Strong Cold Dead

by Jon Land

  “It’s not a name so much as a title: seyyef means ‘executioner’ in Arabic. There’s an old Arab folktale about a giant, shunned by a village, who gets revenge by blocking the sun from their crops. He was called Seyyef, too, for starving the villagers to death.”

  “A giant,” Jones repeated. “You got eyes on him, Colonel?”

  “I will. My men are in position and ready,” Paz reported.

  Homeland Security’s private army, reserved for situations just like this.

  “What’s the certainty you’ve marked all the fighters al-Aziz brought with him?”

  “In this crowd, not certain at all. Six seems light. I’d expect two or three more. Somewhere.”

  “What about Seyyef?”

  “I’m still looking.”

  “A man that big shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  “Are you sure I’m not standing right behind you now?” Paz wondered.

  Jones spun to find only Caitlin standing there.

  “Something on your mind, Ranger?”

  For some reason, she couldn’t stop thinking about Daniel Cross. Viewing him, seated at that picnic table, she was seeing the same frightened, gangly boy she’d met in an Austin jail over a decade before. She’d promised him she’d stand by him, always stick around, and then had gone away. Now fate had brought them back together, though Cross was on the verge of doing far more damage this time, unless she could stop him.

  Caitlin spied a banner strung between two posts hammered into the ground just off the carnival’s makeshift midway. “How about we take the battle to them, Jones?”

  * * *

  “Tell me more about this holy weapon,” Al-Aziz said to Daniel Cross, his marble-like eyes seeming to flash. “The Indians have used it themselves?”

  “According to legend, yes.”

  “Legend,” al-Aziz echoed. “Then how is it this weapon has been kept secret for so long?”

  “First of all, the cuitlacoche that’s grown on the reservation is consumed there. And the Comanche have built up a natural resistance to its deadly effects, after making it a staple of their diet for so many centuries. Secondly, I’ve determined that the deadly strain of the fungus is limited to a relatively small patch of wild-growing corn in a remote corner of the reservation. I figure that’s because the water feeding that area leaches out of a truly ancient aquifer, with just the right acid and alkaline balance to turn that particular strain of fungus deadly.”

  Al-Aziz leaned back, scratched at his freshly trimmed beard, and then crossed his arms. “And how many, here and elsewhere, could we kill with the amount of this fungus you can harvest off the Comanche land, before the authorities and this Texas Ranger catch on?”

  “Not enough. But the fungus isn’t the real weapon here; the water that produces it, the way it interacts with cuitlacoche, is,” Cross told him, thinking of the still pond he’d found inside a cave just off the reservation. “With that water, I can figure out how to synthesize as much of the weapon as you need, a potentially unlimited supply.”

  Daniel Cross cast his gaze beyond al-Aziz, toward the now jam-packed crowd. Barely any foot of space on the former overpass was unoccupied for more than a second. Kids dragged their parents toward the rides, which spun in elegantly graceful motion, in stark contrast to the way the world really worked. Nearby, water splashed into the air from the mini flume ride, where cackling children rode faux motorized logs about a sweeping course. Cars clanked past them on the roller coaster that wound its way over the entire length of the carnival.

  “It would take time, but I could do it,” Cross heard himself tell al-Aziz, hating all the smiles more than anything else.

  Smiles that disappeared when the first gunshots rang out.

  101

  KLYDE WARREN PARK, DALLAS, TEXAS

  Except it wasn’t gunfire at all but fireworks Caitlin had purchased at a nearby stand, which was already selling them in anticipation of the coming Fourth of July.

  FIREWORKS! TWO FOR ONE SALE! read the banner she’d spotted.

  She’d lit four packs aflame within seconds of each other, tossing them in that many different directions in the immediate area of the picnic table where the ISIS commander was seated with Daniel Cross and the kid’s homegrown handlers. At first, all she could feel was a collective ripple in the crowd, as the press of startled carnival patrons reacted instinctively, before almost settling back down, once the truth became clear.

  And then the ISIS fighters appeared, bursting out from everywhere at once, it seemed.

