Black Friday

BY

Alex Kava

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Chapter
1

Friday morning, November 23

Mall of America

Bloomington, Minnesota

Rebecca Cory stood her ground despite another elbow shoved into her shoulder blades. She’d let the first two shoves go. A quick glance back at the tattooed man convinced her to ignore this one, too. The man towered over her, wearing camouflage pants and a muscle T-shirt. No signs of a coat. Quite a strange fashion statement considering it was twenty degrees outside and snowing, but not a bad idea in the crowded mall.

Even with a glance it would have been hard for Rebecca not to notice the purple-and-green dragon that snaked down the man’s arm, its tail curling up around his neck and its fire-breathing head squeezing out of the T-shirt’s tight armhole. The tattoo crawled all the way down past the man’s elbow. The same elbow that kept finding its way into the middle of Rebecca’s shoulder blades.

She told herself to be patient. She could finally see the order counter as the line to the mall’s coffee bar grew shorter. It wouldn’t be much longer. She tried to concentrate on the Christmas music, what she could hear of it through the crowd’s chatter and the temper tantrums of impatient toddlers.

“…in a winter wonderland.”

She loved that song. But it certainly didn’t feel like winter in here. Sweat trickled down her back. She wished she had left her coat back with Dixon and Patrick who were guarding a rare find, a bistro table and four chairs in the mall’s overcrowded food court.

Rebecca hummed with the music. She knew all the words. They had sung Christmas songs on their long road trip. Connecticut to Minnesota. Twenty-one hours. Thirteen hundred miles. Surviving on Red Bull, convenience-store coffee and McDonalds. She hadn’t caught up yet on sleep although yesterday they all crashed after Thanksgiving dinner at Dixon’s grandparents’ house. The first holiday meal she’d had in years—turkey, dressing, real mashed potatoes and all the trimmings. Granddad said a blessing. Nanna served seconds whether you asked for them or not. Dixon had no clue how lucky he was. Family, tradition, stability, unconditional love. It gave Rebecca hope to see those things still existed despite being absent from her family’s life.

Another elbow.

Damn!

She resisted looking back this time.

What in the world was she doing here?

She hated malls and yet here she was on the day after Thanksgiving, the busiest shopping day and craziest shopping crowd of the year. She’d let Dixon talk her into it, just like this whole trip, convincing her it’d be an adventure she’d never forget. He’d been doing crap like that since they were in kindergarten and he convinced her paste tasted like cotton candy. You’d think she’d learn by now that Dixon’s taste for adventure was pretty much like his taste for cotton candy, tame and sugar-coated, the hype being the most exciting part of anything Dixon did. What did she expect from a guy who quoted Batman and Robin?

And poor Patrick, along for the ride, trying to be the good sport.

Patrick.

He was a whole different story. She should have found Patrick’s behavior endearing. Instead, she thought it a bit suspicious that this totally cool and together guy would want to travel 1300 miles to spend Thanksgiving with her and Dixon. Seemed a long way to go just to get inside her pants.

That wasn’t fair.

She knew he didn’t have any family to keep him in Connecticut over the long holiday weekend. His mom was in Green Bay. He had a stepsister in D.C. He’d asked if they could cut through Wisconsin on the way back, like that was part of his excuse to go along. That maybe they could just drop in and say “hi” to his mom. But no big deal if it didn’t happen.

That was Patrick. Low-key, mature, steady as a rock. Dixon called it “boring.” Rebecca called it dependable and she liked that about Patrick even if she wasn’t so sure about his intentions. Dependable felt good. Having Patrick along felt good, though she didn’t like admitting that even to herself.

They’d become friends working at Champs across from the University of New Haven. Patrick tended bar and Rebecca waited tables. She wasn’t old enough to serve drinks to the table and if there wasn’t another “of age” waitress working then Patrick did it for her, always so patient about it even when he was swamped behind the bar.

Patient, kind, gentle…very suspicious.

