Did I make it?
She heard the bathroom door clap shut back there, then an exasperated voice called out from the hallway. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
You’ll be waiting a while.
She softly moved away and headed down the steps. As a precaution, she texted Laura, so she didn’t freak out: Meeting Mara. Be back soon.
She reached the exit and pushed into the bustle of the terminal.
Okay, that takes care of the hard part.
10:36 A.M.
Mara’s heel kept tapping the tiles of the bathroom stall. She tried to distract herself by reading the graffiti on the walls, scrawled in many languages. Still, she clutched her dark phone in both hands.
She also had a small blade tucked in her belt, hidden under the fall of her light jacket. It was only a steak knife, stolen from a room service tray abandoned in the hall of the first hotel where she had hid. Still, the hilt pressing into her hip reassured her.
Locked in her stall, her ears strained at every clatter of footfalls, the flush of a toilet. She listened as a mother scolded a child to wash her hands. Then suddenly a rush of footsteps descended on her stall. A knuckle rapped on the door.
She leaned away. “Oc . . . ocupado,” she stuttered in Portuguese.
“Mara, it’s me. Carly.”
She burst to her feet, unlatched the stall door, and stumbled out. She was immediately in Carly’s arms. The mother at the sink gave them a startled look, pulling her daughter closer, before heading to the exit.
Mara caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror. Clasped together, they appeared like a dark moon eclipsing the sun. Mara’s black hair, mocha skin, and dark amber eyes contrasted with Carly’s golden blond curls, pale complexion, and bright blue eyes.
Mara kept hold of her friend, hugging tightly. She didn’t care how it appeared. She suddenly began sobbing in Carly’s arms, all the terror, grief, guilt tumbling out. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” she gasped in gulping agony. “So sorry.”
Carly squeezed her. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m so happy you’re alive.”
“Your mother . . . she, she—”
“She loved you. I think more than she loved me at times.”
Mara shook her head. “I’m so glad you came for me.”
“Of course, I did.” Carly pulled back, holding Mara at arm’s length. “You’re safe, Mara. I’m going to take you to Laura and my dad.”
“Where?”
Carly glanced to the restroom door. “Not far. But we’d better get back before that security guy raises hell. C’mon.”
Mara allowed herself to be led by hand to the door and out into the crowded baggage claim. Even though it was Christmas day, travelers still packed the international terminal. A myriad of languages droned around her as harried, tired, frustrated people tried to get somewhere for the holidays.
The many different tongues reminded her. She pictured the flow of the subroutine pouring into the Xénese processor. She squeezed Carly’s hand and drew her to a stop amid the tumult.
Her friend turned back. “What’s wrong?”
“My computer.” She looked toward the exit. “I left it running back at my hotel.”
“You’ve still got Xénese with you?”
Her breathing quickened. “Back before, when your mother was . . . when the attack happened, something strange happened. The processor started acting strange, ended up revealing a symbol, as if it were important.” She clutched Carly’s arm. “I think it is important. Like it was trying to communicate, but I don’t know why or what it was thinking.”
“So you’re running it again,” Carly said. “Trying to get it to tell you. Smart.”
“Its action seemed too purposeful. Maybe it’s nothing, or—”
“Or maybe it had something to do with the attack.”
Mara bit her lower lip.
Maybe.
“Let’s get to Laura and my dad. They’ll know what to do from here.”
Mara nodded, and they set off again, hand in hand. But before she could take more than three steps, something clamped on to her free arm and wrenched her backward, ripping her away from Carly. Jarred, her friend lost her footing and toppled into the arms of a huge man who seemed to be waiting there. The man hugged Carly from behind, his intent plainly nefarious.
The hand gripping Mara spun her around. The sight of her assailant stifled the scream in her throat. His bulk towered over her, a muscled giant. But it was his face, olive hued with bottomless black eyes, that strangled her with terror.
Especially the four scabbed gashes down one cheek.
Mara pictured Carly’s mother fighting, lashing out at the attackers’ leader. Charlotte had ripped long nails into the man’s cheek, tearing away the false blindfold he had been wearing.
Here was that murderer.
Terror immediately turned to fury. As if possessed by the vengeful spirit of Dr. Carson, Mara yanked the stolen steak knife from her belt and plunged it with all her strength into the arm holding her. The adrenaline-fueled blow drove the blade fully through the forearm.
She had expected the attack to drive her assailant off, but his grip only tightened on her. His lips hardened into a sneer.
A guttural cry rose to the side, from the man holding Carly. She had stamped her heel hard into the man’s instep. She then slammed her head back as he hunched over her. Her skull cracked into his nose. Blood burst forth with the impact. His arms loosened on her, allowing her to break free and leap at the man gripping Mara.
Carly came at him with an arm cocked back as she flew through the air and slammed the folded knuckles of her right hand into the giant’s throat. He gagged at the nearly crushing blow to his larynx.
Mara broke free.
“C’mon!” Carly yelled.
They started to run deeper into the terminal, but from the crowd ahead, other men folded out of the stunned groups of travelers, intending to block the pair. They were too many for even Carly’s considerable skill to handle. Her friend—with always too much energy—had taken Krav Maga classes at NYU, a self-defense method developed by the Israeli military.
“This way!” Mara tugged her friend in the opposite direction and ran toward the exit.
A row of taxis waited curbside in front of baggage claim. Before anyone could catch them, they bolted through the door and into the sunshine. They sprinted to the front of the taxi line, knocking aside a man dragging a suitcase.
“Desculpe,” Mara called back to him, apologizing as the two piled into the back.
“Go!” Carly yelled to the driver. “Rápido!”
The cabbie showed no reaction, simply put the car in gear, and headed off.
Mara twisted around to stare behind them. She saw the giant burst to the curb. He cradled his impaled arm to his chest and searched around, but he failed to spot them.
Thank God.
More men gathered behind the leader. He waved his good arm and the group hurried away, likely to escape before airport security responded.
Mara settled back to her seat.
Carly lifted one eyebrow. “Okay, now what?”
“That man back there.”
“The bastard you stuck like a pig?”
She nodded. “He’s . . . he’s the one who killed your mother.”
10:55 A.M.
Todor Y?igo sat in the passenger seat of the Mercedes van. He had a phone pressed to his ear, held in place by his shoulder. He slowly extracted the knife from his forearm, the serrated edge scraping against bone.
The driver watched from the corner of his eye and grimaced at the sight.
Todor remained stolid, his expression unchanged as the knife pulled free of his muscles and skin. Blood welled thickly. He tossed the blade to the floor and set about bandaging the wound. He worked dispassionately, feeling no discomfort.
It was his curse and blessing.
Science said his condition—congenital insensitivity to pain, or CIP—was due to a genetic mutation in gene PRDM12, which shut off sodium channel blockers and knocked out all his pain sensors. Only a hundred or so souls in the world were so afflicted.
And I am one of the chosen.
At first, he had not considered it a blessing. Neither had his mother. He had been born in a rural village in the Basque region of northern Spain, where the old beliefs still held sway. As a baby, while teething, he had come close to chewing his tongue off, failing to feel the pain. Then, when he was four, his mother returned to the kitchen one day to find him holding a red-hot pan of boiling water in his hands, his palms blistering and smoking as he chuckled, holding aloft his prize to her.
She had already come to suspect his affliction marked him as a spawn of Satan and this act seemed to confirm it. Later that night, she tried to kill him, to smother him with a pillow. His father had rescued him, dragging his mother to the yard and beating her to death. Her end was blamed on a bull trampling her, which was not far from the truth.