Black Friday (19 page)

“I wouldn't count on that,” Aaron said.

Tobey said, “Everybody scoot over and let Santa by.” There was a sentence he wouldn't have thought he would ever say.

With some grunting and wheezing and puffing, Hendricks got past the other men. He looked back at them and said, “Good luck to you boys. I admire your bravery.”

Tobey just grunted and started moving along the corridor again. Dupont called back, “Good luck to you, too, George.”

“Never thought we'd run into Santa back here,” Aaron said when they were all around the bend in the corridor. “I guess that song's right about him seein' you when you're sleepin' and seein' you when you're awake.
And
when you're sneaking around to kill terrorists. Does that count as naughty or nice?”

“Shut up,” Tobey said.

Chapter 30

E
mergency vehicles, all of them with their lights flashing, completely surrounded the American Way Mall at the outer edge of the parking lots. The lots were full of cars, pickups, vans, and SUVs that belonged to the shoppers who'd been trapped inside the mall. It would have been nice if those vehicles could be cleared out some way, but it would have taken all day, if not longer, for tow trucks to haul them off.

All the cars and trucks would provide extra cover if the terrorists decided to open fire from the mall entrances, Walt Graham thought as he and Agent Helen Shaw walked along the perimeter toward the command post that had been set up inside a square of heavily armored tactical squad vans.

Graham recognized his old academy-mate Brendan Zimmer, who was talking to someone on a cell phone. Zimmer was impeccably dressed, as always, today in a dark gray suit. The suit, as well as the dark glasses Zimmer wore, made his pale skin and hair seem even more washed out than usual. His hair had been a light blond when Graham knew him at Quantico. Now it was pure white.

Zimmer must have spotted them coming because he broke the connection with whoever he was talking to, lowered the phone, and stepped forward to extend his hand to Graham.

“Walt,” he said. “Long time no see.”

“Yes, but is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Graham asked as he gripped Zimmer's hand.

The Special Agent in Charge from the FBI's Chicago field office grunted and said, “Still as blunt as ever, aren't you, Walt?”

“Not blunt. Efficient.”

And not a brown-nosing politician like some agents,
Graham thought.

That probably wasn't fair—from everything he'd heard, Zimmer was a good agent—but even back at Quantico, the man had always had an angle, some way to push himself ahead of others who were doing work that was just as good.

“It wasn't my idea for the director to call you in on this, but I'm glad you're here.”

“Have we established communication yet with the terrorists?” Graham asked.

“We're not calling them terrorists,” Zimmer said. “There's no official confirmation of who they are or what they want.” He gave a little shake of his head. “So far, they're not talking.”

“Well, it's only been, what, a couple of hours?”

“Not even that. An hour and thirty-eight minutes since the first reports of shots fired.”

Graham looked around at the giant circle of flashing lights and said, “You've been busy since then.”

“Everybody has.” Zimmer jerked his head in an indication for Graham to follow him. “There's somebody over here I'd like for you to meet.”

Zimmer hadn't given any orders to Agent Shaw, but Graham looked at her and inclined his head in a similar, though not as curt, gesture, letting her know that he wanted her to come along, too. He felt an instinctive liking for the young female agent, and it didn't have anything to do with the fact that she was so attractive, he told himself. Well, that didn't have
much
to do with it, he amended.

The three of them walked over to a middle-aged woman in a tan suit. Her brown, curly hair was cut so that it hung almost to her shoulders. She didn't look happy as she said to whoever was on the other end of the phone connection, “Yes, sir. I'll inform you right away if there are any developments. Of course, sir.”

The call ended, and as the woman lowered the phone, Zimmer asked her, “The president?”

“Yes, and the president is not happy.”

“Neither are the director and the attorney general. I've been on the phone with both of them in the past few minutes. They want this resolved.”

“That's not actually up to us, is it?” The woman looked at Graham, her dark eyes curious and hostile at the same time. “Who's this?”

