Black Friday Read online

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay, you can take twenty minutes.”

  This guard was an older man and had a holstered gun on his hip. Calvin wondered if his job was to go around the mall and relieve the other guards so they could get their breaks. That actually wouldn’t be a bad assignment, he thought. It would be better than standing in one place for hours.

  Of course, this guy appeared to be a full-timer, and a veteran of the security force, at that, so that was probably why he got this particular job . . . if, indeed, that was what he did.

  Calvin thanked the man who had relieved him and headed for the end of the mall where he hoped to find Dave Dixon. As he walked along, he met a man and woman who were armed and wearing the uniform of the Springfield Police Department. They nodded to him as he passed.

  That was something else that had been covered during training. The PD assigned three units to the mall for this long holiday weekend. One patrol unit cruised the parking lots constantly, while the officers from the other two units circulated through the mall all day. They were there to handle any actual arrests that had to be made, whether for shoplifting, disturbing the peace, public intoxication, or other crimes.

  Calvin found it hard to believe that anybody would actually get drunk to come to the mall on the day after Thanksgiving . . . but maybe that was the only way some people felt like they could face it.

  He spotted the calendar kiosk and the cheese and sausage store up ahead and knew Dave ought to be around here somewhere. Calvin looked all around, however, and didn’t spot the tall, rawboned guard.

  Someone else was on duty, though: a short, pale, redheaded man who didn’t look happy.

  Calvin walked up to him, nodded pleasantly, and said, “Hello.”

  Without returning the greeting, the man snapped, “Are you here to tell me what the hell happened to Dixon?”

  Calvin frowned in surprise and shook his head.

  “No, I’m looking for him myself. Isn’t he supposed to be here?”

  “Damn right he is. I gave him his break a little while ago, and he never came back.”

  So the guard who had relieved Calvin wasn’t the only one doing that job, but Calvin hadn’t thought that he was.

  “You a friend of his?” the man asked.

  “Well . . . we just met this morning . . .”

  “Doesn’t matter. Dixon’s one of those guys who’s your friend right away, as soon as he meets you.” The man glared. “I hate guys like that.”

  “I wish I knew where he might be—”

  “You’re on your break, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take a look around for him, okay? Hate to ask you to do it, but we gotta find the guy. If he’s flaked out and left, Napoli can call in somebody to replace him.”

  “I don’t really know him, but that doesn’t seem like something he’d do,” Calvin said.

  The redhead shrugged his beefy shoulders and said, “Yeah, you’re right about that. All that bein’ chipper is annoyin’ as hell, but Dixon’s good at his job, I’ll give him that. If he’d gotten sick or something, he would’ve let the boss know.”

  “I’ll look for him,” Calvin said. He wasn’t exactly worried—he didn’t know Dave Dixon well enough for that—but he was concerned. And curious. He asked, “Which way did he go when you relieved him?”

  “That direction,” the man said, pointing to a section of the mall that contained a toy store, a shoe outlet, a couple of hip, trendy clothing stores, a place that sold leather handbags, and a makeup and beauty supply store.

  “I’ll go have a look around,” Calvin said. He put his hands in the pockets of his jacket and started in that direction.

  This wasn’t the way he had intended to spend his break, he thought . . . but it was still better than just standing around.

  * * *

  Tobey looked at his phone to check the time. It hadn’t been as long since he and Ashley split up as he had thought. Maybe it had just seemed like he had wasted too much time in the sporting goods store because he was nervous.

  You wouldn’t think anybody who had gone through what he had, anybody who carried around battle scars and still limped a little when the weather got too damp, would get nervous under circumstances like these, but hey, asking somebody to marry him was scary stuff!

  He had some time left before he was supposed to meet her at the food court. Maybe he would stop at the sporting goods store and look at those 1911s again. Now that he had spent nearly all his money, he thought as he patted the bulge that the ring box made in his jacket pocket, he could look at the pistols without being tempted to buy one and just appreciate them for the works of art they were.

  He headed in that direction.

  * * *

  Napoli’s expression had changed from one of distracted tolerance to frowning interest as he listened to Jake explain about the men going in and out of the service corridor where they didn’t really belong.

  “Are you sure they were Middle Eastern guys?” Napoli asked when Jake was finished.

  “Looked like it to me.”

  “Not Hispanics?”

  “I don’t think so,” Jake said. “But hey, either way they were where they’re not supposed to be, acting suspiciously.”

  “Yeah, but if they’re Middle Eastern—” Napoli stopped short.

  “Look, you don’t have to worry about me reporting you to HR or anything like that,” Jake told him. “I’m a cop, or at least I was. I know that profiling is a useful tool, and that all those bleedin’ hearts who say we shouldn’t use it are full of crap. I know what you’re thinking, too. Terrorists.”

  Napoli rested his big hands on the counter, drew in a deep breath, and said, “Aren’t you thinking the same thing?”

  “Damn right I am.”

  Napoli walked around the end of the counter, saying, “Tell me again where you saw these guys.”

  “I don’t know what the official designations are, but it was the door to the service corridor on the northern side of the mall’s west wing, about three-fourths of the way down to that fancy department store.”

