Black Friday

by William W. Johnstone

  Habib saw the small, semi-automatic pistol in the American’s hand. With a smile on his own face, he asked, “Expecting trouble, Donald?”

  “You mean this?” Reed gestured with the gun. “Nah, just being careful. I wanted to make sure you guys were alone.”

  “Who else would be with us?”

  “I dunno.” Reed stepped back so they could come in, then closed the door behind them. “I guess I’m just paranoid. I was afraid Homeland Security or the FBI or somebody like that might have grabbed you and forced you to lead them to me.”

  As if anyone would ever care about such a tiny cog in the machine as Donald Reed, Habib thought. It wasn’t like Reed was the mastermind behind the plan.

  No, that was Habib.

  “No one has discovered the plan. No one has reason to suspect a thing,” he said. “Everything is going exactly like we want it to go. That is, if you’ve done your part.”

  “Hey, of course I have.” Reed sounded a little offended at the thought he might not have carried out his assignment. He set the pistol on a table and went on, “Everything is locked up in that supply closet just like it’s supposed to be. As far as anybody knows, it’s just cases of industrial-strength cleaning supplies.”

  Mahmoud said, “The janitors will not bother it?”

  “No reason for them to. I stacked the boxes in the very back, like you told me. Under normal circumstances, it would take a couple of weeks before anybody would touch them.” Reed grinned. “And of course it’ll all be over with long before that, praise Allah.”

  Habib managed not to wince at the sincere but awkward sound of the phrase. He hated to hear that name in the mouth of an American, even a deluded fool like this one who considered himself an ally of the holy jihad.

  He knew that Donald Reed had drifted in and out of a dozen different religions and movements in his life before deciding that Islam was the answer for which he had been searching all along. Habib was certain Reed had thought that about all the other impulses he had followed.

  Someone who honestly converted to Islam could be accepted, even an American. Reed probably had visions of fighting the Great Satan alongside his new Muslim brothers. To Habib, though, he would never be fully trustworthy. The blood of too many infidels ran in his veins.

  Better to make use of him, then be certain that he wouldn’t lose his resolve at the last moment and ruin everything.

  That was why Habib and Mahmoud were here tonight.

  “You’re sure your people will have a way out for us?” Reed asked now.

  There, Habib thought. He’s already wavering. Worrying about his own life, instead of being happy to give it up as a martyr to their glorious cause.

  “Everything is arranged,” Habib lied. “Once we have carried out the mission, helicopters will land on the roof of the mall to carry us away from there. We’ll take hostages with us, so they won’t dare shoot us down. Then there will be planes waiting at the airport.”

  “I can’t wait to actually see Mecca,” Reed said.

  There would be no helicopters, no planes, no Mecca for Donald Reed. Not for any of them. Reed thought this plan had originated with the leaders of the movement in the Middle East, but in truth it had come from an entirely different place.

  It came from the brain of Habib Jabara. He had planted the seeds, cultivated them, nursed them along, adding a piece here, a piece there, recruiting this man and that, building an invisible organization right under the noses of the Americans, right here in the heartland of their country.

  Let others protest, hold press conferences, file lawsuits. Let them infiltrate the government, worm their way into the corridors of power, exploit the foolish obsession many Americans had with “diversity” and “tolerance.” In the long run, Habib knew, that was a better, more effective way to crush America once and for all, but it was also slow. Too slow for the hatred that burned inside him.

  Let others worry about politics.

  He was here to spill infidel blood.

  And what better time to start than now?

  While they were talking, Mahmoud had been easing around behind Reed. At a slight nod from Habib, he struck.

  He grabbed Reed from behind, locking an arm like an iron bar across his throat to choke off any outcry. Reed seemed to be completely shocked and didn’t even fight back except to paw feebly at the arm clamped around his neck.

