East Past Warsaw

1

1A Ford Explorer trailed me into Dulles Airport’s newest and most remote satellite lot.

I parked my Rabbit.

The Ford continued prowling between the lines of cars.

I was a woman. Alone. Armed with only a rolling suitcase.

I tracked the moving vehicle as I made my way to the molded concrete shelter marking the bus stop. The Ford headed toward the far edge of the lot. Away from me. Good. I yanked my cell phone from my pants pocket and checked the time. 6:10. The next shuttle bus was due in three minutes.

I reached the jaundiced light pooling around the stop and stayed on my feet in full view of the security camera. I punched in a call to my father in Oregon, where he resided in a facility for Alzheimer’s patients. I was making my weekly contact later than usual and he was upset.

I tried to soothe him. “They told me you were making an excursion to Newport today. You weren’t scheduled to get back before five.”

“I didn’t go,” he replied. “Had to talk to you.” He went on about how urgently he needed to speak with me, how long he’d been waiting for my call.

He often imagined emergencies and I only half-listened. I was more worried by the still-roving Explorer and the possibility of missing my plane. Check-in time was no later than 6:25 for my flight to Berlin.

It was late October—only ten days to Halloween—but a temperature inversion had settled over northern Virginia and the muggy air was as oppressive as August. Heat radiated from blacktop so recently poured it smelled like fresh tar. My blonde hair felt damp against the back of my neck and I paced with the phone pressed against my ear. My gaze flicked from the Ford to the entrance on the west side of the lot. No shuttle bus neared the neon-topped booth housing the attendant. He wasn’t visible either. Probably asleep. Saturday was a slow travel night in Washington.

I lowered the hand holding my cell phone to check the time. 6:13. Damn. I had to get to the terminal. I shifted my weight restlessly from one foot to the other and clamped the phone to my ear.

My father’s tone was tinny with panic. “You’re in trouble,” he was saying. “You, Kathryn. That’s what the guy told me: ‘Something major’s going down,’ he said. ‘Your daughter could be hurt bad.’”

“What guy?” I asked.

“The one you sent—”

The engine whine of sudden acceleration wiped out his next words. I swung toward the car sound. A vehicle with no lights roared from the darkness at the north edge of the lot. It gunned straight for me.

My breathing jumped. My night vision sharpened as the adrenaline rush dilated my pupils. I made out the Ford’s boxy shape fifty yards away, closing fast.

And reacted.

Night became day as all of the Ford’s lights came on full power.

But I’d turned and the blinding illumination swept harmlessly along my back. I plunged left and crouched with my spine pressed against the smooth concrete backside of the bus shelter.

The Ford thundered across the pavement where I’d been standing a second before. A spotlight topped its roof, that glare blending with the high beams to cut a swath of blue-white light to the south edge of the lot. The driver’s window was open and I made out pale skin on a flat face as big as a pie tin. The ugly snout of an assault rifle stuck out the rear window.

The Ford rolled on and I strained to read its rear plate. Virginia tags. Beside the plate, the distinctive logo of a northern Virginia dealership. A local car.

Engine noise gave way to the screech of brakes and the driver whipped his vehicle into a skidding turn, high beams scything the darkness for ninety degrees until they pointed east. The spotlight kept swiveling north toward me. In ten more seconds that piercing light would pin me against the concrete, a condemned woman waiting for the executioner in the Ford’s rear seat.

I dashed to the other side of the shelter. I heard the first burst of automatic fire as I rounded the end. Bullets ricocheted shrilly off concrete. Cement dust powdered down on me. Someone kept the spotlight trained relentlessly on the bus stop, and I saw the shattered carcass of my cell phone ten feet from me. The driver slammed the Ford into position for another approach and high beams added their dazzle to the spot. The engine growled louder. I raised myself like a runner in starting blocks, poised to move fast. But which direction would let me escape?

Light vanished as the Ford raced by my bus stop barrier. The driver was heading for the exit. I saw the shuttle bus entering the lot, its interior lights turning the windows to ivory rectangles. At least a half-mile back on the access road, blue flashers of airport security patrol cars lit the sky.

The Ford crashed out through the barrier gate and raced away from the flashing lights.

I straightened up and glanced fondly at the security camera. Lucky for me, somebody watching the video had called in the cavalry.

An overdue shiver shook me. Why had the pale-faces attacked? Who had sent them? And how—how—could my father possibly have known they were coming?