Pretty weird, or maybe just sad and pathetic, that she found all that suspicious. Mostly in the beginning. Not so much anymore. Next to Dixon, Patrick was her best friend. Her mom didn’t think it was normal for Rebecca to have boys as best friends.

“Are you having sex with these boys?” her mom wanted to know. Then when Rebecca told her “absolutely not,” her mom seemed even more perplexed.

“You’re not a lesbian, are you?” her mom had asked and quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

In the last three years Rebecca had watched her mom and dad yell their way through a divorce. Her dad immediately married the coworker he claimed to have just met. Her mother reciprocated with her own stream of men. After watching the two of them, Rebecca had long ago made the decision to concentrate on her future, to use their love life catastrophes as inspiration. Her future was her escape and she wouldn’t allow someone, dysfunctional parents or a boyfriend, to screw that up for her.

Besides, her love for animals, especially dogs, was the one thing Rebecca knew without question. Taking care of them, healing them would save her. She looked to it as her salvation from an otherwise dreary, miserable life. She knew veterinary school would be a long haul, but she was willing to put in the tough hours. Maybe someday have her own clinic. That and a pack of dogs, a couple of horses, some cats, too. Her mom wouldn’t even let her have a small dog in their post-divorce condo. It was just as well. Not having someone she was obligated to, had made it easier to leave for college and live on campus. Same theory went for not having someone to hold her back, distract her from her dream.

When her mom asked if she was coming home for Thanksgiving, Rebecca’s first inclination was to blurt out that she didn’t have a home. But her mom wouldn’t have understood. And she certainly wouldn’t have allowed Rebecca to travel halfway across the country with Dixon and Patrick, so Rebecca lied.

No, not really a lie.

She simply told her mom that her dad had asked her to spend Thanksgiving with his new family. That was actually true. He had asked her to join them on their extravagant Thanksgiving trip to Jamaica. It wasn’t Rebecca’s fault that her mom hadn’t checked it out, that she would rather swallow fire than talk to her ex-husband.

By the time Rebecca made her way back to the table, Patrick had gotten a Cinnabon for each of them. From the look on Dixon’s face she knew Patrick was making him wait for her.

Add dependable and courteous to that list.

It made Rebecca smile just as Andy Williams started singing, “I’ll be Home for Christmas.” The mall must have the same Christmas CD collection that Dixon owned.

Dixon was singing the words to “I’ll be Home for Christmas” as she set down his Red Bull and coffees for her and Patrick.

She barely sat down and he bit off a mouthful of cinnamon roll while popping the tab on his drink. Her friend was charming and talented and witty and totally oblivious to anyone else when he was obsessed. Which was the reason they were here at the mall on the day after Thanksgiving. His latest obsession involved the red backpack at his feet.

“Chad and Tyler are already here.”

He waved at them across the food court but they even didn’t look his way. Typical, but Rebecca didn’t point out to Dixon that the two jocks still treated him like an elementary school tag-along. The four of them had gone to school together up until Rebecca’s mom dragged her away to Connecticut. Dixon chose West Haven for college partly to be with Rebecca but as soon as he came home to Minnesota, Chad and Tyler could draw him into their escapades with a simple phone call.

Rebecca noticed they both carried red backpacks identical to Dixon’s. What did he get himself into this time? She pulled off her coat and let it hang over the back of her chair. She usually stayed away from Dixon’s adventures. She wiped at her bangs that were pasted to her forehead and stretched her back expecting it to ache from the tattooed man’s elbow.

“We agreed to start on the third floor and work our way down.”

“What exactly is it you guys are doing?” Patrick asked.

Rebecca wanted to kick him under the table. Dixon took on causes like they were T-shirts with slogans that he changed every other week. Most likely this was Chad and Tyler’s idea. Dixon read Vince Flynn novels and superhero comic books—Batman was currently his favorite. He did a cool imitation of Homer Simpson and knew all the characters from Lord of the Rings. Not only could he find Venus, and sometimes Mars, in the night sky, he could name all three stars in Orion’s Belt. When he told Rebecca he had decided to major in cyber-crime, she couldn’t imagine him stepping out of his fantasy world long enough to deal with real life criminals. He was a smart, quirky guy and Rebecca hoped he’d realize soon that he didn’t need Chad and Tyler.

