We started walking like we were missing a plane, fast, but not fast enough to cause someone to stare. I noticed that the camera systems here in the tunnel were only clustered around the train entrances and exits.
Right after passing the escalators to Concourse C the trains ceased running, with an alert flashing that they were having mechanical issues.
“Good call,” Jennifer said. “Looks like you were right.”
“Yeah, but if the trains have stopped, we’re out of time. They know we’re loose. They’ll try to camouflage it for a couple of minutes to keep everyone calm, but eventually, this place is going to be covered in cops.”
As we moved toward Concourse B I saw the trains start to move again.
We reached the escalator entrance to the B Concourse just as another train stopped, exploding out with about twenty police officers.
Instead of running past Concourse B, I pushed Jennifer to the escalator, going up into the concourse. Glancing back, I saw half of the force coming up with us, apparently not recognizing we were ahead of them.
I hugged the wall, attempting to cross the concourse to the down escalators on the far side, getting back to the tunnel while there was still a gap in the police presence. Before we reached it, a group of police crossed over, headed our way. I turned into an alcove, rotating in front of Jennifer and shielding her face with my body.
“Tell me when they’ve passed us. If they start walking toward us, the game is up.”
I saw Jennifer’s face blanch. “Shit,” she said. “One’s moving directly toward us. What do we do? Should we run?”
“Stay calm. If he’s headed to us, we’re done. Don’t assume that’s what he’s doing, though. We wait until he asks us a question.”
“He’s still coming. He’s walking right to us.”
“Okay… okay. Bend down and mess inside your bag. Anything to hide your face. Act like you’re looking for tickets or something.”
Squatting down, I began to rummage through my carry-on next to her. I could hear Jennifer muttering under her breath.
“Shit. I’m going to prison…. Mom’s going to love this…. Uncle’s fucking dead…. I’m a terrorist… the only man I know’s a nutcase… All I try to do is the right thing…. Why does this stuff happen to
I saw the cop out of the corner of my eye. I waited for the tap on the shoulder. He moved right past me and kept going into the alcove. For the first time, I noticed it was a men’s room.
“… Why don’t you just tie the fucker up butt-naked? Right here… get us out of this the same way you got us into it… ”
She snapped out of it, saw we weren’t under arrest, and looked up at me with a sheepish grin. I saw her eyes focus on the sign above my head.
“Yeah. He went in to take a piss. We should go before he’s done.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean any of that. Just letting off a little steam.”
I began walking down the concourse toward a restaurant, saying, “Well, you’ll have plenty of time for that, because we’re fucked. We can’t get out without getting to the far end, and I’m pretty sure there’s a platoon of cops at baggage claim by now. We need a way out that normal passengers don’t use.”
“I know a way.”
I looked at her face and saw she was serious. “What do you mean?”
“There’s a pilots’ lounge down below Concourse A. Get down there, and we can get on the Delta employee bus. It takes us right out of the airport grounds.”
“How do you know that? Are you sure?”
“My dad was a pilot for Delta. He was also a deadbeat sack-of-shit that I haven’t seen since I was seven. After my parents divorced, his idea of quality time was dragging me through here while he worked. I’ve spent plenty of time in that lounge.”
She had just earned her weight for the entire trip. “Can you find it? How do we get in? What’s the procedure?”
“I can find it, but that was way, way before 9/11. I have no idea about the procedure now.”
“You said A Concourse? That’s the next one up. Let’s go.”
We saw that the escalator was now free of police, and hurried to get to the tunnel below before they returned. The escalator was a long one, about sixty feet down to the ground. Halfway down, a cop sauntered over and positioned himself at the bottom, his back to us. He acted a little bored until he turned around and glanced up. Then he looked like he was going to shit his pants.
62
The cop pulled his weapon and aimed it up at us while we glided relentlessly toward him. Jennifer was in front of me, preventing any action. He was an older guy, about sixty, and I saw the pistol barrel shake with his adrenaline.
“Jennifer, raise your hands.”
We both did, and continued our glide, with him shouting all sorts of commands at us and into a radio. Every time he moved his other hand to key the mike on his shoulder, the gun hand would quake violently.
“We’re done. We’re done. Please don’t shoot.”
Once we were on the ground with him, and seeing our acquiescence, he seemed to grow more confident, saying, “Up against the wall.
He barked out orders like an overweight Dirty Harry. I turned to face the wall, making sure that Jennifer was to my left, away from the barrel I was about to move. I waited on him to key his mike, leaving one hand on his weapon. I heard him start talking.
I rotated to my left, pushing his gun hand away from me while grabbing on to the wrist. I drove a light, stunning palm strike into his nose with my right hand, then closed it over my left, controlling the pistol. I rotated the wrist, locking up the joints in his arm like a twisted rubber band. I didn’t move fast enough to destroy his arm but did move with enough speed to force his body to react, literally doing a flip to prevent his arm from being damaged. He hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him. I felt like shit.
“Sorry about that.”
I picked up his weapon, ripped his radio from his belt, and took off in the direction of Concourse A, leaving him gasping for air on the ground. Jennifer stumbled after me.
“Holy fuck. We are definitely going to jail now.”
“Yeah, probably so, because if we face another police officer, I’m not doing that again. We give up.”
I shoved the weapon into the first trash can I could find but kept the radio. I saw Concourse A ahead, and the cops moving around it.
Luckily, the lack of trains had caused everyone to use the walkway, so the tunnel was starting to swell with people still attempting to go about their daily lives. We intermingled with a group headed toward the concourse, listening to them talk about terrorists on the loose. I saw a handicapped elevator ahead, without any police presence. When we came abreast of it, I stopped and pressed the button, the door opening while the group still flowed around us. As we rode up, the cop’s radio crackled with the news that we were at Concourse B.
