“Mandy’s dead,” said Anson Ho, co-managing editor. “She and her husband were murdered last night. I’m sorry.”
“What? That can’t be. I spoke with her at eleven. Anson, what happened?”
“Someone got into their apartment. Look, I don’t have any more details. The police are here. I can’t talk now. We’re all in shock.”
London dropped the phone to her side, the color drained from her face. “We did this.”
“No, we didn’t. It’s just how things played out. I’m sorry.”
“I’m going to be ill.”
Simon placed his hands on her arms. “Not now, you’re not. You can be sad later. Tonight, tomorrow. Right now, I need all of you.”
Of course emotion overruled logic. “Why did they do this?” said London. “Oh, poor Mandy.”
Simon gripped her tightly. “It’s going to be all right,” he said. “You need to believe that.”
London nodded, not believing it. Not for a second.
Then he saw them. Two men standing a ways down the concourse, one older, silver-haired, the other younger, fit. Both trying hard not to pay attention to them, sneaking a look now and then. And then there was the couple a row of seats over who also hadn’t heeded the announcement yet. They stood fussing over a carry-on. Maybe fussing too much. And what was that bulge in the man’s blazer? There, beneath the arm.
Simon pulled up a map of the airport on his phone, running his finger over the layout. Outside. They had to get outside. And from there? He studied the map more closely. It took him a moment, but he spotted a path. Yes, just maybe. He looked at London, at her shoes. “Can you run in those?”
“Run? I guess.”
He put his mouth to her ear. “Listen to me. We got lucky last time. Not going to happen again. This time it’s all or nothing.”
“I get the point,” London said sharply.
Simon forced a smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to…well, you know.”
“I’m ready.”
“Leave your bag here. Just you and me flat-out.”
“But I don’t see anyone.”
“They’re here. Believe me.”
“Not my laptop. It has everything.”
“London.”
She nodded, gathering herself. “Where are we going?”
“Just follow me.”
Simon rose wearily, stretching, looking at his watch. “Excuse me,” he said, approaching the couple in the next row of seats. “Are you on the flight to Nice?”
Hesitation. A look passed between the man and woman. “Yes, we are,” said the man in the trilby hat, a German speaker, heavy accent. “Holiday. We are about to head down to the new gate.”
“I doubt that.”
Simon shoved the man against the window, one hand at his throat, the other delving inside his blazer, finding nothing, no gun. Only a fat wallet. The man offered no fight, his eyes blinking wildly.Who is this madman?
Simon released him, framing an apology. “I’m sorry…really I—”
The woman hit him, a fist to the cheek, staggering him. He fell back as she dug her hand into her handbag, eyes narrowed, a ball of will. He grabbed her wrist as she brought a pistol out of her bag, the gun a stainless-steel semiautomatic. He slammed her hand against the window, using his free hand to forcibly pry it from her fingers. She kneed him, missing by an inch, bruising his thigh. The man—her husband—hit Simon with a chop to the back of the neck. Simon spun, pistol-whipping him across the face, opening a gash to the bone, the man tumbling onto a bank of chairs. Simon looked back at the woman, kicking her in the sternum, her body colliding with the window, her head striking the glass with force. She collapsed.