“Do you realize that eighty percent of toys sold in the U.S.A. are made in China?” Dixon told Patrick as he stuffed another piece of cinnamon roll into his mouth. “And that’s just toys. Don’t even get me started about other products. Like those cute little patriotic flag pins everyone puts on their lapels…made in China.” He drew out the phrase like it was all the proof he needed to substantiate his argument. Never mind that it sounded like he had memorized it from some pamphlet.

Patrick glanced at Rebecca as he sipped his coffee. She winced, wanting to tell him it was too late.

“Over a half million production jobs were outsourced to other countries last year,” Dixon continued. “Just to make everyday products that we can’t live without.”

“Like your new iPhone,” Rebecca said pointing to the gadget in Dixon’s shirt pocket, the earbuds a constant fixture dangling around his neck. “Made in China but you can’t live without it.”

“These are different.” He rolled his eyes for Patrick as if saying she didn’t know what she was talking about. “Besides, this was a gift, a reward, in exchange for lugging around this backpack all day.”

“Ahh,” Rebecca said and didn’t have to add that she knew there had to be a catch.

“And I can live without it, Miss Smartypants,” he added.

“Really?” Rebecca raised an eyebrow to challenge him.

“Of course.”

She put out her hand. “Then loan it to me for the day. You owe me for losing my cell phone.”

“I didn’t lose it. I just haven’t remembered where I placed it.”

But already Dixon’s smile disappeared as if he was trying to contemplate life without immediate access and communication to the world. Just when she thought he couldn’t bear to relinquish it, he pulled the cord from around his neck and slid the cord and the iPhone across the table to her. The smile reappeared.

“Don’t break it. I just got it.”

“What about the backpack?” Patrick asked.

Both Rebecca and Dixon looked at him as though they completely forgot what they had been talking about. Patrick pointed to the pack at Dixon’s feet.

“What’s the deal with the backpack?” he asked again.

“That, my friend, contains the secret weapon.” Dixon was back to his infomercial. “Inside is an ingenious contraption that will emit a wireless signal. Completely harmless,” he waved his hand, “but enough interference to mess up a few computer systems. Wake up a few of these retailers. Last time I was home Chad and Tyler took me to a rally with this cool professor at UMN, drives a Harley, one of the big ones.”

Rebecca couldn’t help but smile. Dixon wouldn’t know a Harley from a Yamaha, but she didn’t say anything.

“This is a guy who’s been in the trenches, knows what he’s talking about. You know, he’s been to the Middle East, Afghanistan, Russia, China. Professor Ryan says that until we hit people in the almighty pocketbook nobody’s gonna care that we outsource hundreds of thousands of jobs every year or that the southern invasion is stealing twice that many jobs right here, right out from under us.”

“Southern invasion?” It was Rebecca’s turn to roll her eyes at Dixon. She’d lived through many of his obsessions and humored him by listening to all of his rants, but once in a while she had to let him know she couldn’t take him seriously. Next week Dixon would probably move on to saving beached whales.

“So why the padlock?” Patrick asked, still interested.

Dixon shrugged like it didn’t matter, that the padlock was a minor point and besides, he was finished with his spiel. Rebecca recognized the look. He was ready and impatient, looking over his shoulder, concerned with finding Chad and Tyler. That’s when she knew this idea was probably theirs. Not Dixon’s. But he’d go along, wanting to be friends with the cool guys, the high school jocks he grew up following around. They were always getting Dixon in trouble and she didn’t understand why he kept going back for more. Maybe another semester away at college, away from them, would help.

One thing about Dixon, he was there for his friends. Rebecca could account for that. In the early days of her mom and dad’s divorce Dixon was always there for her, just a phone call away, telling her it had absolutely nothing to do with her, reassuring her, making her laugh when it was the last thing she thought she’d ever do again.

Dixon’s iPhone started playing the theme song from Batman and she slid it back over.

