Black Friday

CHAPTER 25

Before he went through the security checkpoint Asante found the airport restroom labeled FAMILY. The single room was larger than he remembered: one toilet, a sink and counter with a changing table and most importantly, a bolted lock on the door. It was perfect. No one would bother him here.

He checked his watch as he hung the garment bag on the door hook. He still had plenty of time to catch his flight. While he unpacked the essentials from his duffel bag he turned on and adjusted his over-the-ear wireless headset. He tapped a number and put aside the phone.

One ring and an answer. "Yes?"

"Give me an update," he said as he dug out of the duffel bag a compact, but expensive and powerful electric shaver, zipping it out of its case and setting both aside for now.

"Text messages indicate Dixon is at the hospital."

"He's okay?" Asante chose his words carefully. But then he already knew the boy was alive. His grandfather had as much as confirmed that in his angry phone call.

"His grandmother is having emergency heart surgery. Rebecca is on her way."

"So they're together?" He punched up the map of the mall's third floor on his computer screen.

"She asked what he got her into."

Asante slid his finger over the small computer screen, zooming in on the map where Carrier #3's bomb had exploded. GPS devices were packed in the backpacks, but every carrier was also given a brand-new iPhone so they could track both carrier and bomb in case one of them decided to leave the backpack behind. He had chosen to keep them all on one floor, the combined blasts close to each other, causing the greatest structural damage as well as creating a larger blast area. That had been his priority. Now he checked to see exactly where Carrier #3's backpack was when it exploded. Zooming in he could see it quite plainly: the women's restroom. The young woman not only had Dixon Lee's iPhone, she had been carrying his backpack.

"Sir?"

"Continue."

"Her name is Rebecca Cory. She's a student at the University of New Haven, a resident of Hartford, Connecticut. Her father is William Cory of—"

"Credit cards? ATM card? Driver's license?" he interrupted as he peeled off his clothes. He didn't need to know the entire portfolio they had amassed. Just those details that mattered.

"ATM card through First Bank of Hartford," the female voice continued, pleasant and soothing as though she were reciting menu items for a special dinner. "She took out a cash withdrawal of fifty dollars two days ago in Toledo. However, a MasterCard looks to be her choice of payment. She uses it for everyday incidentals. Up until two days ago, a daily Starbucks charge in West Haven. Connecticut driver's license."

"Revoke all three. Immediately."

"Yes, sir."

"I want her feeling disabled." He stood before the mirror now in only socks and boxers, thinking this is exactly how he wanted Rebecca Cory—stripped and vulnerable. Figuratively speaking. At least until it was safe to kill her. "Tell Danko that he can find the girl and Dixon Lee at the hospital."

"And if he does?"

"Extract both."

"Yes, sir."

Asante would find another way to use the boy. An extra cutaway when the time was right. A bargaining chip, perhaps.

"What about the other young man?" he asked.

"His name is Patrick Murphy. I'm still working on him."

Asante gave her instructions for what came next, including what to do with Murphy. Before he hung up he gave her a new contact number to use. Then Asante removed the SIM card from the cell phone, destroyed it, and flushed it down the toilet. The portable memory chip held all the traceable data including personal identity information and a record of incoming as well as outgoing calls. From the duffel bag pocket he pulled out a new SIM card and slid it into the cell phone. In seconds he keyed in the password for his wireless headset, punched in a couple of codes and the phone was as good as new and ready to use. He put it and the headset on the sink, safely out of his way.

The shaver indicated that it was fully charged. Within seconds he shaved off his goatee. He reset the shaver's rotating heads so they wouldn't go all the way to the skin but would leave a half inch. Then he started path after path over his head, watching the dark hair, some of it three to four inches long, fall to the sink.

Next came the hair color. The formula was his own special mixture. He squirted it into the palms of his hands and rubbed it over the new stubble, watching his hair turn honey-colored before his eyes. He massaged it into his eyebrows, too.

Cleanup took only a few minutes. Everything he no longer needed, including the syringe, was flushed away or washed down the drain. The hiking boots went into the trash can along with the rest of his clothes. From the garment bag he unzipped an expensive suit, navy blue and tailored to fit him perfectly, as did the white shirt. He left the collar open and stuffed the tie in the duffel bag. He replaced his over-the-ear wireless headset and tucked the cell phone into his breast pocket.

Finished with discarding the Project Manager, he flipped open his wallet to his driver's license and held it up. Once again, he looked like Robert Asante, an ordinary businessman traveling to his next appointment. More importantly, the man in the mirror matched the man in the driver's license photo.

It was time to move on to the next site. Time for the next stage of the project.