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We wait.
I hate waiting.
Jeremy says, “We need a dynamic entry, and now.”
Collins shakes his head. “My airport, my rules.”
“This is a security matter.”
“No,” Collins says, “this is an airport matter, which means it belongs to me. We’re getting additional forces here, and soon.”
“We can’t wait!” Jeremy says.
Collins says, “Sorry, mate—that’s the rules.”
I take a breath and push past them, going straight into the men’s room.
“Not mine,” I say.
Chapter64
THERE’S LOTSof cursing behind me, and someone’s hand—I’m sure it’s not Jeremy’s—brushes my right shoulder like he’s trying to pull me back. Lucky for the both of us, he misses grabbing onto me.
I lower myself and glance around the corner. Two dark-skinned Asian men in suits, white shirts, no neckties are at separate sinks, one brushing his teeth, the other washing his hands. The one maintaining good dental hygiene spots me—halts with the toothbrush in his mouth—and nudges the man next to him.
I put a finger up to my mouth—the international sign forKeep your damn mouth shut!—and with my other hand, holding my 9mm, I gesture them to move outside.
“Slowly,” comes a whisper, and I don’t turn.
It’s Jeremy.
Thereare sinks and mirrors to my right; to my left, a row of stalls.
Every one of them is open save for the one at the end.
Door closed.
I turn and point to the stall with the closed door. Jeremy nods. He points to himself, then to the far end of the bathroom. He gestures at me to stay behind.
I give him that.
He slowly walks down the bathroom like he’s waiting to do his familiar business, but his eyes and pistol are on the last stall. In a few seconds I move as well, following him, then I duck down and peer under the door.
Empty.
I wave and catch Jeremy’s attention, point to the bottom of the stall, then shake my head.
He gets the message.
He goes to the end and swiftly turns, then hammers the door open with one well-placed kick.
“Hey!” comes a shout, and the next few seconds are a confusing mess of Jeremy reaching in to grab a man squatting on the toilet seat with his feet. As he starts to drag him out, I reach in, grab a shirtsleeve, and tug him out as well. The man flips and falls to the floor, hands held up in terror.
It’s not Rashad.
He’s in his twenties, dressed well, and from the corner of my eye I spot a gray suit jacket hanging from a hook. The man’s right shirtsleeve is pulled up above his elbow, and a length of rubber hose is tied around the upper bicep.
“Hey…hey…hey…” he protests. “Come on…please…”