“It hasn’t even been five minutes—” she started.

“Hey, I can’t help it, I’m a popular guy.”

But within seconds of answering Dixon’s face went from cocky and confident to panic.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“What’s wrong?” Rebecca sat forward. The mall noise had amplified. Somewhere behind them a PA system was announcing Santa’s arrival.

“That was my granddad.” Dixon’s face had gone white. “They just took Nanna to the hospital. She may have had a heart attack.”

“Oh my God, Dixon.”

“You want us to go with you?” Patrick was already pulling on his jacket.

“Yeah, I guess,” Dixon said, trying to stand but stumbling over the backpack at his feet. “Oh crap.” He pivoted around trying to look beyond the crowd. “I promised Chad and Tyler.” He picked up the backpack with a pained look and dropped it on the table as if the weight of it was suddenly too much.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rebecca said, grabbing the pack, surprised at how heavy it was but sliding it up over her shoulder as if it were no problem. “I just need to walk around with it, right?”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. Now go.”

“How will you get home?”

“Patrick and I will figure it out.” She gave Dixon a onearmed hug, all she could manage with the awkward weight of the backpack.

He handed her the iPhone and she tried to wave him off, but he insisted, “No, a deal is a deal.”

They watched him disappear into the crowd as a family of four took over their bistro table. She and Patrick made plans to meet by the Gap in an hour. Rebecca’s mind was on Dixon’s grandmother while she stopped at the restroom. She had known Mrs. Lee since she was a little girl. She always treated Rebecca as though she were a member of the family, this time even giving Rebecca their daughter’s old bedroom.

“I know it’s a bit outdated, but I couldn’t bear to change out the wallpaper,” Mrs. Lee had told Rebecca as she showed her around the room, explaining that daisies had been her daughter’s favorite.

Rebecca was clear across the food court by the time she realized she had forgotten Dixon’s backpack hanging on the restroom door. She swore under her breath as she turned around, hurrying back to retrieve it.

She saw Chad and hoped he didn’t notice her. He was headed in the opposite direction. She was watching him when the explosion happened. Everything moved in slow motion. She was paralyzed by a flash of red-and-white light engulfing Chad’s body. The sound of the blast reached her ears just as glass shattered and fire erupted.

An invisible force knocked her completely off her feet. She felt hot air lift her. Pressure crushed against her chest. She slammed back down to the floor with a rain of metal and glass and wet debris showering over her, stinging her skin and scorching her lungs. She couldn’t move. Something heavy lay on top of her. Pinning her down. It hurt to breathe. She could smell singed hair.

When she opened her eyes the first thing she saw was an arm ripped apart and lying within a foot of her. For a panicked second she thought it was her own until she saw the green dragon tattoo splattered with blood.

It looked like it was snowing, glittery pieces floating down. Rebecca closed her eyes again. Through the moans she recognized Doris Day’s voice, singing, “Let it snow…”

And then the screams began.

Chapter
2

Newburgh Heights, Virginia

Maggie O’Dell slid a pan of stuffed mushroom caps into the oven then stopped to watch out her kitchen window. In the backyard Harvey entertained their guests, leaping into the air to catch his Frisbee. The white Labrador retriever was showing off. And her guests were humoring the big dog, laughing and chasing him through the fallen leaves. Three adult professionals acting like kids. Maggie smiled. Nothing like a dog to bring out the inner child in everyone.

“This is all quite an accomplishment,” her friend, Gwen Patterson said, trying to point with her chin while her hands stayed busy chopping onion.

At first Maggie thought her friend meant the spread of munchies the two of them had prepared. It was a feast that looked more like a cocktail reception than a college football big-screen marathon. But Gwen wasn’t talking about the food.

“I mean getting us all here together,” Gwen explained. “All of us in one place without a crime scene…or a corpse.”

“Yes, but there’s free food and beer,” Maggie said. “That’s usually enough.”

“True.” Gwen smiled. “You never did tell me why your brother couldn’t make it.”