  The creases in Napoli’s forehead deepened.

  “You know, I’ve got a guy down at that end of the mall who went on his break and didn’t come back.”

  “That’s kinda odd. You think there might be something hinky about him?”

  “Dixon?” Napoli grunted and shook his head. “Hell, no. He’s one of my best men. Worked here since the mall opened. I trust him completely. But something might’ve happened to him. It would’ve had to, for him not to do his job.”

  “We’d better go down there and check it out,” Jake suggested.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. You need to go on with your shopping, Mr. Connelly. You brought this matter to my attention and I appreciate it, but looking into it is my job.”

  “You’ll be outnumbered.”

  Napoli hesitated and asked, “How many did you say there were?”

  “Once I realized what was going on and started counting . . . eighty-eight. There could have been as many as a dozen guys before that.”

  “So maybe a hundred.” Napoli grimaced.

  “Yeah. Maybe what you’d better do is call the cops or, I don’t know, Homeland Security.”

  Napoli shook his head and said, “Not until I’ve had a look for myself. I’m not gonna throw the mall into a panic. Not today. If it all turned out to be nothing, management would kill me.”

  “Suit yourself. I still think I should come with you, though.”

  “You got anti-terrorist experience?”

  “No.” Jake shrugged. “But bad guys are bad guys, right?”

  Napoli grunted again and jerked his head toward the office door.

  “Come on,” he said. “But if things go south, no suing the mall.”

  “Things go south and I probably won’t be around to sue anybody,” Jake said.

  * * *

  Mahmoud was the last man to come to
the storage room. Habib greeted him with a tense nod and handed him one of the machine pistols.

  “Everyone is in position?” Habib asked.

  “I have walked from one end of the mall to the other, on both levels,” Mahmoud replied solemnly. “Our men await the signal.”

  Habib picked up one of the Steyrs for himself and checked it, sliding a fully loaded magazine into the well in its grip. There was one more question he felt like he had to ask, but he was uneasy about it and so he delayed.

  But there was no more time, and so he took a deep breath and said, “You’re sure about your part?”

  Not a flicker of emotion showed on Mahmoud’s stolid face.

  “What true follower of the Prophet could be unsure at a time like this?” he asked. “It will be my honor and privilege to strike this blow against the infidels on their own soil.”

  “You are a good man, Mahmoud,” Habib said. He gave in to impulse and quickly hugged the older man. As he did so, he felt the explosives strapped under Mahmoud’s tightly closed jacket.

  The bomb he carried was larger than the one on Habib. The explosion when it detonated would be enough to wreck the main escalators at the convergence of the mall’s four wings, plus it would kill everyone on them at the time. Mahmoud would set it off when he was halfway up to the second level.

  There was another set of escalators in each wing, but Habib had men on all of them to gun down the Americans riding on them and take control. The stairs at the end of each wing were covered as well. With thousands of shoppers in the mall, the only way to deal with them was to isolate them, cut them into small groups so that they couldn’t help each other or mount a coordinated effort against their attackers.

  Each of Habib’s men knew his job. Each would take over the area assigned to him and get all the Americans down on the floor. This control would be enforced with bloody ruthlessness. Men were posted at the entrances and exits as well, to keep anyone from fleeing the mall, and more important, to keep everyone else out.

  Then, once any scattered opposition was quickly crushed—Habib didn’t expect the soft, cowardly Americans to put up much of a fight—and the mall was completely under his command, he would begin to issue his demands. There were political prisoners to be freed, frozen assets to be released, statements to be made.

  But in the end, the biggest statement would be this: Before the day was over, thousands of Americans would die, their lives snuffed out in the middle of their secular, materialistic wasteland, and Habib and his followers would be in paradise, heroes in the glorious cause of Islam.

  No one—no one—was getting out of the American Way Mall alive.

  Habib slapped Mahmoud on the back a couple of times and then stepped away from him. The older man gave him a curt nod and turned to leave the storage room.

  Habib would follow him momentarily. He wanted to take this last moment for himself, alone, to reflect on what was about to happen. It was the greatest thing he had ever done, he thought. The greatest thing he ever would do.

  He took a deep breath, picked up one of the shopping bags, and placed the automatic pistol in it. Then, carrying the bag, he left the room and stepped out into the corridor.

  Mahmoud would wait until he saw that Habib was in position, then start up the escalator to detonate the bomb halfway to the upper level. The blast would signal all the other men to open fire. Knowing that everything was waiting on him now, Habib didn’t dawdle but rather strode briskly along the corridor.

  He was halfway to the door leading out into the mall itself when it swung open and two men appeared there. The one slightly in the lead was tall, broad shouldered, and had a shock of white hair. He wore a security guard’s uniform, like the one Habib had on.

  The other man was shorter and wider, with a face like a bulldog. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but he didn’t carry himself like a civilian. Like his companion, he had an air of authority and command about him.

  Habib felt a second of panic at the sight of the men. They moved with determined strides, and he knew they were here because of him. Somehow, they had guessed that something was wrong, and they were determined to find out what it was. Habib considered trying to bluff, to brazen out the impending confrontation.

