Nemesis (2 page)

He locked on Sherlock’s face, tightened his death grip on Melissa, and held the grenade toward her. “Who told you to talk, you stupid woman? Get back with the rest of the mutts and shut up!”

“Sir, you obviously knew you couldn’t get a grenade through X-ray, so you planned it this way. Why? What do you want? What if they simply let you leave?” She wanted to see how tight his hold was on the grenade ring, but she forced herself to keep her eyes on his face.

He screamed at her, “Shut up or you’ll be the first one dead! You agents, stop moving around, do you hear me? Any more of you take a step toward me, I’ll toss the grenade right in front of you!”

The TSA agents stopped in their tracks, their eyes moving from him to Sherlock, and always back to the grenade he held in his shaking hand. The passengers stayed still as stones, as they’d been told, hardly breathing, watching, praying. Sherlock heard a distant cacophony of voices, either running away or swarming closer to see what was happening.
Not good.
Airport security was beginning to inch toward him. He juked this way and that, trying to keep an eye on the agents. His eyes narrowed, sweat beaded on his face. What had he planned to do? Sherlock felt rage and fear rolling off him. Yet he hadn’t pulled the pin. Why? Was he having second thoughts, or was he waiting to make some kind of statement? She saw it clearly on his face, he was struggling with himself, trying to rev himself up to kill as many people around him as possible, Melissa included. That was certainly what he’d planned when he’d taken off his shoes and set them in the bin. They didn’t matter then because he knew he was going to die.

She looked at Melissa’s face, at her eyes. She was terrified, but she was there, ready to do something if she could. Sherlock said to her, “What’s your name?”

He was distracted and automatically loosened his hold. Melissa sucked in air. “Melissa Harkness.”

He was looking at Sherlock now, focused on her.
Good.
“And what’s your name, sir?”

“None of your business!” He raised the grenade higher, ran his tongue over his lips, and tightened his hold on Melissa’s neck again.

“Why don’t you let Melissa go? She didn’t do anything to you. Maybe I can call your wife, you can speak to her and to your children.”

“What are you talking about? You know nothing about my blessed wife. For you to even speak of her is an abomination.” He kept swinging the grenade around to force airport security guards and TSA agents back.

Melissa was beginning to choke again, her fingers pulling against his arm.

Sherlock spoke quickly now. “Does your wife expect you to die today and kill dozens of innocent people along with you? Does your wife even know what you’re doing? Where is she now?” She saw the security team moving even closer and she smelled fear, a raw corrosive in the air, from everyone around her, especially from him. He was as frightened as Melissa. She had to stop this now.

“I told you not to speak of her. I’m a British citizen, not some poor sod from Pakistan or Iran you can manipulate.” He laughed, a scary laugh that was filled with derision and something buried deep, something that made him what he was, and something deeper, a kind of desperate bravado. He was trying to convince himself to accept his own death. “I’m from London—that decadent city they call Londonistan. We will fight until we control the whole world, in the name of Allah.”

What idiot taught you that?
It sounded like he’d practiced saying it, exactly that way.
Why?
“Despite what you said, I don’t think you want to die. If you throw the grenade, that is what will happen. You’ll die and you’ll never see your family again. Do you want to be nothing at all in the flash of a second?”

S
weat bathed his face, and his hands trembled so badly Sherlock wondered how he could keep hold of the grenade ring. He bared his teeth at her. “You shut your mouth.”

Sherlock smiled. “You throw the grenade and so many bullets will hit you from airport security, your body won’t be able to hold itself together. Your wife won’t be able to recognize you because your face will be blown off. Maybe she’ll recognize your sock, the one with the hole in it.”

He glanced down automatically at his foot and Sherlock ran at him. “Melissa, drop!”

Brave Melissa threw all her weight forward, pulling the terrorist with her. He struggled with her, off balance, and his finger slipped free of the grenade safety ring. Sherlock took two fast steps, reared back on the heel of her foot and kicked his right wrist, heard the bone crack. He screamed and dropped the grenade. Everyone froze, watched the grenade hit the floor with a loud thump and begin to roll. There was mayhem—yelling and people running to get as far away from the grenade as possible, pushing others out of their way, some of them falling to the floor, a stampede, and over it all security shouting, “Everyone get down! Get down!”

The terrorist was holding on to his wrist, cursing her, but he didn’t come at her, he lunged for the grenade. Sherlock ran after him, kicked him hard in the kidney. He whooshed out a breath as he fell forward onto his hands and knees, hissing in pain as he crawled toward the grenade, now fetched up against a security counter. She prayed none of the security officers would lose it and shoot, since she was so close to him now.

She yelled at him, “Don’t do it!”

He twisted back to look at her, fear and desperation glazing his eyes, screamed curses, and dove for the grenade, his good arm outstretched. She kicked him in the head. He fell forward, sprawling away from the grenade, but still Sherlock saw his fingers reach out and pull the ring free of the grenade. Thankfully, the safety lever stayed attached, still in place, but for how long?

Everyone remained frozen in place, terrified, all eyes on the grenade.

One, two, three agonizingly slow seconds—nothing happened.

She didn’t have handcuffs, so Sherlock planted her foot on the middle of his back and pressed down. “Listen to me, get hold of yourself. If you don’t move, the grenade might not explode and you might survive this.”

The man was heaving for breath, murmuring over and over something she couldn’t understand. A prayer? To Allah? His eyes were tightly closed, one hand still pressed to his head where Sherlock had kicked him. He wasn’t moving now. His other hand lay palm up three inches from the grenade.