  Habib pulled up the front of the Bears sweatshirt enough to reach under it and grasp the handle of the knife sheathed on the inside of his blue jeans’ waistband. He drew the knife, stepped closer to the suddenly horrified Reed, and drove the razor-sharp blade into the American’s chest, angling it up so that it missed the ribs and went into the heart.

  Reed’s eyes opened as wide as they could, almost impossibly wide. He jerked a couple of times as Habib leaned his weight into the knife to make sure the point penetrated the heart. Reed lifted his hands but didn’t strike out with them. All he could do was shake them uncontrollably.

  Then his body went limp. His eyes still stared at Habib as the young man eased the blade out, but they no longer saw anything. Habib stepped back as Mahmoud carefully lowered the body to the floor. There was a little blood on the front of Reed’s shirt, but not much.

  The American had died without a sound, too. That was good. They would lock up the apartment when they left here, and the body probably wouldn’t be discovered for several days. Not that it would matter, as long as it wasn’t discovered before eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.

  Habib took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from the knife before putting it away. Mahmoud leaned over and checked Reed for a pulse, although it really wasn’t necessary. He gave Habib a curt nod.

  Feeling quite pleased with the way things were going so far, Habib went into the apartment’s small bedroom, looked in the closet, and came back carrying a uniform, black trousers, and gray shirt, on a hanger. The shirt had AMERICAN WAY stitched over the right breast pocket.

  He held up the security guard’s uniform, smiled at Mahmoud, and said, “I think it will fit me quite well, don’t you?”

  Chapter 9

  Black Friday

  Calvin Marshall tried not to yawn as he stood in the chilly, predawn darkness with the other security guards waiting to enter the American Way Mall on the Friday after Thanksgiving. He knew that if he started yawning, he might not be able to stop.

  He hadn’t slept very well the night before. Whether that restlessness was from being nervous about starting this new job today or because he had eaten too much of his mom’s good cooking, he didn’t know. Either way, he was tired and the day hadn’t even gotten started good yet.

  He stuck his hands deeper in the pockets of the brown bomber jacket he wore over the uniform he’d been issued. A faint line of gray showed in the eastern sky, down close to the horizon.

  It was supposed to be a sunny day, warm for November, perfect for shopping, but at the moment the temperature hadn’t started to warm up yet. It was close to freezing. Breath-fog hung in clouds in front of the guards’ faces.

  They would go into the mall through one of the service entrances. People were already lined up at the regular entrances, eager to get inside and get their hands on some bargains, even though those doors wouldn’t open for more than two hours. The parking lots around the mall were close to a fourth full already.

  The man standing beside Calvin must have noticed him looking at the parked cars. The guy said, “By ten o’clock there won’t be any empty spot, except maybe out on the farthest edge of the lot. By noon those will be full and there’ll be a traffic jam of people circling and looking for a place to park.”

  “That bad, huh?” Calvin said.

  “Oh, yeah. It won’t ease up until late afternoon, when people start to get worn out and go home. I’ve seen it every year for the past five years. That’s how long I’ve been working here.” The man stuck out a gloved hand. “Dave Dixon.”

  “I’m Calvin Marshall,” Calv
in replied as he shook Dixon’s hand. The older man was taller, rawboned, with a lantern jaw and bushy eyebrows.

  “First time, Calvin?” Dixon asked.

  “Yeah. First time working here, and first time as a security guard, period.”

  “You ought to do okay. You play football?”

  “Why? Because I’m black?”

  “No, man, because you look like an athlete,” Dixon said. “You just got that jock vibe about you, you know?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Yeah, I played ball in high school. Barely made second string, though.”

  “That’s all right. You’ve got experience chasin’ people down and tacklin’ ’em.”

  Calvin frowned and said, “You think I’ll have to do that here?”

  “Well, part of our job is to watch for shoplifters, pickpockets, people like that, and there are always some of them who’ll try to run when you confront them.”

  Calvin looked at the holstered pistol on Dixon’s hip and said, “You’re one of the armed guards. I’ll bet they don’t run from you.”

