The man was standing by a do-it-yourself flight insurance counter. He seemed to be reading the instructions.
OK, Chao, so he's following you. Maybe it's a case of love at first sight. Maybe he took one look at you and decided he couldn't let you walk out of his life.
As she paid for the magazine, she could feel her heart hammering. Think. Why is he following you?
That one was easy. The phone call from Abby. If anyone had been listening in, they'd know that Vivian was arriving at Logan on a 6 p.m. flight from Burlington. Just before the call was disconnected, she'd heard clicks on the line.
She decided to hang around the newsstand shop for a while. She browsed among the paperbacks, her eyes scanning the covers, her mind racing. The man probably didn't have a weapon on him; he would have had to bring it through the security check. As long as she didn't leave the airport's secured area, she should be safe. Cautiously she peered over the paperback shelf. The man wasn't there.
She came out of the shop and glanced around. There was no sign of him anywhere.
You are such an idiot. No one's following you.
She continued walking, past the security check and down the steps to baggage claim.
The suitcases from the Burlington flight were just rolling onto the carousel. She spotted her red Samsonite sliding down the ramp. She was about to push closer when she spotted the man in the raincoat. He was standing near the terminal exit, reading his newspaper.
At once she looked away, her pulse battering her throat. He was waiting for her to pick up her luggage. To walk past him out that exit, into the night.
Her red Samsonite made another revolution.
She took a deep breath and edged into the crowd of passengers waiting for their baggage. Her Samsonite was coming past again. She didn't pick it up but casually followed it around as it made its slow circle. When she was standing on the other side of the carousel, the crowd blocked her view of the man in the raincoat.
She dropped her carry-on bag and ran.
There were two carousels ahead of her, both of them unused at the moment. She sprinted past them, then darted out the far exit doors.
She emerged into the windblown night. Off to her left she heard a commotion. The man in the raincoat had just pushed his way out of the other exit. A second man came out a few steps behind him. One of them pointed at Vivian and barked out something incomprehensible.
Vivian took off, fleeing up the sidewalk. She knew the men were chasing her; she could hear the thud of a luggage cart toppling and the angry shouts of a porter.
There was a pop, and she felt something flick through her hair.
A bullet.
Her heart was banging, her lungs gasping in air thick with bus fumes.
She saw a doorway ahead. She ducked in it and raced for the nearest escalator. The moving stairs were going the wrong way. She ran up them two at a time. As she reached the upper level, she heard another pop. This time pain sliced her temple, and she felt a dribble of warmth on her cheek.
The American Airlines ticket counter was straight ahead. It was fully manned, a line of people snaking in front of it.
She heard footsteps pounding on the escalator behind her. Heard one of the men shouting words she couldn't understand.
She sprinted for the ticket counter, bowled over a man and a suitcase dolly, and leaped onto the counter top. Her momentum carried her straight over. She landed on the other side, her body slamming against the luggage loading belt.
Four astonished airline reps were staring down at her.
Her legs were shaking as she rose to her feet. Cautiously she peered across the countertop. She saw only a crowd of stunned bystanders. The men had vanished.
Vivian looked at the reps, who were still frozen in place. "Well aren't you going to call Security?"
Wordlessly, one of the women reached for the phone. "And while you're at it," said Vivian, "Dial 911."
A dark Mercedes crawled along the road and came to a stop beside the phone booth. Abby could just make out the driver's profile, backlit by the lights of a passing car. It was Tarasoft.
She ran to the passenger door and climbed inside. "Thank god you're here."
"You must be freezing. Why don't you take my coat? It's on the back seat."
"Please, just go! Let's get out of here."
As Tarasoff pulled away from the kerb, she glanced back to see if anyone was following them. The road behind them was dark. "Do you see any cars?" he asked. "No. I think we're OK."
Tarasoft released a shaky breath. "I'm not very good at this. I don't even like to watch crime shows."
"You're doing fine. Just get us to the police station. We can call Vivian to meet us there."
Tarasoft glanced nervously in the rearview mirror. "I think I just saw a car."
"What?" Abby looked back, but saw nothing. "I'm going to turn here. Let's see what happens."
"Go ahead. I'll keep watching."
As they rounded the corner, Abby kept her gaze focused on the road behind them. She saw no headlights, no other cars at all. Only when they slowed to a stop did she turn and face forward. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." Tarasoff cut the headlights. "Why are you…" Abby's words froze in her throat. Tarasoft had just pressed the lock release button.
She glanced right in panic as her door swung open. A gust of wind swept in. Suddenly hands reached in and she was being dragged out into the night. Her hair fell across her eyes, obscuring her vision. She fought blindly against her captors but could not succeed in loosening their grips. Her hands were yanked behind her back and the wrists bound together. Her mouth was taped.
Then she was lifted and thrust into the trunk of a nearby car. The hood slammed shut, trapping her in darkness. They were moving.
She rolled onto her back and kicked upwards. Again and again she slammed her feet against the trunk lid, kicking until her thighs ached, until she could scarcely lift her legs. It was useless; no one could hear her.
Exhausted, she curled up on her side and forced herself to think. Tarasoft. How i Tarasoft involved?
Slowly the puzzle came together, piece by piece. Lying in the cramped darkness, with the road rumbling beneath her, she began to understand. Tarasoft was chief of one of the most respected cardiac transplant teams on the East Coast. His reputation attracted desperately ill patients from around the world, patients with the money and the wherewithal to go to any surgeon they chose. They demanded the best, and they could afford to pay for it.
What they could not buy, what the system would never allow them to buy, was what they needed to stay alive: Hearts. Human hearts.
That's what the Bayside transplant team could provide. She remembered what Tarasoft had once said: "I refer patients to Bayside all the time."
He was Bayside's go-between. He was their matchmaker.
She felt the car brake and turn. The tyres rolled across gravel then stopped. There was a distant roar, a sound she recognized as a jet taking off. She knew exactly where they were.
The trunk hood opened. She was lifted out, into a buffeting wind that smelled of diesel fuel and the sea. They half-carried, half-dragged her down the pier and up the gangplank. Her screams were muffled by the tape over her mouth and lost in the thunder of the jet's take-oft. She caught only a glimpse of the freighter deck, of shifting blackness and geometric shadows, and then she was dragged below, down steps that rattled and clanged. One flight, then another.
A door screeched open and she was thrust inside, into darkness. Her hands were still bound behind her back; she could not break her fall. Her chin slammed to the metal floor and the impact was blinding. She was too stunned to move, to utter even a whimper as pain drove like a stake through her skull.
Another set of footsteps clanged down the stairway. Dimly she heard Tarasoft say: "At least it's not a total waste. Take the tape off her mouth. We can't have her suffocating."