“Guess he got a better offer,” Maggie said, relieved that her back was to her friend. She didn’t want Gwen to see the disappointment. It was best to keep things light. No big deal. Her psychologist friend would poke and probe if Maggie wasn’t careful. “Hey, I can’t expect to drop into his life and have an instant relationship.”

She risked a glance over her shoulder only to see that her instinct was right. Gwen had stopped chopping and was watching her.

“There’s always Christmas,” Maggie added, trying to sound positive when she knew it was a long shot. She hadn’t even brought up the subject with him. One rejection per phone call seemed sufficient.

“Do you think we have enough food?” Maggie wanted off the subject. This was supposed to be a day for relaxation. No stress. Just watching college football with friends, sharing a beer and some killer salsa.

“This is plenty,” Gwen reassured her and went back to chopping.

Maggie stood with hands on her hips, assessing the island countertop that showed off trays and platters of finger foods. She had never thrown a party before. She didn’t attend many either. In fact, she rarely invited guests to her house. Funny how getting an extended warranty on life had a way of making a person do things she thought she’d never do. Less than two months ago Maggie and her boss, FBI assistant director Kyle Cunningham had been exposed to the Ebola virus. Maggie had survived. Cunningham hadn’t been so lucky.

“I don’t know if we have enough. I’ve done a couple of road trips with Racine,” Maggie said, trying to ward off the memories of being confined to an isolation ward and the helplessness of watching her boss go from a vibrant leader and mentor to a skeletal invalid sprouting tubes and lifelines. She closed her eyes, again keeping her back to Gwen as she grabbed onto the counter, pretending to survey their spread.

Keep it light, she reminded herself. Relax. Breathe. Enjoy.

“You’d never guess by looking at Racine but she can put away a pile of food.”

As if summoned, Julia Racine came in the back door, her short spiky blond hair tousled, her sweatshirt sporting a few dry leaves, a smudge of dirt on the knee of her blue jeans. The scent of fall trailed in with her. She looked more like a punk rock star than a D.C. homicide detective.

“Your dog cheats,” Racine announced, running her fingers through her hair as her eyes took in the kitchen activities. “He knows all the shortcuts,” she said but the carefree frolic in her voice disappeared as she glanced from Maggie rinsing celery at the sink to Gwen chopping onion at the island counter.

Maggie could tell in an instant Racine wasn’t comfortable, not just in Maggie’s kitchen, but in any kitchen. The tall, lean detective crossed her arms and stayed pressed in a corner. She’d probably rather be back outside with Harvey, Ben and Tully. Racine wasn’t a woman used to the company of other women. Maggie understood that. Too many hours spent with male colleagues. In many ways Julia Racine reminded Maggie of a younger version of herself.

“Back behind you,” Maggie said, pointing to the cabinet Racine leaned against. “There’re some white square appetizer plates. Could you pull out a stack and put them on the counter. Some glasses, too.”

Racine seemed startled by the request but Maggie moved on to her next task without further instruction. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Racine recover and nonchalantly get the plates and glasses.

Maggie plopped down the freshly washed bunch of celery on a paper towel next to Gwen’s cutting board. She pulled out a couple of stalks, handing one to Racine as she munched on her own. This time when the detective leaned against the counter she didn’t look quite as rigid and out of place.

“So,” Racine said, taking a bite of the celery and letting the word hang there. Obviously she was more comfortable. “What’s the deal with you and Benjamin Platt?”

Maggie glanced at Gwen.

“That’s actually a good question,” Gwen said then shrugged in defense for joining in.

Maggie realized she might regret making Racine feel comfortable in her kitchen.

“He’s quite a hottie,” Racine continued without prompting. “I mean if you’re into that soldier of fortune type.”

“He’s a doctor,” Maggie found herself countering.

“An army doctor,” Gwen added.

Maggie stopped what she was doing, ignoring Gwen but getting a good look at Racine, making eye contact briefly before the detective felt it necessary to straighten the plates and glasses she had put on the counter minutes ago. Maggie’s first impulse was to wonder if the young, tough-as-nails detective was jealous…of Platt, that is. Not Maggie. Several years ago when Racine and Maggie first met, Racine admitted she was attracted to Maggie. She had even made a pass at her. Somehow the two had gotten past it all and became friends. Just friends. Though in times like this, Maggie wondered if Racine still hoped for more.