  The crowd packed along the midway saw the gunmen first, the assault rifles sweeping about behind hateful, determined glares, fingers ready on triggers, waiting for their targets to appear, initially believing the firecrackers had been real gunfire. The chronology tightened, unfolding in still shots instead of video, starting with the recognition that it had been merely fireworks that had drawn them out, not gunshots.

  The gunmen froze, eyes shifting but holding.

  The carnival patrons froze, too, for the length of a breath, maybe two. Then they began to run, scattering in all directions at once, a swarm quickly filling what little space remained between the rides that swept and soared about the landscape, packed with children and families.

  Leaving the ISIS fighters alone, holding their ground.

  Exposed for Guillermo Paz’s men to fire upon.

  * * *

  Al-Aziz had his own pistol out by then, aimed across the table at Zurif and Saflin, who had already lurched to their feet, backing off.

  “You betrayed me…”

  “No!”

  “And now you pay the price for your treachery before Him!”

  With that, al-Aziz shot them both in the face as Daniel Cross watched, realizing only then that he’d risen to his feet, too, and that urine was running down his leg. Al-Aziz swung toward him, pistol leading.

  “We will kill them,” the ISIS commander sneered hatefully. “We will kill all of them! Allahu a’lam … Allah knows best!”

  Al-Aziz grabbed Cross by the arm and dragged him into the panicked throngs, as actual gunfire burst from everywhere at once.

  * * *

  The familiar scent of gun smoke filled the air as Caitlin shoved her way against the grain of the crowd, in al-Aziz’s and Daniel Cross’s wake. Every time she drew reasonably close, another surge from the crowd forced her back. The jostling was uneven, unpredictable, thrown to the whims of the gunfight that had erupted between Paz’s troops and the ISIS gunmen.

  The clang and echoing racket of fire made for a constant din in the air, like soft thunder rumbling from one clap seamlessly into another. The panicked cries and screams drowned it out in splotches, the whole scene backed by the melodic hum of the local radio station’s greatest hits medley playing over a set of freestanding loudspeakers, which toppled to the ground under the panicked flight. Divergent streams of patrons fled the park in all directions, in the shadow of the skyscrapers enclosing it, darting into traffic running east and west, which had almost immediately ground to a complete snarl punctuated by screeching brakes and honking horns.

  Caitlin lost track of al-Aziz and Daniel Cross and focused her efforts on the nearest ISIS gunman instead. He was firing a shaved-down Kalashnikov with one hand, using a teenage girl as a human shield with the other, to ward off Paz’s men. More than one bystander had fallen to his fire, when Caitlin mounted one picnic table and then leaped onto another, which brought her over and behind him. The ISIS gunman was twisting his weapon on her when she fired twice, one bullet taking him high in the shoulder and the second obliterating the right side of his jaw.

  That was enough for his hostage to tear free of his grasp. The man still had the presence of mind to swing in the direction of a pair of Paz’s soldiers, who pulverized him with twin automatic bursts. Fired from opposing directions, the bullets had the bizarre effect of holding the ISIS gunman upright until both stopped firing and he crumpled in a heap.

  Caitlin had moved on by th
at point, focusing her efforts on shepherding as many of the panicked to safety in the adjoining streets as she could, amid the traffic clog. The windshields of numerous vehicles had been struck by stray gunfire, which continued to clack away in a constant cacophony, courtesy of a close-in firefight like nothing she’d ever witnessed before. Paz’s men swept and swerved about the crowd, paying little heed to the collective safety of bystanders, whose presence didn’t seem to fully register with them. They were killers, plain and simple, chosen by the colonel for their prowess and their willingness to utilize it.

  Caitlin added her help and fire to bystanders, pulling the wounded to safety, as far out of harm’s way as she could. Amid it all, in insane counterpoint, the rides continued to twirl and spin, on three- to five-minute looped cycles that swept riders about, through, and above the carnage and panic, as more people rushed to flee Klyde Warren Park.

  “Go, go, go!” she instructed, herding panicked patrons along, ready the whole time with her SIG Sauer.

