Read Online Critical Mass by David Hagberg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Hagberg
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in blind panic, or had this been planned? Did he have a bolt-hole, or perhaps help standing by? There were a thousand places to hide here, and as many escape routes.
A slightly built man wearing a cap and jacket, its collar turned up to cover the back of his neck, emerged from a corridor fifty feet away and without looking back headed
immediately toward the crowd in front of the windows. He carried a small overnight bag slung over his shoulder.
The same man? There was no way of making sure, short of catching up with him and pulling the cap off his head. But if he was armed, he would probably not hesitate to open fire. More people would be hurt or killed.
McGarvey pushed his way through the people and hurried into the corridor the man had just come out of. A bank of coin-operated lockers and public telephones lined one wall, while on the other side were the doors to the menâs and womenâs restrooms.
No one was around. Everyone was rushing to the nearest windows to catch a glimpse of the crash.
Shoving open the menâs room door, McGarvey stepped inside. There was no one there, and he was starting to back out when he spotted something on the floor in front of the last toilet stall at the end, and he went back in.
It was blood, he could see that as he approached. The lock on the stall door had been forced, as if someone had put his shoulder to it.
Pushing the door open, McGarvey looked inside. The man seated on the toilet, his trousers and shorts down around his ankles, had been shot in the middle of the forehead at close range. The bullet had exited the back of his head, and a good deal of blood had run down the tiled wall and across the floor.
It was him! The green jacket and black overnight bag to help him blend in, and the cap to hide his blond hair. Heâd come in here, taken the manâs things and killed him.
McGarvey raced back up the corridor to the still-crowded concourse, and, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, worked his way to the big knot of people gathered in front of the line of windows.
The fire was almost out and the smoke was clearing, leaving behind a long line of debris in the distance at the far end of the airport. The tail section from the Airbus jutted up in silhouette on the horizon, and seemingly everywhere there were hovering helicopters, firetrucks, ambulances, police units, and hundreds upon hundreds of people.
McGarvey just caught a glimpse of the scene and he was brought up short. No one could have survived, as he had feared. But the thought that Martaâs body was down there, possibly burned beyond recognition, or damaged so massively that a positive identification might never be made, made him shiver.
He stepped back a pace as an older man, dressed in a three-piece gray suit, suddenly stumbled and fell down.
For an instant McGarvey thought the man might have suffered a heart attack or a stroke, but then he saw the line of blood down the side of his face, and he reared to the left in time to see the man in the cap and green jacket disappear around the corner at the far end of the concourse.
10
THE SHOT HAD BEEN FIRED FROM A SILENCED PISTOL, AND there was enough background noise on the concourse so that only a handful of people nearest the downed man had any idea that something was happening.
âSomeone call a doctor,â McGarvey ordered and he pushed his way through the crowd and started after the gunman. He was not familiar enough with Orlyâs terminal to know exactly what was back here, except that the boarding gates were off to the right somewhere.
Possibly offices, no doubt with a rear exit or exits from the terminal down to the employee parking area. But how did the man expect to get clear from the airport? He had to know that by now security would have sealed the entire area.
Unless, of course, he did have help. Someone waiting for him, in which case McGarvey, unarmed, would be rushing into a definite no-win situation.
He pulled up
A slightly built man wearing a cap and jacket, its collar turned up to cover the back of his neck, emerged from a corridor fifty feet away and without looking back headed
immediately toward the crowd in front of the windows. He carried a small overnight bag slung over his shoulder.
The same man? There was no way of making sure, short of catching up with him and pulling the cap off his head. But if he was armed, he would probably not hesitate to open fire. More people would be hurt or killed.
McGarvey pushed his way through the people and hurried into the corridor the man had just come out of. A bank of coin-operated lockers and public telephones lined one wall, while on the other side were the doors to the menâs and womenâs restrooms.
No one was around. Everyone was rushing to the nearest windows to catch a glimpse of the crash.
Shoving open the menâs room door, McGarvey stepped inside. There was no one there, and he was starting to back out when he spotted something on the floor in front of the last toilet stall at the end, and he went back in.
It was blood, he could see that as he approached. The lock on the stall door had been forced, as if someone had put his shoulder to it.
Pushing the door open, McGarvey looked inside. The man seated on the toilet, his trousers and shorts down around his ankles, had been shot in the middle of the forehead at close range. The bullet had exited the back of his head, and a good deal of blood had run down the tiled wall and across the floor.
It was him! The green jacket and black overnight bag to help him blend in, and the cap to hide his blond hair. Heâd come in here, taken the manâs things and killed him.
McGarvey raced back up the corridor to the still-crowded concourse, and, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, worked his way to the big knot of people gathered in front of the line of windows.
The fire was almost out and the smoke was clearing, leaving behind a long line of debris in the distance at the far end of the airport. The tail section from the Airbus jutted up in silhouette on the horizon, and seemingly everywhere there were hovering helicopters, firetrucks, ambulances, police units, and hundreds upon hundreds of people.
McGarvey just caught a glimpse of the scene and he was brought up short. No one could have survived, as he had feared. But the thought that Martaâs body was down there, possibly burned beyond recognition, or damaged so massively that a positive identification might never be made, made him shiver.
He stepped back a pace as an older man, dressed in a three-piece gray suit, suddenly stumbled and fell down.
For an instant McGarvey thought the man might have suffered a heart attack or a stroke, but then he saw the line of blood down the side of his face, and he reared to the left in time to see the man in the cap and green jacket disappear around the corner at the far end of the concourse.
10
THE SHOT HAD BEEN FIRED FROM A SILENCED PISTOL, AND there was enough background noise on the concourse so that only a handful of people nearest the downed man had any idea that something was happening.
âSomeone call a doctor,â McGarvey ordered and he pushed his way through the crowd and started after the gunman. He was not familiar enough with Orlyâs terminal to know exactly what was back here, except that the boarding gates were off to the right somewhere.
Possibly offices, no doubt with a rear exit or exits from the terminal down to the employee parking area. But how did the man expect to get clear from the airport? He had to know that by now security would have sealed the entire area.
Unless, of course, he did have help. Someone waiting for him, in which case McGarvey, unarmed, would be rushing into a definite no-win situation.
He pulled up
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