Maybe it was due to a temporary setback in Racine’s own love life. Racine hadn’t even mentioned her most recent lover, though Maggie had told her to bring a guest. Instead of asking about the elusive lover, who, if Maggie remembered correctly, was an army sergeant and soldier of fortune herself, Maggie simply said, “Ben’s good company.”

Maggie’s cell phone interrupted any further discussion. She found herself relieved.

“This is Maggie O’Dell.”

As soon as Maggie heard her new boss’s voice, the muscles in her neck went tight. Her holiday weekend off was about to end.

Chapter
3

Bloomington, Minnesota

They called him the Project Manager. He didn’t mind. It was better than some of the names he’d been called in the past. Like John Doe #2. Project Manager was definitely better than that. He still bristled a bit at the John Doe #2 label. He was always in charge. Never number two. Didn’t matter that being mistaken as number two had been to his advantage. Besides, that was almost fifteen years ago.

The name on his new driver’s license was Robert Asante and he took time to correct anyone who didn’t pronounce it accurately.

“Ah-sontay,” he would say. “Sicilian,” he would add, like it meant something to him when, in fact, he simply wanted them to believe his olive complexion was from Italian ancestors and not from his Arab father. Though it was his white American mother whom he truly owed for his deadliest disguise, indigo-blue eyes. Anyone who doubted his ancestry usually put all hesitation aside when they looked into his eyes. After all, how many blue-eyed Arab terrorists could there possibly be?

And how many of them would be wearing a gold wedding band on his left ring finger? Everyone who asked to see his ID also got a glance at the photo inserted on the opposite side of his wallet, the photo of him with his family, a beautiful blond woman and two little girls. Even the wireless earbud in Asante’s right ear, the leather jacket he wore with jeans, a T-shirt and designer running shoes portrayed him as an all-American businessman. Minor details that he knew made all the difference in the world. Details that had earned him the nickname, the Project Manager.

He retreated to the parking lot and now stayed inside his car, parked across the street, a safe distance from the shopping mall. Close enough to hear only the echoes of the blasts and far enough away to avoid the initial chaos. This particular parking lot was also out of view of any security cameras. He had double-checked during one of his many practice runs. Although it hardly mattered. Already the car’s windshield was filled with snow, obscuring the view inside if anyone happened by.

Earlier, he had watched on the small handheld computer monitor as each of his carriers moved into place. Three separate carriers. Three separate bleeps in his ear. Three separate blinks of green light skipping across the computer screen as he tracked them.

Tracking them had been the easy part. Without them realizing it, Asante had planted GPS systems on each carrier. Now he detonated each one with a simple touch of a button. His well-planned mission reduced to nothing more than a touch-screen video game, blowing up each carrier. One after another, leaving only seconds in between.

First CARRIER 1, then CARRIER 2, and finally CARRIER 3.

He could hear the echo of each blast. Each explosion confirmed each detonation. Confirmed success of the mission.

There was nothing like this adrenaline rush. It was better than drugs. Better than sex, better than a well-aged single malt Scotch. His fingertips still tingled. Okay, maybe it was only the frigid weather.

He sat back against the crackling-cold vinyl of the car seat. After hundreds of hours, weeks, months of planning, step one was complete. He took several deep breaths, not bothered by seeing his own breath as he exhaled. Not feeling the cold, conscious of the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

He was ready to call in confirmation. Then he heard it in his ear. Faint at first.

“Bleep.”

A pause. Maybe the monitor had malfunctioned.

Another bleep.

Impossible.

He shot forward in the car seat. Pulled up the computer monitor.

The machine gave another bleep. Then a bleep, bleep, bleep.

A green light started blinking across the screen in unison with the annoying sound.

Asante brought the small computer screen close to his face until it was almost touching his nose. And yet he still couldn’t believe his eyes.