  An ISIS fighter, wounded by fire from Paz’s troops, snapped a fresh magazine into his Kalashnikov and started to sweep it forward. Caitlin poured bullets from her SIG into him, punching him backwards until he flopped over a trash container and took it down with him to the grass. Gunfire continued to sound, a bit more sporadically now, as she turned her attention back to protecting the crowd.

  And spotted al-Aziz dragging Daniel Cross with him toward the botanical garden and the nearest exit, which spilled out not far from Captain Tepper’s and Beauchamp’s position.

  “You read me, Captain?” she said into her hand mic.

  “Got ourselves a genuine shit storm out here.”

  “It might be about to get heavier. Al-Aziz is headed your way with Daniel Cross in tow.”

  “Jesus H., Ranger. Where’s Lee Harvey Oswald when you need him? The Mountie and I will be ready.”

  Caitlin lit out after al-Aziz, stopping just short of the boarding point for the roller coaster, pistol steadied, with al-Aziz square in her sights. She was about to fire, when a huge shape obscured her vision of everything ahead, seeming to block out the whole world, in the last moment before she was launched airborne.

  102

  HOUSTON, TEXAS

  Dylan could only shake his head when Cort Wesley finished explaining Ela’s map. “Pedestrian tunnels? Beneath Houston? How could I never have heard of them?”

  “Because you never had call to use them, son,” Cort Wesley told him. “Twenty feet below street level, spanning six miles over maybe a hundred city blocks. Whole bunch of access points from buildings and off the streets. A subterranean world all onto itself.”

  Dylan looked down at the map lying on his lap, as Cort Wesley sped down an access ramp to Route 290 that would connect up with the 610 into Houston. “Then these ten red X’s…”

  “Major chokepoints at what’s got to be one of the most congested areas during rush hour, all centered around the Downtown loop where lots of the retail establishments are concentrated.”

  “Let me have your phone.”

  * * *

  “Jesus,” Dylan said, jogging through the app he’d just downloaded for Houston’s underground tunnels on Cort Wesley’s smart phone, “there’s like two hundred stores. They got everything down there.”

  “Including people, lots of them. In a confined space where that shit can spread at will.”

  Dylan was trying to compare a schematic featured on the app to the red X’s on Ela’s map. “You’re right. They’re all in one central area, along the tunnels converging on this food court here. Shit, you wouldn’t believe how many Starbucks are down there.” He shook his head. “Near as I can tell each of the X’s is located near one of the entrances.”

  “Chokepoints,” Cort Wesley repeated, “like I said.”

  “Each between fifty and a hundred yards apart, all centered around this part they call the Downtown Loop.”

  “Highly congested for sure and accessible via the McKinney Garage where the terrorists can all park.” Cort Wesley checked his truck’s dashboard clock. “Give me my phone back. I need to try Caitlin again.”

  * * *

  Cort Wesley had never driven faster, the miles to Houston along U.S. 290 East dragging on forever. Caitlin wasn’t answering her phone, Jones wasn’t answering his phone, nobody was answering their phone. And he didn’t know if he was going to reach Houston in time for it to matter. His navigation screen had read 166 miles at the outset of the trip, and they had covered the bulk of those already, slipping from one lane into another, then veering sharply across traffic when space allowed, the whole time holding his breath against the possibility of congestion or an accident snarling traffic. He was ever so glad, in that moment, that he’d let Dylan and Luke talk him into buying the more expensive truck model, which included the sport package.

  “I’m sorry, son,” he said, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

  “For what?”

  “For Ela.”

  “She’d tried to stop them, Dad. She changed her mind.”

  “I know.”

  “I was holding her when she died. It brought me back to when Mom died. I never wanted to feel that way again.”

  Cort Wesley swallowed hard. “You said it yourself, son. It was different this time.”

  The boy twisted toward him, tugging against the bonds of his shoulder harness. “Sure it was. Because you were right all along. I let myself be duped. I didn’t see it coming ’cause all I saw was Ela. I feel like an idiot. I feel like it’s my fault.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I should’ve known I was getting played. I should have played her instead.”

  “You mean, like, show her the error of her ways?”

