Boom-BOOM! Read online

  “You leave in four hours,” she said. “Don’t look like much of a rush to me.”

  129

  When I walked through security to the B Concourse, it was business as usual. There were constant announcements of flights over the loud speakers. Passengers walked to their planes. A few ran. People talked. Kids cried.

  Perfect!

  Tony had taken care of the threat, and no one would be blown up.

  I looked at the clock on the Arrival/Departure board. It was 3:45 p.m. The first plane was scheduled to fly out in an hour and fifteen minutes. Thank God Tony had arrested the strippers. Otherwise, there might not be enough time to stop them from boarding the planes.

  As I turned to my left to walk to the United Room South, I heard someone yell my name. I turned around. Tony walked toward me from the security line. He was alone.

  No!

  “Did you just get here?” I demanded.

  “Got hung up at work. Looks like you’re late too. Where are the strippers you were talking about?”

  My head began to pound. “Where is the SWAT team, the TSA, maybe even the FBI and DHS?”

  “Didn’t contact them. I need proof before I call in reinforcements.”

  You jerk! You never believed me!

  I’d put way too much trust in Tony. I should have called the TSA myself.

  My big mistake.

  I reached in my back pocket for my cell phone to do that. He blocked my arm before I could.

  “Whaddya doing?” he asked.

  “Calling the TSA to tell them what’s going on.”

  “Not happening, Sweets. No reason to screw up all these passengers’ travel plans. Give me proof and I’ll shut down this whole airport.”

  “Then let’s get to the United Room.”

  130

  Thirty feet to our right, directly across from the entrance to the United Room, I spotted a Montblanc store. I stopped. Tony did too.

  “Remember when I gave you the trash I stole?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Do you recall what was in it?”

  “A couple of cartons for plastic dishes and pen and pencil boxes.”

  “The boxes were from Montblanc.”

  “And?”

  “The location of this store across from the United Room has to be more than a coincidence.”

  He pondered my statement. “Lorenz.”

  “What about him?”

  “Our bomb crew chief said the detonator was about the size of a deck of cards.”

  “Or a pen and pencil set.”

  “You got it.”

  I saw Jamie behind the counter inside the store. “See the young blond man working on the computer behind the counter?”

  “Buffed guy with the tan?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Al-Turk told me Farhad, one of his men, drove that guy out here to go to work. His name is Jamie.”

  “Looks like an American.”

  “He is, and no one notices him.”

  “So?”

  “I think that when Jamie comes to work at O’Hare, he brings in tiny parts of the bomb detonator’s components, and security doesn’t pick it up on the scanners.”

  “Okay, let’s say you’re right. Dude doesn’t need much C4 packed into a pen or pencil to act as a detonator, but he still needs some. How does he get the C4 past security?”

  “In toothpaste tubes.”

  “Toothpaste tubes?”

  “There were also empty Crest toothpaste boxes in the trash I stole. I think al-Turk and his guys sucked out the toothpaste and injected tiny amounts of the C4 into the empty toothpaste tubes.”

  “Where do they make the detonators?”

  “In the backroom of this Montblanc store and then they add the C4.”

  He rubbed his chin. “A compact discharge next to the C4 on the person’s body would trigger the C4, causing a bigger blast. Gotta get to the United Room and find those strippers, right now!”

  131

  Crossing the concourse, we entered the United Room and rode the escalator up to the main floor. Tony’s badge would gain us admittance without any hassle.

  He stepped up to the two women behind the front desk and showed them his gold detective shield. I couldn’t hear what he said, but he must not have mentioned the breast bombs because the two women didn’t show any signs of concern.

  We walked into the seating area. The room’s décor reminded me of a library without the books. There were several rows of upholstered club chairs, desks with lamps, and plugs for computers and cell phones.

  I didn’t see any of the young women. I also didn’t see anyone who looked Middle Eastern.

  “Are you sure this is the right joint?” he asked. “The lady at the desk said there are four clubs in two different terminals.”

  “I’m sure this is the club Sammy mentioned.”

  We walked around the club twice but still didn’t find them.

  “This has been fun and all that, but I gotta get back to work,” he said when we finished.

  There were several clocks on the wall indicating different time zones around the world. The first plane was supposed to take off in sixty-two minutes. My hands began to sweat. There were carry-on bags scattered throughout the room. Several of them were unattended, and none of the employees were concerned.

  Bags!

  That was why al-Turk had picked the United Room. It was the least secure area in the entire airport. When I had been there before, I’d dropped my bags by my chair, or in the bag storage room, while I walked around or worked at one of the computer stations. Anyone could have put an object in my carry-on before I boarded my plane, and I never would have spotted it.

  Worse, since the airlines didn’t do a secondary bag check once a passenger passed though security, the bags were never searched again. The terrorists were going to put the pens and pencil detonators into the girls’ carry-on bags making them walking bombs.

  And none of them would know it.

  132

  “Tony, follow me to the bag storage closet,” I said. “I can prove I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Gotta better idea,” Tony said. “I’ll meet you in there.”

