The 3rd Victim (44 page)

Black, white, older couple, Texas, something was starting to form in David's mind. Davenport, Hunt, their clients, the charade … and then it came to him.

‘George and Barbara,’ he said.

Madonna's eyes lit up. ‘Yes. That's it. Like the Bushes. How did you know?’

David turned to Sara. ‘That night, at the Four Seasons.’

‘The Yorks,’ she said, understanding immediately. ‘But they were so nice. Do you think …? How could they have sat across from us and …?’ She shivered.

‘Maybe they didn't know the child they were getting was ours. They were friends with Davenport. They trusted him.’ David looked at Joe who turned to Frank.

‘George and Barbara York,’ said Joe as Frank lifted his radio, already on it.

‘I think I can identify them, Joe,’ said David. ‘Now you have to keep me with you.’

Joe looked at David before turning back to Frank and making a fist at his chest in a gesture which told Frank to organise a vest for David.

‘And I want Madonna to come with us. She has seen them twice, up close, in the light of day.’

But Joe was already shaking his head.

‘No. I want to do it,’ said Madonna. She looked at Sara. ‘I want to do it,’ she repeated.

Sara nodded before turning back to Joe. ‘Joe, please. David's right. We need all the help we can get.’

Joe shook his head, knowing how he should be answering but hearing himself saying the opposite nevertheless. ‘Two vests,’ he yelled at Frank, after which Frank grabbed the two Kevlars from a uniform and handed them to David and Madonna.

‘I want a gun,’ continued David.

‘No gun,’ replied Joe.

David went to argue but then decided to let it go for now, in the interest of expediency.

‘Stick tight to me,’ said Joe to Madonna.

‘Not a problem,’ said Madonna before turning again to Sara. ‘We're going to find her,’ she said.

But Sara had no time to answer as Joe grabbed Madonna's elbow and pulled her into the fray.

4.41 pm

The numbers. His head was throbbing with the numbers – four terminals, six runways, two and a half thousand acres, twelfth busiest airport, twenty-seven million passengers, sixteen thousand employees and seventy-five rest rooms or thereabouts. They were figures David had memorised for a manslaughter case he'd defended years ago. His client was an airport security officer by the name of Michael Burke. Burke had to search the whole freaking place for a man who'd been seen with a gun. Burke saw the man entering a rest room. He went inside. The man locked and loaded. Burke fired. The man went down, his weapon – a plastic water pistol painted just like a Smith and Wesson revolver – sliding straight across the cool tiled floor. David negotiated a plea based on Burke's impossible job of having to protect too many people over too much ground, but Burke was still in prison, reliving that moment in that rest room every single goddamned day.

Too big. The place was
too big
. Admittedly the police had started to corral crowds into groups, but it still felt like there were people everywhere – angry, confused, and sometimes scared commuters who just wanted to get the hell out so that they could get where they were going.

Joe removed the radio from his ear. ‘George and Barbara York and their daughter who they named Elizabeth are booked on a 4.40 pm flight to Chicago. But it's now quarter to, and while the three have checked in, they haven't boarded,’ he said to a now sweating David.

It was good news and bad – they were here, but something had happened to them between checking in and boarding.

‘There's been no sightings of anyone in a US marshal's uniform, no pregnant hostage,’ continued Joe.

David felt the heat building. ‘Hunt has Lauren,’ he said.

‘We don't know that, David.’

‘Then where the fuck are the Yorks?’

Joe said nothing.

David took a step toward him. ‘We're running out of options here, Joe. You and I both know the longer she is missing …’ He found it hard to finish.

It was true. If that was the case, every second that ticked by reduced their chances of finding Lauren. The airport was in lockdown but Hunt was savvy and David knew if anyone could find a way out of here it was Daniel Hunt.

They were back in the southern end of Terminal B. The place resembled a living, breathing organism with connections and walkways extending like arteries from each major terminal hub. The moving walkways not only connected the various terminals to one another, but also to parking garages and shuttle buses – all of which would have given the Yorks and Daniel Hunt an easy way out.

Just then Leo King approached them. He was wearing his own Kevlar, his boyish face knotted with concern. He looked at David. ‘Nothing yet,’ he said. ‘I'm sorry.’