He was weeping. He said in a whisper, “You’ve ruined it all. Now they’ll die because of you.” She leaned close, heard him whisper over and over, “Bella, Bella.” A woman’s name, his wife’s name?

“Who’s Bella?”

He didn’t even see her, didn’t see anything beyond himself and what had happened.

She heard the loud buzz of voices all around her, but she ignored them. She looked up to see a man striding toward her, airport security officers flanking him, guns drawn. She’d recognize a Big Dog anywhere. He had to be the chief of security here at JFK, ex-military, tall, built, straight as an oak, with white buzz-cut hair. He yelled to all the huddled passengers, “Do not panic. TSA agents will escort you away from here right now. Slowly, that’s right. Clear the area!”

As Sherlock lifted her foot and stepped away from the man, a half-dozen security agents covered him, picked him up, and dragged him away.

Big Dog shouted, “Okay, Security, back behind that concrete column!” and he led them all briskly away from the grenade, pulling Sherlock with him.

A mustachioed man trotted up. “Pritchett, bomb squad—it’s a grenade? Was the ring pulled?”

Sherlock said, “Yes, about four minutes ago. The safety lever’s still in place.”

“I see it. What a stroke of luck. It could also be defective, but let’s not take any chances. Chief Alport, move your crew back another dozen feet.”

Pritchett said into his portable radio, “Grenade, ring pulled four minutes ago, safety lever still hanging on, could be defective. Let’s not take any chances. No frag bag, bring in the PTCV.”

Sherlock said, “PTCV?”

“Portable Total Containment Vessel.”

Sherlock watched along with everyone else as a few minutes later two members of the bomb squad, looking like green space aliens in their heavy protective suits, walked clumsily to the grenade. One of the men was pushing a large white cylinder on wheels, maybe four feet high, nearly four feet wide, with an opening in the center front.

They studied the grenade, then, after instructions from Pritchett, gently lifted it with long-handled prongs and eased it inside the vessel. They closed the opening, rotated the cylinder. There was a huge collective sigh of relief.

Pritchett said to Big Dog, “You took a big chance getting that close, Chief. I’d say an extra Mass is in order.”

Sherlock and the chief watched Pritchett follow the two suited men wheeling the containment vessel toward an emergency exit. The security people gave them wide berth. Twenty feet short of the doors, there was a loud muffled bang. The containment vessel box shook, but it held.

No one moved for a second. Then Pritchett yelled, “Guess the safety lever fell off, or the grenade wasn’t defective after all. Talk about a bit of pucker action. You can bet that’s going to make the news.”

The chief let out a big sigh and crossed himself.

Sherlock saw he was still stiff as a board, the muscles in his arms and back knotted with tension, but now he was smiling at her. Sherlock turned to him. “It’s a pleasure to see a Big Dog in action.”

“Big Dog?”

She lightly laid her hand on his forearm. “Yeah, I’d recognize you guys anywhere. My husband’s a Big Dog—you’re a rare breed. But I gotta say that was way too close.” She stuck out her hand. “FBI Special Agent Sherlock.”

He shook her hand. “Guy Alport, chief of security in this nerve-fragging zoo. A pleasure to meet you. My people were telling me about this crazy woman who faced him down, got right into his face, and kicked the crap out of him.”

Crazy, that was about right, but Sherlock only smiled and turned away when his people crowded around him. She prayed she’d never be tested like that again. She went looking for Melissa Harkness and found her outside the doors, surrounded by security, airport employees, and passengers. Behind her, she heard an alarm sound, then the loudspeaker: “Everyone will leave the terminal by the nearest exit. The terminal is closed until further notice.”

What had she expected? She wondered when she’d get home. Probably in the next millennium. The security people saw her, let her through. She lightly touched Melissa’s shoulder. “You did great, Melissa. You brought him down, saved the day.”

Melissa Harkness grabbed Sherlock and hugged her close. “Thank you so much. Even my ex-husband thanks you.” As she hugged Sherlock close again, fiercely, she whispered in her ear, “The jerk might even send you flowers. I’m his golden goose, after all.” Then she grinned. “I don’t think I’m going to go on that low-carb diet yet. My weight came in handy today.”

“Don’t you change a thing, you’re perfect.” Sherlock drew in a deep breath. “We all survived.” She turned when a black-suited agent called out to her. She said to Melissa, “Sorry, no bath for either of us for a while. Now the fun starts.”

F
BI agents from the New York Field Office took the terrorist from the TSA guards and airport security while Homeland Security agents and NYPD officers weeded out gawkers from witnesses and herded them to several conference rooms. It was an alphabet soup of agencies, all wanting to take charge. Sherlock knew that the FBI—namely, the New York Joint Terrorism Task Force—would take the lead, because the resident FBI agent at JFK would have called them right away. She also realized the adrenaline rush was bottoming out, also knew this was long from over. She and Big Dog were separated, each taken to a room to be interviewed. The last she saw of Melissa, she was in the middle of a knot of agents.

Sherlock was escorted to a small security room filled with TV monitors and computers and seated at a battered rectangular table. She was handed a cup of coffee and introduced to two FBI agents. They turned on recording equipment and started right in, going over and over what had happened, why she was in New York, what exactly the terrorist had said to her, his affect, his accent, his tone of voice, what she believed his intentions had been, and on and on it went. Sean would earn his college degree before she was finished answering questions. She heard agents talking about the airport reopening again soon, after security was certain there were no threats in the offing. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise? She no longer wanted to flop her head onto the table and take a snooze. It was a remote possibility she’d even get home before midnight, if only someone would pull the plug on all the questions. The door opened and she was instantly aware of the eerie quiet in the terminal. There were no passengers hurrying to their gates, nothing at all.