Black Friday by William W. Johnstone Page A

of Habib’s brain as he worked. Everything had gone perfectly until now, and this glitch in his plan annoyed him.
    Of course, he had known from the beginning that he couldn’t control everything, couldn’t account for every possibility. At some point, like it or not, he would have to trust to luck.
    Luck was sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always capricious and unpredictable. Habib had to count on his swift wits and determination to overcome any setbacks.
    Just like he was doing now. In a matter of minutes he had fashioned a hiding place for the corpse. He pulled the dead man away from the wall and got behind him, so there was no chance he would get blood on his own uniform as he grasped Dixon under the arms and lifted him. Grunting with the effort, he picked up the limp weight and hauled it backward into the little space behind the crates.
    He stretched Dixon out along the wall and rolled the body on its left side to face the cinder blocks. Then, holding Dixon in place, he used his foot to shove one of the heavy crates against the body to keep it from rolling back. Another crate and then another formed a barrier. Habib began to stack them again.
    A few minutes later, he was finished, and no one had disturbed him. If anyone glanced into the storage room now, all they would see were the crates of janitorial supplies.
    No one would suspect that a dead man was hidden behind them.
    Or a small arsenal of automatic weapons.
    Beads of sweat covered Habib’s face. It was cool back here in the areas of the mall off limits to the public, but you couldn’t prove that by him. He heaved a sigh of relief as he sleeved some of the drops off his face. The speedy recovery he had made from this potential disaster told him that Allah was still on his side, still guiding his actions with the divine hand of vengeance.
    Leaving the body hidden there worried him, but he couldn’t stay and watch the place. He had other things that had to be done if the plan was to go forward. He eased the door open, checked the service corridor, and finding it empty, stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him.
    A moment later, he was out in the mall again. He walked toward the bank of escalators in the center of the mall, and when he reached them, he looked up and saw Mahmoud Assouri standing on the second level, resting his hands on the black plastic top of the clear glass railing.
    Habib’s eyes met Mahmoud’s. Slowly, Habib nodded his head just a little. The gesture was so small, so commonplace, so innocent, that no one would notice it.
    Mahmoud smiled slightly, but that was his only reaction. He turned away from the railing and disappeared from Habib’s angle of sight.
    Habib didn’t have to see his second-in-command to know that Mahmoud was carrying out the next step in the plan.
    And none of the Americans had any idea what was about to happen.
    * * *
    An instinct for trouble was maybe the most important quality a good cop could have.
    Jake Connelly had learned that over the years, and his own instinct was honed to a keen edge. He could pick out a troublemaker a mile away.
    Because of that, he was suspicious as the gray-haired woman approached him in the home furnishings store and asked, “Could I help you, sir?”
    â€œYeah,” Jake said. “I came to get a set of these.”
    He held up his phone to show her the picture of the curtains Adele had sent him to buy. He didn’t want a lot of other stuff. No shams or flounces or whatever the hell they were called. Just plain, old-fashioned curtains.
    â€œOh, those are very nice,” the woman said as she looked at the webpage Jake’s phone displayed. “And they’re on sale today, so you can get a good deal on them.”
    â€œYeah, that’s what my wife said.”
    â€œShe sent you to get them?” the woman asked knowingly.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œWell, I’ll be sure and take good care of you,