The heat turned up a notch as Joe's radio began to buzz, and David felt his chest lurch – in hope, or perhaps in fear that he was about to hear the worse thing he would ever hear in his life.

‘Mannix,’ said Joe.

Silence as Joe listened.

‘Where exactly?’

David tried desperately to read his friend's face.

Joe frowned.

David's chest burned.

‘Okay,’ said Joe. ‘Hold them there, we're on our way.’

Hold them
, he'd said
hold them
– they must have found the Yorks – or maybe Hunt and Sophia, and …?

‘What?’ asked David.

Joe was moving, Leo, David and Madonna now jogging to keep up.

‘Terminal B, north end, my guys found a couple holed up in a disabled toilet.’

‘The Yorks,’ said David.

‘Sounds like it.’

The chest pain tingled. ‘Joe.’ David was close to running now, his neck craned to communicate with Joe. ‘Is Lauren with them?’

A pause. ‘No.’

David was finding it hard to breath.

‘The couple, they're unconscious,’ said Joe.

One breath at a time. ‘Jesus, Joe. Hunt has her,’ he repeated.

And this time Joe didn't argue. David knew he wanted to, but he didn't.

They reached the rest room at the terminal's far northern corner. It was near the walkway, behind a set of escalators leading up to departures on the top floor.

The paramedics were already there. They were trying to revive the couple. The tiles were grey. The blood was red. David rushed forward, pushing aside the paramedics to crouch over the pile that was George York. David lifted him up, and shook him – hard. David did not care if York knew about Lauren or not – right now he hated him just for being part of this nightmare, for ordering a fucking kid like it was a car or a computer or a set of personalised golf clubs.

‘Wake up,’ said David. ‘
Wake the fuck up
.’

He shook York even harder. He banged his head into the floor. He screamed at him again. He wanted to know where his daughter was. He was crying. Hot. Wet with sweat. He could feel Joe and Leo attempting to pull him off, but his strength was unquantifiable. York was limp, but then he wasn't. He tensed, his eyelids beginning to flutter. He yelled out in pain, so David pulled him up so that his face was inches from his.

‘Where is she?’ he yelled. ‘Where the hell is my daughter?’

York coughed. ‘Oh, god, she was your daughter?’

‘Where is she?’ David repeated, his spit, his tears, his sweat flying off him as he screamed.

George York began to cry. ‘I'm so sorry. We had no idea. He … he said the child was born by a surrogate, that the couple who wanted her originally had died … tragically …’ he spluttered. ‘But she fit our requests … and we didn't care that she was older because a newborn … my wife would have found it hard …’

‘You bought a fucking baby,’ said David.

‘Yes, but if we'd known … we'd never … Oh god, I'm so sorry … please don't hurt me … please …’

But David was beyond caring.

‘
Did he take her
?
Did Hunt take her
?’

‘Who is Hunt?’

Joe moved in then. He pulled York up higher. He held his hand at York's collar and twisted, hard.

‘
Jesus, Mannix
!’ said King.

But Joe ignored him. ‘Frank?’ he said. Frank read his boss's mind, having the iPhone shot of Daniel Hunt at the ready. ‘Listen to me. You have two seconds to give me an honest answer or I swear I will leave you and the girl's father here alone in the cubicle for as long as it takes to get the information out of you. Is this the man who attacked you?’ Joe held up Frank's iPhone right in front of York's bloodshot eyes. ‘Is this the man who took the girl?’

York spat again.

‘Focus, Mr York.’

York focused. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That's him,’ he added. ‘But I don't know where he took her.’

‘Was he wearing a uniform?’

York looked confused, his eyes rolling a little. ‘I don't know – I … he was quick, he hit us hard, from behind.’

David moved in, pushing Joe's hand aside to lift York even higher.

York yelped. ‘Please …’

But David didn't listen, merely jerked York up until he was close to standing. And then he released his fingers and shoved George York with the palm of his hand, sending him crashing once again to the floor.

4.47 pm

Sara was trying desperately to think – to
think
, not to panic. It was virtually impossible because of the fear. The fear was all-consuming. It was like a whale, chasing her, determined to swallow her whole, not bite her but swallow her, so that she was trapped inside it – wet and cold, in the dark, locked away, unable to help, knowing she would exist there. Not die, just live in hell, inside it, for the rest of her life.