  “You’d be wrong there, my friend. The gun might scare the amateurs into cooperating, but a lot of these lowlifes are professionals. They know we’re not gonna haul out a gun and start shooting in a crowded mall. Hell, that’d be a huge lawsuit—a bunch of huge lawsuits—just waitin’ to happen. So if they take off, we have to chase ’em just like you guys who aren’t carrying. The only time this gun comes out is if some civilian is armed and threatening people.”

  “Has that ever happened?” Calvin asked. He knew his mother was worried about things like that.

  “Not since I’ve been here,” Dixon said. “We’ve had some fistfights, but no shootings or stabbings.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah, for the most part people come here to shop, not to cause trouble. Other than the petty thieves, of course.” Dixon paused. “Where they got you workin’?”

  “Food court,” Calvin said.

  Dixon made a face and said, “Ohhh. I’m sorry.”

  “What’s wrong with the food court?”

  “That’s where most of your fights break out. People get all hyped on frozen yogurt and soft drinks.”

  Calvin frowned at the older man for a moment and said, “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I was, old buddy. You’ll see.”

  Before Calvin could say anything else, the service door opened and a beefy, white-haired man stepped out. He wore a mall jacket as part of his uniform. Calvin recognized him as Raymond Napoli, the supervisor in charge of the security guards. Calvin had had to interview with Napoli before he got the job.

  “Let’s go,” Napoli said, waving the guards into the mall with the clipboard he held in his left hand. “We’ve got a lot to go over before the regular doors open in a couple of hours.”

  The uniformed men and women filed in. The service door opened into a corridor with offices on both sides of it. A time clock was mounted on the wall at the far end of the hall. One by one, the guards punched in for their shift.

  Napoli appeared to be counting them as they moved past him, Calvin noticed. A frown creased the supervisor’s forehead, as if something was wrong.

  When they had all punched in and were gathered just inside the doors that led out into the mall proper, Napoli looked at the rows of cards in their slots, then turned to the guards and said, “Where the hell’s Reed? Anybody seen him?”

  Some of the guards shook their heads while others muttered in the negative. Dixon, who was taller than most of the group, craned his neck and looked around. He said, “I don’t see him, Skipper.”

  An annoyed growl came from Napoli. He reached in his jacket pocket, brought out a phone, consulted his clipboard, and thumbed in a number. He stood there listening for a few moments, then broke the connection.

  “No answer. Is he friends with any of you? Anybody talked to him since Wednesday?”

  Again he got only headshakes.

  “I knew it,” Napoli said. “I knew he was too much of a flake for me to depend on him. I never should’ve scheduled him for a shift today.” He made a disgusted sound and shook his head. “We’ll just get by with being short one man, I guess. Shouldn’t make much difference. For us, anyway. Reed’s gonna be out of a job for this holiday season, though.”

  That seemed a little harsh to Calvin. Maybe this guy Reed, whoever he was, was sick or something. Or his car broke down. There could be all sorts of reasons why he didn’t show up.

  But it might have been different, Calvin supposed, if Reed had called Napoli to let him know there was a problem. Calvin didn’t intend to miss any of his shifts while he was working at the mall, but if he had to, he would be sure to let his boss know as soon as possible. That was just common sense.

  “All right, everybody should’ve gotten your assignment,” Napoli went on. “Spread out and go to your posts, and I’ll be coming around to talk to all of you before the doors open, especially you new people.”

  Calvin felt like Napoli was looking right at him when he said that, although maybe that wasn’t the case. Maybe he was just a little nervous, he told himself.

  “Where are you working?” Calvin asked Dave Dixon as the group of guards began to disperse.

  “Downstairs by the north entrance,” Dixon replied. “By the calendar and smoked sausage kiosks.” He grinned. “So I get to look at swimsuit calendars and mooch samples off the girls at the sausage place. It’s a tough job, kid, but somebody’s gotta do it. Come down and see me on your break if you want. I’ll get you a piece of kielbasa if you’re lucky.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that,” Calvin said, lifting a hand in a wave of farewell as he started toward the food court.

