“Why can’t we have that?” Nick asked.
“Have what?”
“A peaceful, uneventful life. Go to work, punch the clock, type up a few reports and drive home. It sounds so calming.”
“You mean boring.”
“Yeah, boring. I like boring.”
“I don’t.”
“That’s because you’ve never tried it. Boring could be good for you. I hear the survival rate at AT amp;T is very high. A lot less stressful too.”
Matt shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. There’s just as much stress working for a big corporation as there is with the Bureau. Just a different type of stress, that’s all.”
“You’re probably on to something there,” Nick mused.
“Besides,” Matt said, “you had it a lot worse when you were trolling West Baltimore in a cruiser five nights a week.”
Nick knew he was right, of course. He wondered if he would find the world so pressing if he were a bank teller or a teacher, like Julie. Her concerns must seem just as disturbing to her, yet she rarely showed it. Apparently it wasn’t the profession so much as the professional. He looked over at Matt, who was leaning back in his seat, eyes closed. The picture of serenity. He respected Matt’s composure. He was cool, placid, skillfully poised.
As if Matt felt the weight of Nick’s stare, he said, “I know what they’re doing.”
“Who?”
“The Kurds,” Matt said, head back, hands folded on his lap.
“Tell me about it.”
“Obviously they’re planning a bombing. That’s why it’s so important for them to spring Rashid. He’s the best bomb expert they have. Probably the best in the world. They’re inundating us with enough riff-raff so we can’t cover them all. My guess is, most of them are decoys. Spread us thin so we can’t possibly give them the attention they deserve. A good tactic.”
Nick raised his eyebrows. “And all this time I thought you were focusing on your next trip to the shooting range.”
“Hey, I’m not just another pretty face.”
Nick considered the theory. “Then why take my brother? You think Jackson’s right? You think it’s personal?”
“I don’t know. That part bothers me. There are too many other options that make more sense.”
Nick continued studying files until he became weary. He lay back and rested his eyes. It seemed like only a moment had passed before he awoke abruptly to the bouncing of clear air turbulence and the whining of landing gear deployment. When he looked out the window he saw the lights from the Vegas strip disrupting the Nevada sky like a neon bonfire.
Nick placed the documents into his portfolio and tucked it under his arm. He noticed Matt tapping his heel as he edged forward in his seat.
“Showtime,” Matt said.
It was a smooth landing and as the aircraft taxied to the gate, it stopped momentarily to allow another plane to pass. As he sat there on the tarmac, Nick saw people moving inside the terminal. The gate had a bay window that jutted out toward the runway. He fixed his stare at a familiar face in the crowd. His eyes narrowed to a slit. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone waiting for them. Anxiously, he shuffled through photos from the files he’d been reviewing. He pulled one from a file marked “classified” and examined it closely. When he peered back into the gate crowd, the man was gone.
Matt saw the grim expression on his partner’s face. “What is it?” he asked.
“Probably nothing,” Nick said.
* * *
Abdullah Amin Shah waited impatiently for the plane to arrive. He had purchased a ticket for a departing flight to have access to the gate. The flinty plastic knife, razor sharp, jabbed him from under his coat, reminding him just how lethal his assignment was. He leaned against the wall where the passengers deplaned. He only needed a moment to recognize the FBI agent. His face was burned into his memory, Kemel Kharrazi had made certain of that. He would surprise the FBI agent from behind and slit his throat to the bone. After that, it didn’t matter if he were caught. He would have accomplished his mission.
The agent, Nick Bracco, posed a problem for Kharrazi. It was not good to have an American law officer with strong convictions in Kharrazi’s path. Especially an extremely clever one. Especially now.
Kharrazi spoke of revenge, eye for an eye. He claimed that Bracco had to pay for what he did to Rashid, but Abdullah knew better. For the first time in all the years he’d known Kharrazi, he sensed fear. Something about the American bothered Kharrazi. That’s why Abdullah was at the airport with an undetectable knife waiting to slit Bracco’s throat.
Abdullah saw the first passengers exit the jetway. He blended into the wall so well, they never saw him. Their eyes focused forward, searching for a sign pointing them toward the baggage claim.
Abdullah knew there were seventy-five passengers aboard the direct flight. Eighty, including the crew. There would be no mistakes. No mishaps. Abdullah began counting heads: nine, ten, eleven. A man similar, but no, too short. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight. A businessman in a dark suit-too heavy. Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one. His hand trembled as he clenched the knife firmly under his coat. Sixty-nine, seventy. Where was he? It was confirmed, he boarded the plane in Baltimore. Seventy-three, seventy-four. One more passenger. He nearly jumped at the next man who walked through the ramp, but it was a pilot. The man wore sunglasses and he strode almost to the corridor before he turned, sat down, and began tying his shoelaces. Strange, Abdullah thought, why would he be wearing sunglasses at night? He had no time to ponder the American psyche.
Abdullah stood motionless, as if his stillness could lull everyone into believing he was harmless. There was one passenger left and it could be only one person. Escape was impossible. His eyes roamed the terminal casually. See Americans, I am just like you. Just another citizen waiting to board the next plane. He sensed the pilot watching him from across the room. Abdullah quickly looked away, but when his eyes returned, the pilot was smiling at him, curiously moving his fingers into a friendly gesture, as if he was waving. Why was the pilot acting so peculiar? While Abdullah tried to make sense of things, a man passed by briskly. It was Bracco!
Nick Bracco was getting away. Abdullah ran up behind him, swung the knife from his coat and with one great lunge he made his move. Abdullah was in mid step when he heard the thunderous clap and instantly dropped to the floor. What happened? He felt a sharp pain run up his right leg. When he looked down he could see a hole in his pants just above his knee, with a dark brown stain spreading across his pant leg. He poked a finger into the warm hole up to his knuckle. When he retracted the finger, it was covered with blood.
Abdullah looked up to see the pilot holding a gun. How could the pilot of the airplane shoot him? He was disoriented and becoming lightheaded. As he lay his head down he began to pant. His eyes stared straight up in disbelief and saw a figure kneel over him. It was the pilot and he was talking to Abdullah, yelling at him. What did the pilot want from him? Someone was pushing on his leg, but he couldn’t tell whom? The room was getting dark. The pain began to fade.
Matt applied pressure to the wounded limb as he shouted down at Abdullah. “Don’t you dare bleed out on me, you son of a bitch.”
Nick unfastened his tie and quickly wrapped it around the terrorist’s leg, high up on the thigh, above the wound. He stretched the silk into a tight knot, trying to stop the flow of blood. He slapped Abdullah’s face, which was losing color rapidly. “Where’s my brother?” he demanded.
Abdullah was unresponsive. A growing pool of blood gathered under his leg.
Matt pressed down hard on the wound site. “I hit the damn femoral. Of all the rotten luck. If he weren’t jumping so fast-“