Black Friday (6 page)

Mall of America

P
atrick saw Rebecca just as he heard the first shouts from down below, “Police, put up your hands.” She looked crumpled against the railing that separated the open expanse of the atrium and what used to be the food court. Tables and chairs were tossed and broken, splintered into pieces like a tornado had blown through. She was conscious though hugging her left arm to her body. And there was a man standing over her. Someone trying to help.

But why had he chosen Rebecca?

He remembered trying to help the mother get her baby out of the stroller and wanted to kick himself for being paranoid. Of course, people helped each other.

As Patrick got closer he could see the white type on the man’s baseball cap. Paramedic? Strange, he didn’t think there was a rescue squad here yet. He looked down over the railing. Two uniformed police officers scrimmaged the mall entrance two floors down. They were the first responders that Patrick had heard or seen though he guessed it was certainly possible for more to be here without him noticing.

Blue jeans, hiking boots, a duffel bag.

Patrick still wasn’t satisfied. And there was something in the guy’s hand that looked like…
damn, it looked like a needle and syringe
. None of the volunteer rescue and fire units Patrick had ever worked with would approach an injured person with a syringe.

“Hey,” Patrick shouted, but his voice was drowned out in the whirl of noises.

“Rebecca,” he yelled and saw her body jerk up. But it wasn’t in response to his call.

In one swift move she jumped to her feet, kicking at a table leg and sending it into the man’s path before sprinting off in the other direction. The man stumbled but only for a second. He pocketed the syringe and bolted after Rebecca, shoving a pair of teenaged girls out of his way. In the chaos no one else noticed.

Patrick took off after both of them.

What the hell was going on?

Washington, D.C.

A
ndrews Air Force Base disappeared below and Maggie forced herself to not look for it, to stop watching out the airplane window. Killers, she could handle. Being at 38,000 feet and not in control still required conscious effort.

Conscious effort or a Scotch, neat.

It didn’t even matter that it was a private jet with comfortable leather lounge chairs. To make matters worse, Assistant Director Ray Kunze sat across from her alongside Allan Foster, the silver-haired senior United States senator from Minnesota. To Maggie’s left was the Assistant Deputy Director of Homeland Security, Charlie Wurth. The three men were finally quiet after exchanging pleasantries, a few barbs and then the requisite comments of disbelief and anger. Maggie had simply sat back and tuned them out.

“They warned us,” Senator Foster said for a second time.

“We’ll know soon enough if this was the work of any organized group or simply one madman.” A.D. Kunze looked to Maggie and nodded like it was some secret signal to back him up. “Our Special Agent O’Dell should be able to tell us exactly who to look for as soon as she sees those videotapes.”

Instead of agreeing or offering any assurance, Maggie asked the senator, “What exactly were the warnings?”

“We haven’t substantiated or authenticated them yet,” Kunze answered for the senator. “But I’m certain once we get a look at the terrorists—on the security cameras and from eyewitness reports—we’ll be able to determine if the warnings provide an appropriate template.”

Maggie found herself staring at Kunze. Did he always talk like this? As if surrounded by TV cameras and reporters?

“I’m just curious,” she said and shrugged as though it didn’t matter whether or not they shared. “Warnings and threats often reveal more than intended.”

Senator Foster met her eyes and nodded, “That’s very true.” Then as if to squelch any protests, he added, “And the warnings are all we have right now.”

“You said security had video,” Kunze tossed at Wurth, again reminding Maggie of a politician looking to already place blame if need be.

“Yes, they should have video,” Wurth said with a calm that made Kunze’s bulging vein in his forehead look manic.

“But you know how retail security is. They’re more concerned about shoplifting than bombs. We’ll be lucky if we caught any of the terrorists on camera. And hopefully the cameras weren’t tampered with or destroyed.”

Maggie knew Wurth had been awarded his position in Homeland Security for his work investigating the fraud and failures of the federal government after Hurricane Katrina. He had a reputation for pushing the envelope and getting things done. Compared to his FBI counterpart and the senior senator, Wurth would be the one least worried about political correctness or organizational protocol.

Ironic, Maggie thought as she watched the small, wiry black man. Ironic and refreshing to meet someone who didn’t premeasure his actions to limit his accountability. In other words, it was refreshing to meet someone in this business whose number one concern wasn’t covering his own ass.

Kunze dug a file folder from a bulging leather satchel and handed it to Maggie.

She glanced at the three men as she started to sift through the contents. Each man watched her with different looks that telegraphed their different agendas—looks and agendas as different as were the men.

Maggie guessed Wurth somewhere around her age, middle thirties with a small but athletic frame. He shed his sport jacket as soon as they boarded and rolled up the sleeves of his oxford shirt, a pale pink shirt with a bright red necktie. She immediately liked Wurth who didn’t seem to care about putting on airs or hiding his working-class past. He sat on the edge of his chair, nervous energy tapping out with his foot.

In contrast Senator Foster’s tall, lanky body lounged back in his chair with legs crossed at the ankles and extending well beyond his personal space. His elbows braced up on the chair arms, hands together creating a steeple of fingers that held up his head and seemed to point out the deep cleft at the bottom of his chin. He reminded Maggie of an academic professor, thoughtful, slow to speak as if he truly were pondering every answer before he responded.

Assistant Director Kunze was physically a direct opposite of both Wurth and Foster. Square head on massive shoulders, Kunze looked more like a well-dressed bouncer at a private nightclub. His stare could easily be mistaken as vacant while, in fact, his mind analyzed and processed every move his opponent made. He used the image of all brawn, no brains to his advantage and had even been rumored to play it up every chance he got.

A.D. Kunze’s superiors called him straightforward and quick-thinking. Maggie considered him reactive and impulsive. Colleagues described him as determined, focused and passionate. Maggie saw him as unpredictable, short-tempered and vindictive. In plain English, a petty brute of a man who didn’t deserve to walk in Kyle Cunningham’s shadow let alone take over his position.

Previous to Kunze being assigned interim assistant director of the Behavioral Science Unit Maggie had never worked with the man, and yet he came to the position loaded with an unshakable perception of her, a preconceived misperception. Evidently her reputation of bending the rules was something Kunze had no patience for. His accusation that Maggie and Agent Tully had contributed to Assistant Director Cunningham’s death somehow, by their individual negligence in the case, was absurd. Why Kunze insisted on using it against them puzzled her. It almost seemed ridiculous, except that Maggie knew Kunze might actually be able to pull it off.

Inside the file folder were poor-quality copies of memorandums about several phone calls and e-mails. They seemed standard fare. The group called itself Citizens for American Pride, CAP for short. Maggie was familiar with the group and similar ones. Most of them had gained popularity through the Internet and on college campuses. Their missions weren’t all that different from the white supremacist groups of the ’80s and ’90s, which they disguised with a veil of normalcy and a level of legitimacy.

Instead of holing up in cabins or compounds, the groups—always professing America pride and ideals—held family picnics, sometimes church sponsored, though not affiliated with any one church or Christian denomination. They held rallies on college campuses. From what Maggie remembered, most of the groups preached family values and focused on putting an end to exporting jobs, stopping the floodgate of immigrants coming across the border and encouraging the purchase of American-made products. Maggie remembered recently seeing, as the holiday shopping season began, a full-page ad in
USA Today
, sponsored by Citizens for American Pride, calling for a boycott of 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.

Mall of America

BECCA, DON’T TRUST ANYONE—DIXON

T
hat 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.