One of his carriers was still alive.

Chapter
4

Mall of America

Patrick Murphy was on the escalator going down when the first explosion rocked the steps beneath him. Shoppers clutched the handrails and looked around, startled and curious, but no one panicked. After all, Santa had been due at any moment. Maybe the mall had some theatrical entrance planned that included fireworks. The place was certainly big enough. Patrick had never been in a four-story mall that had its own amusement park, theater and aquarium. The place was amazing.

No, the first blast went off without any panic. Only curious looks and turns on the escalator. No one panicked. Not until the second blast. Then there was no mistaking, something was wrong.

Without thinking Patrick twisted around. Instinct drove him in the opposite direction. He tried to fight his way up the down escalator, shouldering past shoppers, three thick, who were frantically headed down, shoving their way, using heavy shopping bags to pry through. Patrick tried to climb, pressing forward. He grabbed onto the handrail, almost losing his balance. The handrail was moving in the opposite direction, too. He tried to use his body to push against the crowd. He had a swimmer’s build, strong broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs and a stamina and patience that came from physical discipline. But this was impossible, like swimming against a current, being caught up in a rip tide.

A linebacker of a man dressed in a parka told Patrick to get the hell out of the way while he stiff-armed him in the ribs. A teenaged girl screamed in his face, paralyzed and clutching the handrail, not allowing Patrick to pass.

The third blast was closer, its vibration almost rippling the steps of the escalator. That’s when Patrick gave in. He turned back around and allowed the mob to carry him down the escalator. But as soon as they reached the bottom Patrick forced his way to the up escalator, grateful to find it practically empty. He raced up the moving steps. By now he could smell sulfur and smoke but continued to climb. Maybe his training actually had made a difference, taken hold of him without notice. It wouldn’t be the first time he relied on gut instinct. Usually he trusted it. Lately he wasn’t so sure.

Within the last year he had changed majors and with it his entire future. Not a good idea your senior year of college. It was an expensive undertaking for a guy working and scraping for every credit hour dollar. What started as a vocation and change of major had actually turned into a passion. All thanks to a father he’d never met. But Patrick knew it wasn’t the extra classes in Fire Science that now made him race toward smoke. It probably wasn’t even all those volunteer hours at the fire department that kicked him into full-throttle instinct, although firefighters were trained to push their way into burning buildings when everyone is clamoring to get out.

But this drive, this urgency, this gut instinct that had taken control of him and propelled him toward the explosions, had little to do with his new training and everything to do with Rebecca. He had left her back on the third floor at the food court, back where it sounded like the explosions had come from. He couldn’t leave without her. Had to make sure she was okay. How many times had she checked on him? Made sure he was okay? All those nights working at Champs.

“You don’t look so good,” she’d say in between orders and refills. Then at the end of the evening after they were finished cleaning up, both tired, dead on their feet and needing to get back to study, she’d hop up onto a bar stool in front of him and say to him, “So tell me what’s going on.” And she’d sit quietly and listen, really listen, eyes intent and sympathetic. She’d listen like no one else ever had.

Patrick started to feel the spray from the sprinklers above and yet the smoke still stung his eyes. He pulled out his sunglasses then he yanked the hem of his T-shirt up over his nose. He stayed close to the wall. Let a rush of hysterical shoppers race by. Then he pressed forward again, slowly, taking in everything through the gray haze of his sunglasses. He tried not to trip over the debris, some from the explosion, other stuff that people had dropped or left behind: half-eaten food and spilled shopping bags. That’s when Patrick thought about the backpacks.

He couldn’t forget the bad feeling he had listening to Dixon Lee talk about their innocent prank. The whole time Dixon explained their scheme to send wireless static, some sort of interference that would play havoc with the retail shops’ computer systems, Patrick kept thinking something didn’t sound right. He should have listened to his gut instinct.

Why would anyone put a padlock on a backpack just to carry it around the mall and mess up a few computers?

