Robert disappeared around the end of a ticket counter as his pursuer crashed headlong into a phalanx of passengers, knocking them, and himself, to the floor. Kat was closing, but not fast enough, as the man leapt to his feet and took off again. Robert was racing up a stairway. He reached the top and disappeared to the left with the man in hot pursuit.
Kat saw the man reach the top of the stairs and drop to a shooter’s stance as he pulled out his handgun, aiming down the upstairs hallway. She pushed herself as fast as she could, taking the steps two at a time as she closed on the man ahead, her right hand fishing in the cloth bag.
The gunman was taking careful aim, and as she topped the steps, she could see Robert backed against a wall thirty yards away with nowhere to run. She ran straight for the assailant’s back, calculating her trajectory as she prepared to launch herself into him, her hand bringing one of the heavy platform shoes from the depth of the cloth bag.
Robert MacCabe could see Kat descending on them at full speed with both hands held high over her head, her approach still unheard by the gunman.
And he could see she wasn’t going to make it in time.
Robert dropped to the floor, disappearing from the gunman’s sights and spoiling his aim. The barrel of the gun quickly descended toward him once more, but the slight delay had bought the two seconds Kat needed for a precisely timed, maximum-effort swing as she brought the heel of her sturdy platform shoe into the back of the gunman’s head with all her strength. The impact sent the gun clattering harmlessly to the terrazzo floor as the gunman crumpled in his tracks. Kat flashed by sideways, falling out of control and tumbling headlong into Robert as he sat on the floor ten feet beyond. He grabbed her as she fell, keeping her head away from the floor and absorbing her remaining speed.
Together they sat in a heap on the cold terrazzo, panting against the river of adrenaline flowing through both their bloodstreams before either could speak.
“Holy… mother of…”
“Good Lord!” Kat gasped. “Who is that?”
Robert told her as he helped her up, retrieving the man’s pistol. He checked that it was cocked and loaded before aiming it at the man’s head as Kat approached him.
“Robert…” She panted. “Look in…” She swallowed hard, taking her purse off her shoulder. “Look in here, in the bottom, for my flex cuffs. Cuff him to that pipe over there.”
Robert handed Kat the gun and complied, as she kept the gun at the ready.
“Okay. Now frisk him. Look for ID in all his pockets.”
The false FBI credentials fell into Robert’s hand. “Special Agent Dennis R. Feldman, according to this,” Robert said. “The picture matches. There’s no other ID.”
“And I’ll guarantee you, if there’s an ‘Agent Feldman,’ this isn’t he.”
Kat took the ID and the 9mm from Robert, emptied the bullets from the gun and stuffed them in her purse before placing the gun on the floor and kicking it to the far end of the hallway. She held up the platform shoe she’d used to clobber the gunman.
“Those platforms are lethal!” Robert said.
“Came in handy, didn’t they?”
“Forget carrying guns,” Robert said. “Platform shoes should be standard FBI equipment.”
“Yeah? Then you should try wearing them,” she teased, still breathing hard and fighting a bloodstream full of adrenaline.
“I saw that clown hustling you,” he said. “I had no idea who it was, but I figured you needed a jealous lover to come to your rescue.”
They began moving rapidly back to the stairs, then down to the main floor of the terminal, alighting just as two uniformed airport cops came rushing up.
“Hurry!” Kat said, adopting a scared expression and pointing up the stairs. “They were fightin’ up there, and one of them guys has a gun.”
The two officers raced up the stairs and Kat pulled Robert quietly around the corner to another security entrance. She quietly dumped the 9mm bullets in a trash can before passing through the metal detector.
More police officers passed them, racing back from the concourse toward the gate area as Kat and Robert used an alternate route to return to the gate area just in time to board the flight.
Kat took a window seat, and Robert slipped in beside her.
“Damn,” Kat muttered.
“What?”
“I didn’t have you check him for a body pouch.”
“He didn’t have another gun. I patted him down carefully.”
“I was thinking of ID,” she said. She pulled out the satellite phone and punched in Jake’s number at FBI headquarters.
“You need to call the Portland International Airport police immediately, Jake, and confirm that the man they found handcuffed in an upper hallway of the main terminal is a federal fugitive.” She filled in the rest of the story.
“Did he see you, Kat?”
“No.”
Jake told her quickly of the director’s about-face.
“Jake, that’s great, but make the call.”
“It means we can support you, Kat. We’re not out trying to catch you.”
“JAKE! Please! Make the call before they spring the guy.”
“Okay. Will you call me back?”
“When I can.”
She disconnected and sat for a few seconds, trying to absorb Jake’s meaning. The cabin door was still open and the flight attendant was still required to allow cellular phone calls until it closed. The attendant was eyeing Kat carefully, obviously irritated by her outfit.
“Will he do it?” Robert asked.
Kat nodded. “Yeah, but they’re trying a new tack to suck me in. Now it’s all roses and light and the whole Bureau to support me.”
“Could be true.”
“Could be,” she said, still thinking, “but I can’t chance it.”
A small beeping noise began in the depths of her purse, and Kat reached in to extract the nationwide pager. She read the message with a darkening expression.
“What?” Robert asked.
She handed him the pager.
EMERG. MSG: KAT, ROBT MACCABE NOT WHO HE APPEARS TO BE. GET AWAY ASAP.TELL HIM NOTHING. REPORT YOUR INTENTIONS ON NEW LINE, 8009464646. JAKE RHOADES.
Robert gave her a stunned look. “What’s this? Now I’m the enemy?”
“That’s what Nuremberg wants me to think. This didn’t come from Jake.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded. “He never signs his last name. That’s a standard procedure.”
“So what does this mean?”
Kat took a deep breath. “It means they’re closing in on my personal information. They’ve found my beeper and PIN numbers. The location of my uncle’s cabin won’t be far behind.”
The lights began to refocus slowly as Arlin Schoen blinked his eyes, trying to recall where he was and why there was a terrible pain in the back of his head.
He tried to sit up, but found his hands manacled by plastic cuffs. He looked up into the large black face of a scowling airport police officer with his hands on his hips. There were six other officers standing around.
Someone got me from behind, he concluded, after quietly taking inventory of his body parts as best he could with his hands restrained.
“He’s coming around,” the Portland Airport police lieutenant said, kneeling down to look into Schoen’s face. “Who are you?” the lieutenant demanded.
Schoen made a show of taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. “Did he escape?”
“Did who escape?”
“I… was trying to apprehend a federal fugitive. I don’t know what happened.”
“Yeah, sure. You were KO’d by a real federal agent, buster. We just got the call from FBI headquarters.”