“One of our agents, Walt Graham.” Zimmer nodded toward the woman and went on, “Agent Graham, this is Yolanda Crimmens, assistant director of the Department of Homeland Security.”

Graham would have put out his hand, but instinct told him she would ignore it. Her eyes narrowed as she said, “Graham . . . You were part of that debacle down in Texas a few years ago.”

“A nuke going off in the middle of the country would have been more than a debacle,” Graham said.

“Officially, there was no nuclear device involved in that incident.”

Graham shrugged. There was no point in arguing with anybody who spent most of their time in Washington, D.C. Might as well just ask them what color the sky was in their world, because they sure didn't understand—or care about, for the most part—the rest of the country, except for Wall Street and Hollywood.

“What are you doing here, Agent Graham?” Crimmens asked.

“I don't really know. I was just told to come. I'll help any way I can.”

“Just stay out of the way unless we need you,” Crimmens said.

Graham was tempted to point out that he didn't actually work for her, but he didn't see what good it would do so he didn't say anything. Crimmens turned to Zimmer and went on, “We still don't have any word as to the identities of the suspects?”

“That's right,” the SAC said.

“We need to identify them as soon as possible. The press corps is hounding the White House for a statement. The president would like to reassure the American people that this is just another case of workplace violence, you know, some disgruntled employees perhaps stressed out by the pressure of Black Friday—”

Graham couldn't stop the scoffing sound that came from his throat.

Crimmens fixed him with a baleful stare and said, “You disagree with that assessment, Agent Graham?”

“There have been phone calls and texts from people trapped inside the mall saying that the shooters are young, Middle Eastern males. I suppose the mall might employ a few workers who fit that description, but not enough for them to be able to take over the whole place. These suspects don't work here, and we all know it.” Zimmer had called him blunt, and Graham supposed he might as well be. “They're terrorists. Whether they're al-Qaeda or ISIS or Hizb ut-Tahrir or some other splinter group that's sprung up recently, it doesn't matter. They want to kill us.”

Crimmens' chin lifted angrily as she said, “Where are you normally posted, Agent Graham?”

“The Kansas City office, ma'am.”

“Then I suggest you go back there—now. I don't want you on this scene.”

Zimmer said, “All due respect, but Agent Graham works for me, not you, Assistant Director Crimmens, and
my
boss wants him here.”

Graham appreciated Zimmer standing up for him like that. It was out of character for the guy, who was very much from the “go along to get along” school.

Before the argument could continue, a man in the uniform of the Springfield Police Department came up to the little group and said, “Excuse me, Agent Zimmer?”

“What is it, Chief?”

The officer, who was evidently the chief of police, held out a phone and said, “This call was forwarded to me by the local nine-one-one dispatcher.”

“Who is it?” Zimmer asked with a frown.

“Guy who says he's the leader of the Sword of the Prophet. The group that's taken over the mall.”

* * *

As much as Habib enjoyed the thought of the Americans suffering from the uncertainty of what was going to happen next, he knew the time had come to put an end to that. He walked through the food court toward the glass doors, although he stayed close to the wall and didn't move up far enough toward the entrance that he could be spotted easily.

He kept an eye on the burner phone's display. All the metal in a building like the mall sometimes interfered with wireless service, and the phone was a cheap one. The signal looked good where he stopped, though, so he thumbed in 911.

He figured the dispatchers might be overloaded with calls so he was prepared to wait for a while. However, the call went right through, and a brisk female voice said, “Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?”

“The emergency is that the United States and the rest of the decadent West has defied the will of the glorious and divine Allah,” Habib said. “They have spread their sin and evil across the world until the planet is drowning in a cesspool of immorality. Islam is the only thing that can save it. The world must be washed clean in the blood of the unbelievers.”

“Sir?” The woman sounded utterly baffled. The fact that a female would be in such a position of power was yet another slap in the face to Habib and his holy cause.

Deliberately, he said, “My name is unimportant. I am a servant of Allah. My brothers and I call ourselves the Sword of the Prophet. We have taken control of the American Way Mall as a demonstration of Allah's mighty power.”

