Read Online Critical Mass by David Hagberg - Free Book Online Page A

gone down. The paging system was abnormally silent, and there was a muted hum of tense, and in some cases nearly hysterical conversations.
    On the escalator Boorsch watched the front doors. A well-built man dressed in dark slacks and a tweed sportcoat entered the terminal, stepped to one side and waited, apparently studying the crowded arrivals hall.
    The same one from the taxi? Boorsch hadn’t got a clear look, but whoever this one was he was a professional, and he
had cop written all over him. Boorsch could almost smell it from here.
    Just before Boorsch stepped off the escalator, the man looked his way, hesitated for just a moment, and then started forward.
    Boorsch knew he’d been made. The bastard was definitely a cop. Either that or CIA.
    He hurried left, along the broad concourse, immediately losing himself in the crowds. When he was certain that he was out of sight of anyone down on the main floor, or coming up on the escalator, he sprinted around the corner down a corridor to the public restrooms and a bank of coin-operated storage lockers.
    Â 
    The blond hair and light blue sweater were unmistakable. McGarvey had got only one brief glimpse of the man’s shoulders and head as he’d started to take off his white coveralls in the tunnel, but it was enough.
    But the bastard had been sharp enough to put himself in a position to spot anyone coming after him.
    He was armed, no doubt, while McGarvey was weaponless. The balance of power here had definitely shifted. If the terrorist had the presence of mind to stage an ambush somewhere above, or if he had help, McGarvey wouldn’t have one chance in ten of surviving the encounter.
    But Mati had been on the flight that the son of a bitch had shot down. There was little doubt she was dead. All of them were probably dead. It wasn’t likely anyone could have survived the kind of fire that had produced that much smoke.
    The bastard’s target had been the CIA. But he’d been too much of a coward to face them one-on-one. Instead he’d opted for the methods of the terrorists. Mindless violence against mostly innocent people. McGarvey’s jaws tightened with the thought of it.
    He reached the escalator, and raced up the moving stairs, taking them two at a time, shoving people out of the way. At the top he darted across the broad concourse, out of any possible line of fire.

    Pulling up just within a nearly empty cocktail lounge he scanned both ways, but there was no sign of the man nor any indication which way he had gone.
    The bartender had come out from behind the bar. “What is it? What is happening?”
    â€œDid you see the blond man wearing the blue sweater get off the escalator just a moment ago?” McGarvey demanded.
    The bartender, an older man with long handlebar moustaches, shrugged. “Who are you? What is going on?”
    â€œI’m an American policeman. There has been a plane crash, and the blond man may have had something to do with it. Did you see which way he went?”
    â€œMon Dieu,” the barkeep shouted throwing up his hands. “He was holding his stomach, as if he were about to be ill.”
    â€œWhich way did he go?”
    â€œ A droite. To the right, with everyone else.”
    â€œMerci,” McGarvey said, then stepped back out onto the concourse and headed toward the right.
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    A large crowd had gathered along the broad expanse of windows about one hundred feet farther down the corridor. The windows looked south, toward where the Airbus had gone down.
    It was possible the terrorist had merged with that crowd, or was trying to do so now. All he needed was a little time. To do what? Go where?
    The man knew that he was being followed. He’d been looking directly down at McGarvey, and for a moment their eyes had locked before he’d disappeared onto the concourse.
    The question was, had he spotted McGarvey in the cab, or the police helicopter overhead and run here to the terminal