She had to think – not like her,
like him
. She had to
become
Hunt. He had got under her skin and perhaps this was her ace in the hole. She knew how he operated, how he thought. If she could focus she might be able to second guess him …

And then it came to her, the mistake they were making.

‘The uniform,’ she said, not even aware that she had spoken aloud.

‘What, dear?’ asked Nora.

Sara met her eye as Arthur moved closer. ‘What is it, Sara?’ he asked.

‘Hunt – he knows
we
know he shot Davenport, and that he took the girl. So he also knows we know he has a gun. So he tells himself he has to start thinking like us. He tells himself we know he got through customs with a gun. Then he realises that we know he is in uniform, that he is impersonating a law enforcement officer, who has the right to bring a weapon on board.

Arthur nodded. ‘You think he'll know we'll be looking for a man in uniform.’

‘Yes,’ said Sara. ‘The uniform makes him a walking target.’

‘So he has to change,’ said Nora.

‘Yes,’ repeated Sara. ‘But that may be a problem given Joe said he was only carrying a small bag, which means he probably doesn't have a change of clothes.’

‘So he needs to find something new to wear,’ said Nora.

Sara nodded. ‘And he's lucky because we're in an airport filled with people carrying bags filled with clothes. But he doesn't want to draw attention to himself so he heads for the one place he can steal a bag without too much attention.’ She looked at Arthur.

‘He's headed to baggage claim,’ he said.

‘It's a possibility,’ said Sara, ‘which is why they've made a mistake.’

‘Who's made a mistake?’ asked Arthur.

‘Joe, Leo … they're focusing on departures but they should be targeting arrivals. Baggage claim is in arrivals.’ Her eyes darted at the crowd around her. ‘We need to move, Arthur – we need to move now.’

‘Sara,’ Arthur began, taking her arm.

She knew he was going to try to stop her. ‘
No
!’ she said. ‘I am her mother, Arthur.’ There was no other way to say it.

Nora moved between them before turning to Arthur. ‘She's right,’ she said. ‘We need to get to baggage claim. Dr Cole here can tell the police what we're up to,’ she added, gesturing to the still ashen-faced Lucas Cole beside them. ‘And the police can get word to Joe.’

The helpful Cole nodded. ‘I can do that,’ he said.

Arthur considered it. ‘All right,’ he said as Sara nodded back at him. ‘But we stay together.’

She nodded again, before squeezing her beloved boss's hand and running ahead of them into the crowd.

4.51 pm

Baggage claim was packed.

Sara could feel it, the sense of controlled alarm. The passengers had no doubt noted the extensive law enforcement presence and were simultaneously being made aware that the exits to the shuttle buses and taxis were blocked by police and FBI agents who …
NO
… something was wrong.

She looked south where a single agent was manning the last exit door. He held his hand to his earpiece. He hesitated and then he stepped away – he
left the exit.
He
left it unmanned
. And it did not take long for some commuters to notice this, several of them sliding stealthily out of the terminal and into the street outside.

‘
Shit, he's letting them out
,’ she said, pointing toward the exit.

‘Dear god,’ said Nora as the tide of escaping travellers increased.

‘We have to stop them,’ said a now desperate Sara. ‘Hunt, the Yorks, they could be amongst them.’

Sara began to run toward the exit – run,
sprint
, as if her daughter's life depended on it. She pushed and she shoved and she kicked baggage aside as the disgruntled travellers responded with abusive comebacks and the carousels moaned and the red lights above each of them flashed as if in warning that the time to act was
now
.

She reached the exit. She moved to pull people aside and stop them from bleeding into the street. And they pushed back, one woman jerking Sara's head hard to the right, shifting her line of vision back toward the middle baggage carousel and the tall man standing beside it.

Daniel Hunt.

5.01 pm

Her entire chest contracted.

Just as Hunt met her eye she was hit,
hard
, and yanked aside. Her ribs were constricted by two determined strong arms. She fell to the ground, her assailant's grip loosening before tightening on her shoulders. He pulled her up to her feet, not in apology but in justification.

‘I'm sorry, Sara, but this is where you step aside.’