  He went left toward the front desk. I turned to the right and rushed into the bag storage room. Several bags were stacked in open lockers. No personnel guarded them, and there were no security cameras.

  The Montblanc sets have to already be in their bags.

  I pawed through three carry-on bags before I found one that belonged to a woman who listed her address as the apartment building by the Twenties. Opening it, I reached in and pulled out a Montblanc pen and pencil set.

  Yes!

  Lifting the lid of the case, I found a pen and pencil inside attached to a blue cardboard backing. Both appeared normal.

  Tony walked into the storage closet. He had a piece of paper in his hand.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Asked the women at the front desk if they check all the passengers in.”

  “I forgot they used to do that with me.”

  “They also check the passenger’s flights for them. Strippers are here.” He held up the paper. “And I have their gates and the times they take off.”

  “Let me see.”

  He handed me the paper. I scanned it. Each girl was listed with her gate, time of departure, and destination.

  He took the paper back and put it in his pocket. “Shoulda believed you, but I need those detonators.”

  I handed him the pen and pencil box. “I might have one.”

  He opened it and studied the contents. “Look at the tops of each pen and pencil.” He pointed to two slender, blue wires attached to each top. I’d missed them because they blended into the blue color of the cardboard.

  “Other ends of the wires disappear behind the cardboard into the back of the case.” He weighed the set in his hands. “Too heavy to contain only a pen and pencil.”

  “Is it a detonator?”

  �
�Looks like. Pen and pencil probably have batteries inside to power the device.”

  “Why don’t you take it apart and make sure you’re right?”

  “And risk getting blown up?” He held up his hand. “Might be booby-trapped. Bomb squad guys get paid to do that.”

  But I finally had his full attention.

  133

  Tony checked his watch. “First stripper is leaving on the five o’clock flight for L.A. With this…” he said, while holding up the detonator, “…I have enough evidence to shut down the airport and arrest the strippers.”

  “You call the TSA, and I’ll look for the strippers.”

  He pondered that. “Good idea. Let’s do this.”

  He turned to leave. I grabbed his arm.

  “I need a gun.”

  He pulled away. “Not happening.”

  “I need a weapon, and you know I’m capable of using it.” I pointed at his lower leg. “I know you have another one on you.”

  “But I can’t give it to you. You aren’t a cop, and as a civilian, you aren’t authorized to carry a weapon in here. I’ll lose my job if I do this.”

  “Listen to me, big guy. I called you and told you about this attack. You haven’t done one damn thing to prevent it. The front-page story in tomorrow’s Chicago Tribune will be about a detective who ignored my warning and let nine strippers get on different planes, resulting in the deaths of hundreds — or maybe even thousands — of people. You won’t be able to get a job guarding a sandbox. And I will write that story, unless you give me a gun.”

  “Okay, okay, I shoulda believed you.” He pulled his ankle gun out. “Take my Smith and Wesson.”

  I hefted it and gave it back. “I’ve never fired a revolver like this. I know how to handle a Glock.”

  He put the gun back in his ankle holster and handed his Glock to me. “Do not show this to anyone unless you have to.”

  “If you don’t get me a lot of help in a heck of a hurry, it may be the only option I have.”

  I dropped the magazine to make sure it was full and there was one in the chamber. I put the gun in the back of my shorts and covered it with my top.

  “Check the bags and grab the rest of the detonators,” he said. “Try and find the strippers. If you don’t, meet me at the gate for the United flight to L.A.”

  He ran down the escalator steps with the detonator in his hand.

  134

  I began going through the remaining carry-on bags, searching for ID tags that listed the owners as living in the apartment building by the Twenties. I found one and opened it. Inside was a Montblanc pen and pencil set identical to the one Tony had taken with him.

  “What the hell are you doin’?” a tall, ruddy-faced man asked. He had a deep, raspy southern accent.

  He stomped toward me from the doorway. He wore a cowboy hat and smelled like he’d had too many Jack and Cokes.

  I held up the box. “I was putting these United complimentary gifts of Montblanc pen and pencil into all the passengers’ carry-ons.”

  “Bullshit. United’s too cheap to do somethin’ like that.” He stepped toward me. “What’s goin’ on here?”

  I can’t let you stop me, cowboy.

  Sliding my right hand behind my back, I wrapped my fingers around the butt of Tony’s gun. “My job is to put these…” I waved the pen and pencil box at him with my left hand, “…in each passenger’s carry-on.”

  I slid my finger to the gun’s trigger guard.

  “Tell United I don’t want their goddamn gift.” He yanked his bag off the shelf and staggered off, bumping into the doorframe as he left.

  It took eleven minutes to find six more of the bags with the detonators and another four before I discovered the last carry-on. It belonged to Sammy. I went through it but didn’t find a detonator. Turning it upside down, I dumped out the contents on the floor; nothing but clothes and toiletries. Counting my stack of pens and pencil sets again, I still came up with seven. Tony had one, which made eight. That took me another three minutes.

  Sammy has to have the ninth detonator with her.

