Hard Fall Read Free

heart was still pounding hard from the run. A commotion erupted behind them. It was Bob Backman. He looked as if he’d been swimming with his clothes on. He was refusing to surrender his gun.
    Daggett said, “He’s ours,” mimicking the Smoker’s expression, but in a tone of voice that disowned Backman.
    The Smoker returned to Security to straighten it out.
    Hairless spoke for the first time. “Security don’t like us much. The feeling is mutual.”
    Backman reluctantly surrendered his weapon. Hairless, who didn’t seem to miss much, was the first to spot Backman’s wing tips. He nudged the Smoker and pointed out the shoes, which instantly reestablished the chain of command. Only desk jocks wore wing tips. Daggett wore a pair of scuffed Rockports. “Let’s go,” Backman said anxiously, taking the lead position. A fat duck in a drenched pinstripe.
    The Smoker flashed his badge at the gate. They went down the hot jetway at something close to a run, Backman wheezing.
    Daggett ducked through the plane’s entry hatch, fourth in line behind Hairless. They hurried past a nervous steward. “We’ll be out of your way in a minute,” Backman said, trying to sound in control, but he was clearly uncomfortable here.
    As a group, they quickly moved down the aisle. Inquisitive faces rose to greet them, some sensing excitement, others expressing a mixture of curiosity and sudden fright.
    To Daggett they were the faces of the innocent, faces with lives behind them—and hopefully ahead of them. Faces of people like his parents and his boy.
    With their approach, a man in row 19 rose and stepped into the aisle, blocking it. A flight attendant, a woman with hard eyes and gray-flecked hair, came up the aisle immediately behind him. Two of the Smoker’s people, Daggett assumed. Bernard was now at the center of a well-executed squeeze play with nowhere to go. The emergency exit to the wing was effectively blocked by two “maintenance mechanics.” Beautiful—like when the shortstop stepped up to take over second base in time to trap the steal. Daggett loved to see runners pinned; the “pickle” was one of his favorite plays of the game.
    The Smoker’s calm was impressive. Daggett heard some soft talking and saw Bernard’s upraised palms as he was carefully drawn from the seat, patted down and advised to cooperate. Hairless quickly extricated his hardshell carry-on briefcase. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the scene, heads craned.
    Suddenly, Bernard’s eyes caught Daggett’s and their gazes locked. Daggett thought this must be the sensation a hunter feels as the animal lifts its head, suddenly alert to the hunter’s presence.
    Daggett knew this face all too well: he had lived with it for months. Bernard was dark-haired, with gray eyes, not quite handsome, just the kind of unremarkable countenance easily forgotten by even those who prided themselves on being observant. A vein pulsed strongly in his forehead. His occupation had cost him: His left hand was missing two fingers. But it wasn’t the man’s face, or his missing fingers that Daggett remembered. It was the black-and-white photographs of his work—the demolished restaurants, the aircraft, a half-dozen vehicles. A body count in the hundreds.
    A monster.
    The group filed out in professional silence. Daggett and Backman had their handguns returned to them at the security check.
    The five men rode in the back of a Marriott food service van to a dull green building that seemed abandoned. A narrow hallway that smelled of grease and sweat led them to a windowless room that the Smoker had chosen for the interrogation. Daggett had a bad feeling about this room. Something terrible was about to happen.
    Gunmetal desks in various states of disrepair, stacked three high, occupied most of the small room. A black, oily residue crusted the dysfunctional ventilation grate. The