Black Friday. Alex Kava
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“But why send you?” Gwen didn’t bother to hide her irritation. “You’re a profiler, for God’s sake, not a bomb specialist.”
“They’ll need to draw up a profile immediately, so they know who to start looking for,” Tully said, remote in his hand, still pointing it at the TV from across the room. Still flipping channels though he had the TV on MUTE now. “They’ve got to put pieces together as soon as possible before any eyewitnesses start second-guessing what they saw or heard.”
Maggie glanced at Tully, looking for signs that he might be disappointed he wouldn’t be going along. They had been a team before budget cuts and before his suspension. Paid suspension. It was protocol anytime an agent used deadly force. Less than two months ago Tully had shot dead a man he had once considered a friend. The agency would find it justified. Maggie knew Tully would, too…eventually. Just not yet.
“Okay, so Kunze needs a profiler on the scene. That doesn’t answer why it has to be Maggie.” Gwen fidgeted with the knife that had recently been chopping vegetables. Maggie watched her friend stab the knife’s tip into the wooden cutting board, then pull it out and stab it again like a person tapping a pen out of nervous energy. “Are you sure you should even be flying?”
This made Maggie smile. There was a fifteen-year age difference between the two women and sometimes Gwen found it difficult to hide her maternal instinct. Although it made Maggie smile, all the others were looking at her now with concern. The same case that had garnered Tully a suspension had landed Maggie in an isolation ward at USAMRIID (the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases) under the care of Colonel Benjamin Platt.
“I’m fine,” Maggie said. “Ask my doctor if you don’t believe me,” and she pointed at Ben who remained serious, not ready to agree just yet.
“Kunze could send someone else,” Gwen insisted. “You know why he’s sending you.”
Maggie could hear the anger edging around the concern in her friend’s voice. Evidently so could everyone else. Harvey even looked up from his corner, dog bone gripped between big paws. The silence was made more awkward by the oven timer that reminded them of what the day had started out to be.
Maggie reached over and tapped several of the oven’s digital buttons, shutting off heat and sound.
More silence.
“Okay,” Racine finally broke in. “I give up. I seem to be the only one who hasn’t gotten the latest news alert. Why is the new assistant director—”
“Interim director,” Gwen interrupted to correct.
“Yeah right. Whatever. Why’s he sending O’Dell? You make it sound like it’s something personal. What have I missed?”
Maggie held Gwen’s eyes. She wanted her to see the impatience. This was bordering on embarrassing. People in Minnesota may have lost their lives and Gwen was worried about department politics and imagined grudges.
Tully was the one who finally answered Racine. “Assistant Director Ray Kunze told Maggie and me that we were both negligent on the George Sloane case.”
“Negligent?”
“He blames them,” Gwen blurted out.
“He didn’t say that,” Maggie insisted although she remembered the sting of the words he did use.
“He insinuated,” Gwen corrected herself. “He insinuated that Maggie and Tully, quote, ‘contributed to Cunningham’s death.’”
“He told us we have some proving to do,” Tully added.
Maggie couldn’t believe how calm he was, explaining it over his shoulder as he kept an eye on the TV, as if he was simply updating the scores of the day. The subject did not have the same effect on Maggie and Gwen knew that. Perhaps Gwen had even picked up Maggie’s initial anger and carried it for her when Maggie had become weary of the burden. It wouldn’t have been so bad had Kunze not triggered a guilt Maggie had already saddled herself with. Some days she still blamed herself for Cunningham’s death even without Kunze’s accusations of contributable negligence.
Her psychology background should have reassured her that she was experiencing a simple case of survivor’s guilt. But sometimes, usually late at night, alone and staring up at her bedroom ceiling, she’d think about Cunningham getting infected, both of them exposed to the same virus. Just the image of his deteriorating body and how quickly he had gone from strong and vital to helpless, caused a sinking hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, an ache accompanied by nausea. That feeling was very real, physically real. Cunningham was dead. She was alive. How was that possible?
“So he sends you off to Minnesota to appease his friend the governor,” Gwen said. “You. When there’s probably someone there in the Minneapolis field office.”
“Gwen.” Maggie bit her lower lip. She wanted to tell her to stop. This wasn’t something to discuss with or in front of Ben and Julia, or even Tully.
“It’s just not right.”
The sudden volume of the TV drew all their attention as Tully pointed and punched until it was loud enough to hear the FOX news alert:
“There have been reports of a possible explosion from inside Mall of America,” an unseen voice announced while on the screen a bird’s-eye view appeared of the expansive mall. It was, perhaps, stock film since the parking lot was not full and the trees had green leaves.
“911 operators have experienced a flood of calls,” the disembodied voice continued. “Emergency personnel, as well as our news helicopter, are on their way so we have no details as of this moment.
“We can tell you that Mall of America is the largest mall in America. More than 150,000 shoppers were expected to visit the mall today, traditionally called Black Friday, the busiest shopping day of the year.”
Inside Maggie’s great room there was silence. No more accusations. No more questions. No more arguments.
Ben crossed his arms as he stood beside her, shifting his weight only slightly so that his shoulder brushed against Maggie.
“Forget the politics,” he said calmly, quietly, an obvious attempt to reassure her. “Just go do what you do best.”
Before Maggie could respond or ask what he meant, he added, “Go get these bastards.”
Chapter
7
Mall of America
“We’ve got a problem,” Asante growled into his wireless headset. He avoided people in the parking lot, some standing in the frigid cold just staring while others ran to their vehicles.
“What’s the problem?”
Asante could barely hear the response.
“We’ve got one carrier still on the move.”
There was silence and Asante thought perhaps the connection had faded out.
“How is that possible?” came the reply.
“You tell me.”
“There were three blasts. No one could survive that.”
“You watched them?” Asante asked with careful accusation.
“Of course.” But the conviction wavered against the hint of Asante’s irritation.
“You saw each one?”
“Yes. I saw all three arrive in the food court area.” Hesitation, then the admission. “Carrier #3 brought two friends along. I didn’t think it was a problem.”
Asante stayed silent when he wanted to remind his point man that he didn’t get paid to think. No matter how willing, no matter how capable they appeared to be, Asante had learned to trust no one but himself. It was a tough lesson he had