  “Something like that. At least get her to change her mind, get her to realize she had things wrong.”

  Cort Wesley took a deep breath that dissolved into a sigh. “I believe you did that, son.”

  “I don’t know if I can ever go back to school now, not after this.”

  “Not a decision you need to make today.”

  Dylan turned back toward the windshield, board-stiff in his seat. “We’re gonna kill them, right? These ISIS fighters who killed Ela. Just tell me we’re gonna get some payback here.”

  Cort Wesley’s expression fixed as flat as the windshield glass. “Count on it.”

  103

  KLYDE WARREN PARK, DALLAS, TEXAS

  Caitlin’s grandfather always talked about vision, when it came to gunfighters. Not that they could see better so much as they could see more. Like, three things at once: left, right, and center.

  Caitlin’s center was dominated by the huge, looming shape of al-Aziz’s chief henchman, Seyyef, his head like an anvil atop his shoulders.

  To her right, the whirling shape of Guillermo Paz barreled forward against the grain of fleeing families, a path seeming to open for him down a center his charge created.

  To her left, al-Aziz was pushing his way through the mass of people fleeing the park on the Pearl Street side, dragging Daniel Cross with him.

  Center and right merged as Paz slammed into Seyyef in a collision akin to a pair of semis in a head-on, the two huge forms hurtling backwards. The collective force pitched them up and over the lead car of the roller coaster, which had just discharged the last of its riders.

  Dazed, Caitlin fought to reclaim her footing, feeling instantly woozy when she did, the world all out of kilter. She leaned against a stanchion, holding on to a rope divider for balance, vision clearing all the way to reveal Jones yanking Daniel Cross from al-Aziz’s grasp, the kid surging away toward the exit beyond the botanical garden.

  The two men struggled amid a brief rainbow of muzzle flashes. Jones staggered now, still pushing on as al-Aziz retreated, charging in the opposite direction, to the east, clinging to the tree line.

  Caitlin steadied herself against the stanchion, turning back to see the twin hulking shapes of Paz and Seyyef in hand-to-hand struggle. The
ir search for any advantage they could muster generated enough force to send the gravity-fed coaster rolling down the track, where it banked into the initial climb and then picked up speed as it crested, into the first dip.

  Caitlin’s head was on fire. Her teeth were chattering. She realized she’d dropped her pistol and she stooped to retrieve it, her mind clawing at the memory of al-Aziz sprinting across the park, likely toward the exit that spilled out on Harwood Street.

  Caitlin caught sight of Jones sinking to his knees, bleeding from everywhere at once it seemed, but still with the presence of mind to wave her on, after Hatim Abd al-Aziz.

  She lit out in his wake, bettering her angle just in time to cut off his route to Harwood Street, unleashing a torrent of fire. He spun to return it, and his shots went wild as he veered back into the cover of the amusement park and the attraction set off in the very rear, on the grass in front of one of the performance pavilions: the Chamber of Horrors.

  * * *

  Guillermo Paz had known men as big as Seyyef, and as strong, but never one who was both, and Seyyef had a litheness and agility that belied his bulk and brutish appearance. Paz could tell from the first blow he landed that the man used pain, probably liked pain, was impervious to strikes powerful enough to shatter bone. He’d heard boxers were like that, so used to being struck that taking the blow becomes second nature.

  The modest roller coaster was into its second rise before Paz realized they were moving, adjusting his footing and balance to make that motion work for him. Claiming the high ground that a moment before had been the low ground. The move seemed to confuse Seyyef, who nonetheless absorbed a brutal flurry of strikes that shattered his jaw and right cheek. One eye was closed now, the other bulging with rage and the sense of battling an opponent equal to him.

  True to his name, Seyyef was an executioner who knew how to kill.

  Paz was a soldier, a killer too, but one who knew combat. The advantage had turned clearly his way, until Seyyef projected all of his vast bulk forward, whether fortune or by design, just as the coaster dropped into a fresh dip, giving the high ground back to him. And before Paz knew it, he was bent over the front of the car, Seyyef jamming his face down toward the track.