“Could you, ah, stay on the line, sir?”

“There is no need to trace this call. I have told you where I am, and as a devout follower of Islam I am always truthful, even with unbelievers. Please allow me to speak with whoever is in charge of the authorities surrounding the mall.”

“Yes, just . . . just hold on, okay?”

“Okay,” Habib said with exaggerated politeness.

He turned to look back along the food court while he waited. Tables and chairs had been shoved aside to create a large open area in which hostages were packed in like sardines as they sat on the floor. Habib thought there were under a thousand infidels in this group. Ten guards stood along the walls, five on each side of the food court, and five more were near the wrecked elevators, cutting the prisoners off from the rest of the mall.

The Americans had been split up into five such groups spread out through the mall so that Habib's men could control them with the menace of the machine pistols. Taken by surprise, shocked and stunned into submission, disarmed and in mortal fear for their lives, the prisoners were like sheep being driven to the slaughter, cooperating freely in their own doom. They could have risen up against their captors, but they were too craven to do so. Many more would die if they did, and none of them wanted to be in that number.

They still clung to the hope that some of them would survive.

Most of the Americans looked terrified. Many of them were crying as they held tightly to each other, trying to draw strength from loved ones or, in some cases, strangers caught in the same trap.

A few wore angry, defiant expressions. As Habib held the phone to his left ear with that hand, he strolled toward one of the prisoners glowering at him, a stocky man with iron-gray hair. A blond woman sat on the floor next to him, holding tightly to his arm.

“You don't like me, do you?” Habib said to the man.

“Ken, no—” the woman began.

Her husband—Habib assumed they were married—cut her off by saying, “No, I damn sure don't.”

“I don't want to harm you.”

The woman plucked at the man's sleeve, but he ignored her as he said to Habib, “You've got a mighty funny way of showin' it.”

“You don't have to die today,” Habib said. “Just renounce your sinful beliefs and embrace Islam. Accept Allah as the one true god.”

“Go to hell, you damn—”

Habib fired a three-round burst from the Steyr into the man's face, blowing his head apart and spraying blood, bone chips, and brain matter onto the woman, who screamed hysterically. Habib put three rounds into her chest, knocking her backward and silencing her shrieks. The prisoners crowded in around the two people Habib had just executed cried out and cringed, trying to get out of the line of fire if he continued shooting.

But at that moment, a man's voice said, “Who is this?” in Habib's ear. He swung away from the prisoners, the couple he had killed already forgotten.

“I am the leader of the Sword of the Prophet,” he said. “We strike in the name of Allah to cut away the disease that infects your country.”

“Listen, mister—”

“No, you listen,” Habib interrupted him. “We have nearly a thousand hostages. We can kill a hundred of them every hour for the next ten hours. Is that what you want?”

“What do
you
want?” the man asked.

“Who am I speaking to?”

“I'm Richard Dodson, the chief of police for Springfield—”

“Chief Dodson, I'm sure you're not the highest ranking person out there. By now the FBI is bound to be on the scene, along with perhaps other representatives from the federal government. I want you to find the person who's in charge and let me talk to them.”

“I can handle any negotiations—”

“Chief,” Habib said, “I'm going to kill five hostages right now if you don't—”

“Wait, wait!” Dodson cried. “Just hold on. I'll find who you're looking for. It'll just take a minute. Don't hurt anybody.”

“Go on, then. You've got a minute.”

Habib hummed to himself as he waited. He didn't bother counting off the seconds or anything like that. When he felt like enough time had passed, he would shoot more of the infidels.

“Hello? This is Special Agent in Charge Brendan Zimmer.”

“Really?” Habib said. “In charge of what?”

“The Chicago field office of the Federal Bureau of—”

Before Zimmer could finish, Habib heard a woman's voice saying, “Give me that.”

Zimmer said, “You can't just—”

Habib heard some faint sounds and realized the two people were struggling over the phone. He laughed at the ludicrousness of the Americans.

Then the woman's voice spoke again, louder this time, which meant she had won the battle.