own creaking or whining.
Then he remembered his cell phone. He hadn’t shut it off. He hoped Becca wouldn’t choose now to call him. Or Maggie.
It reminded him that Becca hadn’t called him. He couldn’t call her. He didn’t have Dixon’s phone number. But she had his number. Why hadn’t she called? Now that she was safe with Dixon, why wasn’t she at least checking to make sure he was okay? When she escaped from the triage area had she intended to escape from him, too?
The thumping already gave him a headache. He chanced another peek. Frank had barely made a dent in his junk food stash.
Patrick’s leg cramped, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. He leaned back, tried to stretch. The metal drum groaned and he froze. He braced himself and tried to listen over the vibration of the next-door dryer. No footsteps. He didn’t see a chunk of blue uniform. Maybe the groan had sounded louder inside than outside.
This was crazy. All through high school and college he worked hard, kept to himself, tried to do the right thing, stayed out of trouble. Didn’t date, didn’t do drugs, didn’t binge drink, didn’t go looking for a fight. Or at least he didn’t make a habit out of any one of those things. It’d been hard enough taking care of himself. Paying for college. Making enough extra money to eat, buy gas for his car and pay the rent. How the hell did he end up with his picture plastered all over the network and cable news? How did he end up alone, on the run? In a fucking dryer?
He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw against the thumping. It was exhausting having only yourself to depend on. He thought maybe Becca had felt the same way. He didn’t want to admit how disappointed he was that she left without a word to him, that she didn’t call or text. If he admitted that he was disappointed then he’d have to admit that she mattered. He had trusted that she was his friend. Didn’t friends look out for each other?
Maggie said he needed to trust her.
He remembered when she called and invited him to her home for Thanksgiving. She offered to pay for his flight or train ticket. Said he could spend the weekend if he wanted. She had a big house with a huge backyard. She was anxious to introduce him to her white Lab, Harvey. In the last two years since they’d discovered each other, Patrick could count on one hand the times they had seen or talked to each other. He didn’t know this woman who was trying to suddenly be his big sister.
Then it occurred to him that she, at least, was trying. What had he done? Not much of anything.
From what little he knew about Maggie, he realized she had worked hard to get where she was, working her way through college, earning a forensic fellowship at Quantico. And it sounded like her life hadn’t been much easier than his after their father died. She had only hinted about her mother’s alcoholism, but Patrick had worked in Champs long enough to recognize the difference between someone who chose to stay away from alcohol and someone who had to stay away.
The first time he met Maggie she had come to Champs in the hope of seeing him when he was working. Only she had no idea what he looked like. He remembered watching this lady sitting by the bar as she glanced around like she was searching for someone. It was a college bar. She looked out of place. Not because she was older but because she was too classy for Champs. Then to make matters worse—to prove even further that she didn’t belong—she ordered a Diet Pepsi.
The memory brought a smile just as the next-door dryer came to a sudden stop. No more vibration. No more thumping.
Patrick stayed pressed against the drum, not daring to move. The quiet was worse than the thumping. He risked a glance, moving only his head and keeping the drum from groaning again. The table was empty. No snack food, no paperback novel.
He craned his neck. No Frank. Was it possible he was gone?
Patrick dared to eased himself up on his elbows, creaking the drum just enough so he could see the rest of the room. Empty. Finally he could get out. If only he could twist himself out of this pretzel.
He pushed the door of the dryer. It didn’t open. He put his shoulder to it and began to shove his weight against it.
The door didn’t budge.
H
enry could tell the FBI agent didn’t like him. Despite the compassion she’d shown earlier with Hannah, it was obvious she was having a difficult time listening to his reason for any of this. He didn’t care. If he took into account what others thought of him he’d never have built the business empire he had today.
This agent, this young woman looked half his age. What did she know about making decisions that would change the world? He didn’t give a crap whether or not she liked him. She could judge him all she wanted. The only thing he cared about now was that she helped him get Dixon back. Nothing else mattered.
“Where is the next attack supposed to take place?” she asked.
