No sooner had he sat down, than he spotted, “the one.” There was no doubt about it. She was perhaps seventeen, tall and athletic, willowy, all coltish legs and youthful energy, with long, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She was perfect—just what Martin liked, and just what the others would like as well. The girl was entering the plaza, traveling with a man and a woman, presumably her parents. She was not one of the likely targets he had been monitoring, and he congratulated himself on his patience.
The family moved into the plaza and immediately split up, the girl turning right toward the restrooms and Mommy and Daddy staking out a spot at the end of the line for the burger joint all the way across the room. There were so many people milling about at the moment that Martin figured there was no way they could even see the restrooms from where they were standing. Perfect.
Martin left his coffee untouched on the table—just as well, he thought; he didn’t really want to drink it after that greaseball behind the counter had touched it—and meandered slowly toward the restrooms. The men’s and women’s rooms were adjacent to each other and featured open doorways with interior walls preventing anyone from seeing in.
He took his time, moving slowly. The plaza was busy and there was a pretty decent chance the girl would have to wait for a stall inside the restroom. Even if she didn’t, it would take at least a couple of minutes to do her business and wash her hands.
Stopping at a t-shirt stand a few feet from the rest rooms, Martin pretended to check out the cheap wares while he waited for the girl. Shirts with silly puns on them competed for attention with other shirts featuring scenic views of the Adirondack Mountains or one of the thousands of lakes dotting the region. The only thing they had in common was that they were all poorly made and overpriced.
Martin watched the restrooms surreptitiously, knowing he would get only one chance to do this right. Hopefully, the girl would exit the ladies’ room alone, but even if she didn’t, it would pose no more than a minor problem. The girl’s parents were still cooling their heels in line at the hamburger joint across the plaza, and anyone who happened to walk out of the ladies’ room at the same time as the target would undoubtedly be in a hurry to get her food and drink and head out, and so would be paying scant attention to the pretty blonde girl.
Martin Krall patted the Glock 9mm, jammed into the waistband of his jeans and covered with a long t-shirt, and waited. The girl would walk out of the ladies room any second now. He could feel it. He didn’t know how he could tell, but he could. He had done this many times before.
He stood at the display stand surrounded by the cheap t-shirts and all of the unsuspecting people and waited, unnoticed, a predator stalking its prey.
CHAPTER 5
BILL APPROACHED THE ENTRANCE to the restrooms, dodging left and right, avoiding masses of people, all seemingly oblivious to everyone and everything around them. A fat, middle-aged woman with thinning brown hair waddled straight at him, staring through him as she careened toward the food counters like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. He stepped nimbly aside and let her pass, shaking his head, half in frustration and half in amusement when it became clear she had had absolutely no intention of altering her course. The woman shot past, trailing a wake behind her like a big rig blowing by an economy car out on the interstate.
As he sidestepped the overweight woman hell-bent on her next meal, Bill bumped into a thin, wiry man in a billowing t-shirt who was apparently headed toward the restrooms as well, rocking him onto his heels. The man glared at Bill, who smiled and offered an apology.
“No problem,” the stranger mumbled unconvincingly, and turned away as if anxious to end the brief encounter. Bill stared in surprise at the man’s back for a moment before shrugging and turning again toward the restrooms. He advanced three steps before being forced to step aside again, this time to dodge a young woman exiting the ladies’ room. She was a teenager, tall and blonde, with hair streaming behind her in a ponytail protruding from the back of a New York Yankees baseball cap. Her head was raised and her searching eyes bypassed Bill. It was clear she was looking for someone.
Two more steps brought Bill to the men’s room entrance, a feeling of ill-defined unease nagging at him. He had served two terms on the ground in Iraq half a lifetime ago and learned very quickly that the fastest way to an early, sandy grave was to ignore what your senses were telling you, even if you couldn’t quite decipher the message.
Something was wrong.
He stopped and turned. A man bumped into him from behind and muttered, “Jerk,” then kept walking into the men’s room. Bill ignored him. The wiry guy he had nearly deposited on his butt over by the rack of t-shirts a moment ago was no longer there. Bill watched as that man walked away quickly, now approaching the blonde girl from behind.
When the man reached the girl, he moved to her right and raised his left arm as if to drape it over her shoulder. Bill’s first thought was that the man must be the girl’s father, but that didn’t make any sense. He was too young, and there was no way she could have missed seeing him as she came out of the ladies’ room if they were acquainted; they had to have passed within a foot of each other. The man was obviously unknown to her.