Black Friday

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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