Black Friday

CHAPTER 46

Asante finished the cheeseburger and fries, leaving a reasonable tip. An ordinary meal that wouldn't stand out and an ordinary tip that wouldn't leave a negative or overly positive impression. Ordinary, he had learned long ago, was the key to being invisible.

As he headed back to his gate he noticed groups of people at all the other gates amassed under the television monitors. He stopped, as did the others walking in front and behind him even though he already knew what the commotion was. The local television station had finally decided to release the photos his crew had anonymously submitted. He watched for a while then continued through the terminal, turning his head as he passed other televisions. He had to, at least, pretend to be interested and surprised and appropriately disgusted.

The waiting area for his gate was full, not a single seat available. The regulars who raced to board first were already standing near the door, their oversized carry-ons left in the way, making it impossible for anyone to overtake their position or even pass by.

Asante had always hated airport travel. In recent years it had become only worse. There were no longer manners or etiquette. People treated the waiting areas like their living rooms, tossing coats and bags on seats that should be left for other passengers. They gobbled down fast food while talking on their cell phones, carrying on conversations that others shouldn't have to listen to. They let their kids scream and crawl and run around. It was almost as bad as a mall. And yes, though he treated each of his projects as professional assignments, it had brought him a slight pleasure to blow up the largest shopping mall in America. Likewise it would give him considerable pleasure to blow up one of the busiest airports during the busiest travel day of the year.

As he drew near the information desk he was pleased to see he wouldn't have to ask any questions or depend on eavesdropping on others as they questioned the airline clerk. Posted below their flight number and destination was now a departure time. He still had an hour wait, but the posted time meant the plane had left—or at least been cleared to leave—Chicago.

He settled close to one of the television monitors. It was only an hour. He could pretend to be interested in the calamity for an hour.