Connolly hadn’t needed to double cuff Kohrman. True, he was a felony fugitive, but he’d embezzled funds as a lawyer. Not the kind of bad boy who’d give “14-years-on-the-bricks her” any trouble. No, she cuffed her left hand to his right hand because she didn’t feel like talking to the scum-bag. Easier to jerk him where she wanted him to go.

He’d protested his innocence as Windy City cops led him off the plane toward Connolly and a uniformed Virginia state trooper who had been assigned to accompany the FBI during custodial transferals through the state’s jurisdiction to a federal lockup. After that . . .

Well, after that, the state trooper had the easy smile of a Dixie scamp. He seemed like a possible diversion from the storm of empty howling in Connolly. His eyes twinkled while they waited for the Chicago plane, indicating to her that he harbored similar thoughts. He introduced himself as George, and she knew he wouldn’t be around long enough for her to need to remember his last name.

“Look,” Kohrman had said as she clicked her handcuff on his wrist. “Have you asked yourself why I would be so stupid as to steal that money?”

As she tightened the handcuff on her left wrist, Connolly replied, “Like I care about why.”

Then she heard the high-caliber pistol shot crackle behind her. Crowd reacting. Trooper George facing the sound source. Screams and she turned, her .40 Glock filling her right hand.

She saw travelers stampeding.

Sensed the taller, trooper-uniformed George draw his gun.

Glimpsed a thick, black-haired American crashing onto a cop.

The roar of the gun in Middleton’s face deafened him. The muzzle flash novaed his eyes. But as the bullet cut wide, Middleton fell onto his would-be killer and the crazed woman from first class, and they crashed to the floor. The gun flew from the killer’s hand as hordes of airline travelers panicked in a 21st century terrorism nightmare.

Middleton’s vision returned. But why can’t I hear? Why is there no noise?

He scrambled after a 9mm Beretta gliding silently across a jewel-strewn floor.

The fake cop chopped at the first-class woman’s throat. Jumped to his feet. Reached for his shoulder-holstered second pistol.

Middleton heard only the hammering of his own heart. He grabbed the Beretta and fired at the man who was drawing a second gun.

A glowing green neon Starbucks sign exploded on a wall beyond as the fake cop to a marksman’s stance and acquired his target. His black shoes crunched white pearls scattered on the floor.

The fake cop and Middleton fired at the same time.

His arm unsteady, Middleton’s bullet missed.

The fake cop’s bullet missed too because he slipped on pearls and tumbled back through the air.