He could tell that her patience was wearing thin. She didn’t realize it but he had caught plenty in her eyes, read the brief flickers of emotion she thought she could conceal. Henry had hired and fired more people than this woman had probably met in her young life. He saw that she wasn’t just getting impatient, she was anxious, exhausted, cautious, suspicious. Not only did she not like him, she didn’t trust him.
“I don’t know the exact location,” he told her. His hands no longer trembled. A good sign. He didn’t like not being in control.
She raised an eyebrow. It was the first facial expression she had allowed.
“Sunday is the second busiest travel day of the year,” he explained. “It’ll be an airport. But I honestly don’t know which one. We provided a list, but the choice was left to the Project Manager.”
“Why an airport? I thought the jamming devices were designed to cause a commotion in the retail industry? Stall the computers? Play havoc with their profits.”
“No, no you don’t understand.” He shook his head. He thought he had been clear. “This isn’t about money. This is about keeping America safe. Keep terrorists from striking us again. This administration has destroyed all the safeguards we worked so hard to put into effect. What better place and time to remind Americans than a mall on the busiest shopping day of the year. Likewise, an airport on the second busiest travel day, stalling travelers returning home.”
“Did you know it would be Mall of America?”
“Yes, of course. It’s the largest mall in America.”
“Then why don’t you know which airport?”
He nodded. She was smart. But she still didn’t quite understand.
“The largest mall in America made sense, no question about it. But if we knew which airport, we might give it away or incriminate ourselves.”
“You’re going to give me the list.” It wasn’t a question.
He hesitated then reminded himself it didn’t matter. It was a small exchange for Dixon’s life.
“Of course. I don’t have it memorized. I’ll need to e-mail it to you.”
She pulled out her smartphone. “You’ll e-mail it to me before I leave.”
Maybe he had done his own misjudging of her as well. She was sharp, quick…gutsy.
“So tell me about this man who calls himself the Project Manager,” she prompted him.
“I wasn’t the one who hired him,” he told her. “He was hired?”
Another slip of emotion. He could see it, though subtle, it was there in her eyes. Surprise? No, Henry thought it was more a flicker of disgust.
“None of us met him. He made certain we had no idea who he was, what he looked like, where he’d come from.”
“Why did you believe you could trust him?” Henry shrugged. Good question.
“He came to us highly recommended by someone we trusted.”
“Are you telling me this man you hired to upset retail business and stall air travel, has his own agenda?”
“Either he has his own agenda or he’s following orders from someone in our group. Someone who believes we need bombs rather than jamming devices to wake up America.” Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that the group he defended and vowed to protect had gone a step too far, ignoring his warnings, betraying years of integrity and honor in exchange for what? Power? Greed?
“You realize I could take you in for questioning,” she told him. “I could make you tell us who that someone is.”
“I know my rights, Agent O’Dell, and I employ some of the best attorneys in the country. I’d clam up and you’d have nothing. You need this information and I want my grandson back alive.”
Her earlier sympathy had diminished.
“If you want your grandson back you’ll need to tell me something. I don’t know if you’re aware of this but Chad Hendricks and Tyler Bennett are dead.”
He winced, closed his eyes. He had suspected as much.
“Their backpacks blew up while on their backs, detonated from outside the mall.” Her voice had gained an edge to it. “They were just walking around the mall, thinking they’d cause some commotion—according to you—by jamming a few computers, holding up some lines of shoppers, irritating those greedy retail owners. They had no idea they’d be blown into pieces.”
His eyes met hers and he watched her carefully put away the anger, pretending the emotion was a tool of her interrogation practice.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It doesn’t matter to me if you enjoy taking swipes at me.”
That surprised her. He could see she wanted to cross her arms but stopped herself. She flexed the fingers of one hand, no doubt preventing them from balling up into a fist.
“Think whatever you must about me,” he continued.
“I deserve it. But my grandson doesn’t deserve to pay for any of my mistakes.”
“Let’s get back to the Project Manager, Mr. Lee. There has to be some information you can give me about him.”