  But the security man would know that he wasn’t Donald Reed, Habib realized. There was no way he could make the man believe otherwise.

  Well, he had planned to kill Americans today anyway, he thought as he reached into the shopping bag and closed his hand around the pistol’s grip. As he started to lift the gun, bringing the bag up with it, the white-haired security man yelled, “Hey, you! What are you—”

  The man was already reaching for the gun on his hip as he spoke. Habib didn’t let him draw the weapon. He squeezed the trigger, sending a burst of fire through the bottom of the bag.

  Chapter 18

  Even all the handicapped parking places were full, something that almost never happened . . . except on Black Friday, Pete McCracken supposed.

  As Father Steve circled through the lot, Pete said, “Look, Father, why don’t you just . . . forget about it? You can take me home . . . and we’ll tell Sister Angela . . . you brought me to the mall like she wanted. Hell, it’ll be . . . the truth. We’re here, aren’t we?”

  “No, Mr. McCracken, I’m sure we’ll find a place soon,” the priest said. “I have faith.” He grinned over his shoulder. “That’s my job, after all.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Pete muttered.

  “Look, I was right.” Father Steve pointed through the windshield. “There’s an empty spot now.”

  He pulled into the parking place, then got out to operate the van’s wheelchair lift. Pete could tell he had done it before. It took only a few minutes for the priest to get him out of the van and onto the ground. Father Steve put the lift away, then locked the van with the button on the key fob.

  “I’ll push,” he said as he moved behind the wheelchair.

  “I can . . . do it myself.” Pete felt the wheelchair start to move before he could hook his withered hand around the knob. “Ah . . . hell. What’s . . . the point?”

  He sat there and let the priest push him into the mall. Father Steve used the automatic doors so he wouldn’t have to hold them open while he maneuvered the wheelchair through them.

  Once they were inside, Pete said, “Holy—” then stopped himself before he fully expressed the thought that went through his mind at the sight of all those people.

  “Quite a crowd, eh?” Father Steve asked cheerfully.

  “Yeah, you could . . . say that. I think the last time . . . I saw this many people . . . in one place . . . was on a troop ship . . . headed for Europe.”

  “That’s right. You were in the war, weren’t you? The Great War?”

  “No, that’s what . . . they called World War One . . . before they knew there was . . . gonna be another one. Don’t they teach you kids . . . history anymore?”

  “I guess I was getting confused, what with you being part of the Greatest Generation.”

  “Not gonna . . . argue that part . . . with you. We were just . . . a bunch of average joes . . . but we saved the world. Your . . . pansy ass generation . . . couldn’t do that.”

  Gently, Father Steve said, “I hope my generation will see to it that the world never needs saving like that again. I don’t think it will ever come to that.”

  “Don’t kid yourself... Father. It always . . . comes to that . . . as long as there are guys . . . who think they can . . . run roughshod over everybody else.”

  “Disagreements can be solved without going to war.”

  “Not talkin’ about . . . disagreements. I’m talkin’ about . . . evil. You believe in . . . evil, don’t you . . . Father?”

  “Yes, of course. But I believe it comes from outside of ourselves and that human beings can always be freed from its influence.”

  “Maybe. But some of ’em . . . the only way you can free ’em . . . is by shootin’ ’em in the face.”

  F
ather Steve made a scoffing sound. Pete knew without looking around that the young priest was shaking his head. He was wasting his breath arguing with Father Steve . . . and in his condition he didn’t have much breath to waste.

  Father Steve had been pushing the wheelchair through this wing of the mall. He changed the subject by asking, “What would you like to look at, Mr. McCracken?”

  Pete didn’t really want to be here, let alone look at anything, but he knew that if he indulged the kid and pretended to be interested in something, he would get back home sooner. So he raised his good arm, pointed at a sporting goods store, and said, “Over . . . there. Might bring back . . . some good memories . . . of when I could still . . . hunt and fish.”

  Father Steve angled the wheelchair in that direction and said, “That’s fine.”

  As the priest pushed him toward the store, Pete looked idly around, and suddenly he stiffened as much as his atrophied muscles would let him. He had just spotted a familiar face in the crowd.

  It was that damned punk who had tried to break into his house the day before!

  * * *

  “You didn’t have to bring me with you if you didn’t want to, you know,” Jennie said as she and Aaron walked toward the mall.

  “Nah, I don’t mind,” he told her, which wasn’t entirely true but close enough. Even though they hadn’t talked much on the way over here, it had been sort of nice, the two of them being together in the car. He’d had the radio on, and it turned out they both liked some of the same music, which had surprised him a little.

  “You look like you mind, the way you’re frowning,” she said now.

  “I didn’t know we were gonna have to go on a freakin’ hike once we got here, that’s all.”

  “It’s not that far. Only a couple of hundred yards. If you’d let me drive your car, I could’ve dropped you off at the door . . . Grandpa.”

  She was smiling at him. Aaron laughed and said, “Let you drive my car? No way!” Although in truth, there was actually no way she could hurt that old rattletrap, he added silently.

  He went on, “You’re plannin’ on ditchin’ me as soon as we get in there, right?”