Chapter
5

Rebecca stumbled and quickly reminded herself to not look down. She didn’t want to see what she had bumped into this time. She continued to wipe at her face, each glance at her fingers found blood, some not her own. She tried raking her fingers through her long hair, but kept cutting her fingertips on pieces of glass and metal.

She was cold and shaking, her vision blurred, her heart hammering so hard it hurt to breathe. Her throat felt clogged, her tongue swollen. She must have bitten it. And when she did suck in gasps of air, the sting of acid, mixed with the sickly scent of sulfur and cinnamon, gagged her.

A small gray-haired man slammed into Rebecca, almost toppling her. She looked back to see him holding a hand up to a bloody pulp where his ear once was. Other shoppers pushed and shoved. Some of them also injured and bleeding. All of them in a hurry to flee even if their shock tangled their legs and confused their sense of direction. They dropped everything they didn’t need. Rebecca stepped in a puddle she hoped was soda or coffee but knew it could be blood. She tried to sidestep another and instead, skidded on a slice of pizza.

Slow down, she told herself. Not an easy task with all the chaos racing by and bouncing off her.

Toddlers were crying. Mothers scooped them up, leaving behind carriers, strollers, diaper bags and stuffed animals. There were screams of panic, some of pain. Smoke streamed from the blast areas where small fires licked at storefronts despite the sprinkler system misting down from the high ceiling.

The PA system announced a lockdown. Something about “an incident in the mall.” And through all the noise and chaos Rebecca could still hear the holiday music.

Was it just in her head?

She found it macabre yet comforting to have Bing Crosby telling her he’d be home for Christmas. It was the only piece of normalcy that she had to hang on to as she stumbled over discarded food, shards of glass, broken tables and puddles of blood. There were bodies, too, some injured and unable to get up. Some not moving at all.

She didn’t know what to do, where to go. Shock was taking over. The shivers that overtook her entire body came in uncontrollable waves. Rebecca knew enough from her pre-vet studies to recognize the signs of shock. The symptoms were similar for dogs and human beings—rapid heartbeat, confusion, weak pulse, sudden cold and eventual collapse.

She wrapped her arms around her body. That’s when she discovered it. The pain shot up her left arm. How could she not have noticed it before this? A three-to-four-inch piece of glass stuck out of her coat. Without seeing the entry she knew it had pierced into her arm. The sight of it made her nauseated. Her legs threatened to collapse and she caught herself against a handrail so that she didn’t tumble to the floor. Still, she slid to her knees.

Don’t look at it. Don’t panic. Breathe.

She saw a policeman and felt a wave of relief until she recognized the man was mall security. No gun.

Yes, that’s right. She knew that.

She’d worked for a pet shop in a local mall her senior year of high school.

He was close enough now that Rebecca could hear his frantic sputters into his handheld walkie-talkie.

“It’s bad. It’s really bad,” he said. He looked young. Probably not much older than Rebecca. “I don’t see anyone else with red backpacks.”

Even through the shock, it sent a chill through Rebecca.

The backpacks.

She tried to stand, tried to twist around and look toward the direction where she had last seen Chad.

No Chad. Not even a wounded Chad stumbling around like her.

All Rebecca could see was a scorched wall. Smoke. Bits and pieces. A pile that looked like a heap of smoldering black garbage.

Chad?

She felt dizzy. Her throat tightened. The nausea threatened to gag her.

No, she wouldn’t think about it. She couldn’t think about it.

Rebecca looked in the other direction. Standing now, gripping the handrail with white knuckles and wobbling to her feet. She could see a black hole where the women’s restroom used to be. The restroom where she had left Dixon’s backpack, hanging on the door of the first stall. The backpack that she was supposed to be carrying.

Oh God. That’s what exploded. The backpacks.

She slid back to her knees, the realization hitting her hard as she eased herself onto the floor. There was something sticky underneath her. She didn’t even care. How close had she come to becoming a smoldering pile of garbage?

Somewhere from inside her coat she could hear the theme to Batman, and amidst the stampeding feet and the moans surrounding her, the music seemed not at all surprising. In this bizarre version of reality the theme to Batman seemed to fit in perfectly.

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