“There is one thing. Though I don’t know if it means much. He referred to himself as John Doe #2. I was told he said it as if it were a resumé enhancer.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“My daughter was killed in the bombing in Oklahoma City. The Project Manager knew more about all of us than we knew about him. I figured it was some twisted reference to the alleged third terrorist. For my benefit, perhaps. Remember, they referred to him as John Doe #2? Maybe he said it because it was true.”
“Are you suggesting the man you hired as the Project Manager
is
John Doe #2 from the Oklahoma City bombing?”
Henry shrugged.
“That he even existed was mere speculation, rumor at best.”
Henry noticed that Agent O’Dell looked like she was already considering it, wondering if, indeed, John Doe #2 may have been real after all.
“That’s all I know,” he said. “Did you want me to download that list for you?” He pointed to the smartphone in her hand.
She stared at him a second or two, the information taking time to sink in. He wondered if she had any idea how much of a risk he was taking by telling her any of this.
“So we have a deal?” he asked, waiting for her eyes to meet his. “You’ll get my grandson back from this bastard?”
He knew there wasn’t anything else she could say. She simply nodded.
Saturday, November 24
McCarran International Airport
Las Vegas, Nevada
A
sante didn’t want to waste any more time, but he waited behind three other first-class passengers. He couldn’t be the first to deboard the plane. Being first would be noticed by the flight attendants as too anxious. Being first would be out of the ordinary.
Most of the passengers—even those who looked ready to hit the casinos’ gambling floors—were exhausted because of the long delay. Asante tried to blend in with them though he had no intention of stepping foot in a casino. Not on this trip.
Las Vegas had been an excellent choice, especially with the unexpected delay. Most airports closed down after midnight. Not Las Vegas. It was just as noisy at this hour as any other time of day. Even before he came up out of the gateway he heard the clicks and pings of slot machines. Asante glanced at them and wanted to shake his head. They filled the middle area of the terminal. The majority of the machines were in play by passengers waiting for their flights and needing to extend their addiction for as long as possible.
He shouldered his way through the crowds and started following the signs for baggage claim. He adjusted the duffel bag as he turned on his headset, already planted on top of his ear. Then he punched the keypad on his phone. The call connected in seconds.
“Good flight?” the woman’s voice asked in place of a greeting.
“A bit delayed but I’m back on track.”
“Becky is enjoying her reunion with her college buddy.”
Again, they kept the conversation like a husband and wife checking in with each other. He had trained them well, keeping it minimal and never mentioning full names or using a name as traceable as Dixon.
“Good. And what about our friend, Hank? How is he?”
“He’s staying put. Seems to be behaving.”
“Glad to hear that. So are we ready to clean house tomorrow?”
“Can’t wait,” she said with a laugh. A nice added touch, Asante thought.
“In fact,” she continued, “we’re making the final preparations.”
“Call if there are problems. I’ll talk to you later.”
He found the escalator for baggage claim and got on with a dozen others.
Glitches, he smiled to himself. That was the thing about glitches—they could be fixed, rerouted or simply deleted.
At the bottom of the escalator while everyone else headed for the luggage carousels, Asante went the other direction to a small room off to the side. There, a row of foot lockers lined each wall. He found #83 and expertly fingered the combination padlock. One twist left, two twists to the right and it slid open.
Inside the locker, taped to the inside door was a sealed, plain manila envelope with more cash than he’d need. Stacked one on top of another was a twenty-six inch Pullman and its twin, both black canvas, their corners sufficiently scuffed to look like they belonged to a seasoned traveler. He took the two Pullmans out and dropped the duffel bag on top of one. Then he plucked off the envelope, tucking it into one of the bag’s side pockets. Finished, he hung his coat in the locker, closed the door and replaced the padlock.
Now all that was left was finding a ride.
He headed for the exits. The warm air hit him in the face. What a difference a few hours and a thousand miles made. Despite going from one extreme to another and despite already breaking a sweat, the warmth felt good.
He started looking for the shuttle buses. He’d catch the next one going to long-term parking. At this time of night he was certain he’d be able to pick out the vehicle of his choice.