Monday evening
Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport

Patrick started to yawn, caught himself just as Maggie noticed.

“Maybe we should have waited for a morning flight. We haven’t had much sleep. We’re both exhausted,” she told him.

“Hey, neither of us is piloting the plane. We’ll be fine.”

They’d been sitting at their gate for maybe twenty minutes. It felt like hours.

“And it’s okay if you want to sleep the whole flight.” He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m a bit of a nervous flyer.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

“We’re in first class. Maybe a glass of wine?”

He wanted to kick himself even before she shook her head. Stupid. He knew she didn’t drink, couldn’t drink. Whatever. He had to admit he felt a bit fried. Still running on adrenaline. Looked like Maggie was, too.

“Do you ever get used to it?” he asked her. “I keep thinking about that guy being out there somewhere.”

“Sometimes they get away.” She shrugged but he saw her absentmindedly touch her jacket where her gun and shoulder holster usually sat just underneath the fabric. She had to check the gun for the flight. Looked like she missed it.

“Criminals don’t change just because they got away,” she told him. “Typically it emboldens them, makes them a little cocky, sometimes reckless. Maybe he’ll get caught for speeding or a broken taillight. Timothy McVeigh was stopped outside of Perry, Oklahoma, by a state trooper, only hours after the bombing. All because his car was missing a tag.”

Patrick listened but he wasn’t sure he believed the Project Manager would ever put himself into a situation like that. He couldn’t get the man’s eyes out of his mind, that dark blue that seemed to pierce you and pin you down. He’d tried to sleep but couldn’t do it without the guy showing up, grinning at him as he slipped the handcuffs onto Patrick’s wrist. Sometimes the bomb actually went off and blasted Patrick awake.

He figured it was post-traumatic stress. It’d wear off in a couple of days, maybe a week.

That’s when he saw him.

Patrick recognized the walk, shoulders back, chest out, that same military stature. His head swiveled from side to side. Patrick’s heart started thumping. Jesus! It wasn’t possible. Was it? His hair was still blond, that same bristle cut. He even wore the same golf shirt, navy jacket, khaki trousers and leather loafers. He dragged a black Pullman.

“It’s him,” he whispered to Maggie.

She looked up and he tried to point him out using only his chin and eyes. He could feel her stiffen beside him.

“Is it possible? Would he do that?”

“You stay here.”

She stood slowly, digging her badge out of her jacket. She flipped it open, tucking one flap into her pocket and letting the badge show. Then she started in his direction.

Patrick couldn’t keep his eyes off the man. He could only see a profile of his face. He wanted to get a glimpse of the eyes. He stood up and started to trail along only on the opposite side. Maggie kept glancing over at Patrick as if asking for reassurance. He only nodded. She was following behind him, three people in between.

The guy was making his way toward one of the ramps to another terminal. If he got into a crowd going the same way they’d lose him. Patrick remembered how slick the guy was in Phoenix. In front of him one minute and behind him the next.

Maggie closed the gap between them. Ten, maybe fifteen more feet and he’d turn onto the ramp, into a crowd of travelers. Patrick watched her say something to the man. He stopped but before he could turn around Maggie grabbed the back of his jacket collar and shoved him against the wall. She had one of his arms twisted up behind him and then she yelled for security.

Everything stopped. Two security officers had their weapons drawn. Both of them pointing directly at Maggie.

“I’m FBI.” Patrick heard her yell at them, sticking out her hip with the badge flapping from the jacket pocket while one of her hands twisted the man’s arm behind his back and her other hand hung onto his jacket collar.

In seconds more security officers converged on the area, holding back travelers. Three more joined the two. One had grabbed Maggie’s badge and was examining it. Two of them pried the guy out of Maggie’s hands. They had him up against the wall and were patting him down. No one touched the Pullman.

Maggie waved for Patrick to come over, pointing him out to one of the security officers. He elbowed his way through the crowd that had grown around him. His knees felt a bit wobbly. His heart hadn’t stopped banging. He made his way to Maggie’s side, just as they pulled the guy away from the wall and turned him to face Patrick.

His heart dropped to his feet as he finally looked the guy in the eyes.

“It’s not him,” Patrick said.