first responders. Her agents, part of the Task Force, would get there soon and do a thorough investigation. There would be no “turf war” only teamwork, especially in the aftermath of 9/11.
Director Bennett said, “Please keep me informed of any potential threat.”
As she hung up, she said to Mark, “Grab some coffee. It may take a while for things to start happening, if this isn’t a hoax. Let’s hope it is.” George made the necessary phone calls as Bennett had directed, and now it was a tension-filled “waiting game.”
Mark, dressed in khakis and a light blue dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, solid navy tie with miniature white polka dots, Glock in his shoulder holster, headed to the half-filled coffee pot. The coffee smelled fresh enough, so he grabbed a clean mug and poured himself a cup. Then he sat down in the worn but comfortable chair across from George. He threw his navy sport coat over the arm of the other chair. He was outwardly relaxed and composed, but she knew his mind was going through multiple scenarios, as was hers. Their eyes met, but neither spoke.
Mark noted the time. It was 8:20 a.m. He watched George walk to the window and knew what she was thinking. His vivid memories of 9/11 wouldn’t go away either. He and his NYPD partner had been among the first responders. They had entered the North Tower and Jimmy had followed Mark up the stairs. The heat and flames were un-fucking-believable. Mark lost count of how many he carried out. Overtaken by smoke and fumes, he had to be treated for smoke inhalation and exhaustion. He never saw Jimmy again. He vowed that day to be at the front end of the problem, never again the back end, making certain there would never be another 9/11.
Mark loved watching Georgiana, her sensual curves visible through the pale silk blouse, softly patterned, golden tones over beige, which matched the dark brown fitted slacks, with the faintest trace of her bikini panty lines showing. The colors were the perfect complement to her long red hair. The flowing fabric hugged her sexy figure, adding to the attraction. Her beige low heels were classic and practical. He knew she had a small pistol strapped to her ankle, and the Glock was in a paddle holster on her hip. The PPK in her purse was a backup. Sweet, he thought. He would tell her soon how he felt, but not now.
Fifteen minutes later, they got the report. No evidence was found on the phone booth, but two police officers were at the scene where the “suspicious object” had been discovered. It was placed in a sealed evidence bag. The Metropolitan Transit Authority had shut down the subway system temporarily, as a precaution. The police officers were questioning the station manager and the subway inspector. The maintenance worker had noticed the odd canister and instinctively knew to set it aside, “in case.” He appeared nervous but not suspiciously so. Joey Caruso had been ruled out as a suspect after a quick background check. They worked fast.
George made the necessary calls, grabbed her purse and brown suit jacket from the back of the door, and said, “Let’s go. We can take your car.”
Mark drove a black Mustang GT, perfect fit for him. He grabbed his jacket, following her out the door, both hoping for a boring and uninteresting day.
.
11
After reaching cruising altitude, Maggie and Terry began the brunch service. They heard the familiar double chime that meant the flight crew wanted to speak to a cabin attendant.
Maggie picked up the intercom, and Captain Wesley said, “Maggie, please come to the cockpit.”
“Yes, John, I’ll be right there.”
This must be important, thought Maggie. Her head was still throbbing, and the nausea and dizziness were getting harder to ignore. The ibuprofen she had taken had not helped. She walked back to the beverage cart where Terry was busy with the morning beverage service of Mimosas, champagne cocktails, Bloody Marys, orange juice, and coffee.
“I need to speak to the crew. I’ll be right back,” she whispered to Terry. They exchanged questioning glances since this was a rare occurrence.
“Sure, Maggie.”
The ride had been smooth, with no storms or turbulence. “Oh well,” thought Terry, “It’s probably nothing.” She resumed serving, handing a flute of sparkling champagne to a passenger.
Maggie, on the other hand, wasn’t sure. She went to the cockpit door and knocked twice—the code well known to the crew— and the door opened.
Maggie stepped into the