  I went to call Tony. My cell phone showed “no service.” The TSA was shutting down the airport, which included jamming all phone transmissions. I couldn’t call Tony and warn him he was walking into a trap.

  135

  I grabbed the Montblanc boxes and searched for a place to stash them until this was over. I saw the sign for the bathroom.

  Arlington.

  The bomber had hidden his bomb in the bathroom in Arlington, and it would have to work for me. I ran to the bathroom and entered. It hit me as I approached the trash can.

  No!

  My head began to throb. Until that second, the possibility of a PTSD attack hadn’t entered my mind. I shut my eyes and tried to control my breathing.

  Maybe it was remembering Arlington and having explosive devices in my hands. Maybe it was stress. Or the combination. Whatever it was, I couldn’t let it take over. I had to fight it.

  Concentrate.

  I kept my eyes shut.

  When I opened my eyes, my vision was blurry, but it cleared with a few blinks.

  I have to stop the devices from working.

  Could a manual signal from a trigger on the concourse one floor below me not only set off Sammy’s Montblanc detonator and her boob bombs, but have range enough to ignite the seven detonators in the bathroom too? If it could, the explosion would most certainly cause major destruction and injuries in the United Room.

  Tony said the detonators might be booby-trapped. If I yanked out the wires from each pen and pencil, I might be blown up.

  Hurry!

  I heard a toilet flush in the stall to my left.

  Batteries? Water!

  I pushed open the door of the other stall and stepped in. My idea was to put the detonators in the back of the toilet, hoping the water would soak the batteries in the triggers and render them useless and, thus, unable to explode.

  But there isn’t any back to the toilet!

  The plumbing went into the wall.

  Now what?

  I threw the detonators in the toilet bowl and watched them sink to the bottom.

  Flush them or not?

  I decided not to risk having them plug up the toilet, which might cause a mini-flood in the bathroom. Instead, I locked the stall door and crawled out underneath it.

  I sprinted down the escalator and ran out the door of the United Room.

  Sammy leaves for L.A. in forty-two minutes.

  136

  I remembered Sammy’s gate number from the sheet Tony had shown to me. I began to speed-walk toward her gate to find Tony and his troops to warn them about the one missing detonator. The bustling activity and noise from the passengers had not changed since I first arrived on Concourse B, but I saw several people staring at their phones, probably wondering why they no longer worked.

  You’ll know soon enough.

  As I pushed through the mass of passengers, I abruptly stopped when I saw the nine strippers strolling out of a bar. Farhad, the terrorist who had accosted me in Micah’s study, walked next to Sammy. They were at the front of the group. Behind them were Corky and Micah and the rest of the strippers. They were closely bunched up and chatting, oblivious to what might happen.

  The last detonator could be in Sammy’s purse, making her a walking C4 bomb. But if Farhad had a manual trigger for her bomb implants, that could be a disaster.

  Oh my God!

  What if Farhad has a trigger that will detonate not only Sammy’s C4 breast bombs but all the other bombs at the same time too?

  My head began pounding.

  Breathe.

  If the manual trigger was a cell phone, we might be okay. Tony had the TSA shut down all the cell phone service, and Farhad might not know that.

  But al-Turk might have anticipated such a move by the TSA and given Farhad had another way to detonate the C4. He might be carrying a trigger device capable of manually blowing up Sammy’s C4. A
nd maybe all the other bombs too.

  If her boobs blew up, would it cause a chain reaction with the other boob bombs, even if Farhad’s device couldn’t individually detonate their bombs? I had to do something before the whole area was vaporized and thousands of people were injured or killed.

  Where is Tony?

  When I needed him the most, he wasn’t around.

  It’s up to me.

  137

  I pulled Tony’s gun out of the back of my pants and assumed a shooter’s stance. I slid my finger onto the trigger guard.

  They haven’t seen me yet.

  “Stop!” I yelled. “I have a gun!”

  When the word “gun” left my lips, the world around me went crazy. Many of the passengers on Concourse B heard me. Others saw the gun. Instantly, it seemed like all of them began screaming, “Gun!” and running and shoving each other toward both ends of the long corridor. The noise from their feet hitting the floor and the screaming about the gun was deafening. Several passengers were knocked down, but they hopped up and began running again.

  I ignored the chaos and focused on Farhad. Though other passengers flew past me, all the girls had stopped moving when they saw my gun pointed in their direction.

  Farhad grabbed Sammy and wrapped his left arm around her neck. He turned her toward me, using her as a human shield.

  Just like Arlington.

  Micah stood next to Corky who began sobbing.

  “Tina, Sammy has a Montblanc box in her purse,” he said, confirming my fears. “Farhad put it in there.”

  As he said this, Farhad started to put his right hand into the pocket of his blue blazer.

  “Stop, Farhad!” I shouted. “Don’t you dare move your hand!”

  His right hand stopped moving, but it hovered above his pocket.

  If he shoves his hand into his pocket, shoot him!

  But could I? On the gun range, it was easy to hit a stationary target, but it didn’t have a heartbeat.

  I slid my finger to the trigger.