  Calvin had spent a lot of time in this mall with his friends, and walking through it now while it was closed and mostly empty, before a lot of the lights were turned on, caused a distinctly eerie feeling. It reminded him of some of those zombie movies he had seen, where some catastrophe had wiped out most of the human race and left the survivors at the mercy of a horde of ravenous monsters.

  Yeah, that was kind of like the crowds of shoppers on the day after Thanksgiving, he thought with a wry smile. The Black Friday Apocalypse.

  He reached the food court and stopped to look along it to the customer entrance at the far end. The sets of big glass doors were still locked.

  A humming noise caught his attention. He looked toward the far side of the area and saw one of the mall’s maintenance crew running a buffer. She was a young woman with her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, petite enough that the buffer seemed almost as big as she was. She seemed to be handling it with no trouble, though.

  With nothing to do at the moment, Calvin strolled across the food court toward her. She glanced up, saw him coming, and switched off the buffer.

  “Almost done here, okay?” she said. She had some sort of Eastern European accent that made her sound exotic to Calvin. She was pretty, too.

  “It’s okay by me,” he said with a shrug. “The mall won’t be open for a while yet. I just thought I’d come over and say hello.”

  “Hello,” she said. “I must get back to work.”

  “Okay. I’m Calvin, by the way.”

  “Irina.”

  “Good to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” She switched the buffer on again and started working it back and forth across the floor.

  Well, that didn’t go just great, Calvin told himself as he walked slowly back toward the opening between the food court and the rest of the mall. Not that he had gone over there to flirt with her or anything. He really was just being friendly and passing the time.

  He forgot about Irina as he spotted Raymond Napoli striding toward him. The boss nodded to him and checked off something on the clipboard, probably his name, Calvin thought.

  “You squared away here, Marshall?”

  “Yes, sir. I know what to do.”

  “Keep your eyes open, that’s the main thing. If you look like you know what you’re
doing, people will assume that you do.”

  “Yes, sir.” Calvin hesitated, then went on, “I heard that there’s more trouble here at the food court than anywhere else. Fights and such.”

  “This is where the kids hang out, so yeah, there are squabbles you’ll have to break up. Most of your shoplifters, purse snatchers, and the like, though, hang out around the main entrances, where they can run right out to a waiting car. So you shouldn’t have to deal with much of that.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Calvin said, nodding.

  Napoli handed him a walkie-talkie and said, “Push that button and you get me. Push this other one and you broadcast to all the other units in the mall. That’s your panic button. Bad trouble breaks out, you yell for help right away.”

  “Yes, sir. But I thought you said you’re not expecting much trouble.”

  “I’m not. But you put that many people in one place . . . well, you just never know, kid.” Napoli chuckled. “They don’t call it Black Friday for nothin’, you know.”

  Chapter 10

  Vanessa Hamilton knew her sons would sleep late on Friday morning. As much turkey as they had eaten the day before, they were liable to be groggy all weekend, especially since there was plenty of leftover turkey as well.

  Tomorrow morning and Sunday morning, she would get up early and make pancakes and bacon and eggs, and they would have a big family breakfast both days.

  Today Jon, seventeen, and Mark, sixteen, would have to fend for themselves. That would be good practice for them.

  Mitch would just grab some coffee and toast and be fine with that. He’d be in a hurry to get to the store, anyway. He always opened at eight o’clock, so today would be no different for him.

  Vanessa woke Kaitlyn at seven. The girl moaned and groaned but got out of bed. Shopping had a powerful pull on a fourteen-year-old girl.

  “We’re leaving in forty-five minutes,” Vanessa told Kaitlyn’s back as she disappeared into the bathroom.

  “We’ll be there before they even open the doors,” Kaitlyn replied, her voice muffled by the closed door.