Dead Drop

by Marc Cameron

  Trapping the shooter in tight next to his armpit, Quinn drove the thin stiletto-like blade of the Benchmade over and over again into his exposed chest in a rapid series of hammer-fists, letting go to rage at the man who had killed so many—and would have murdered his little girl.

  “He’s gone, l’ami.” Thibodaux’s thick Cajun whisper worked its way through the angry red mist of Quinn’s brain.

  He drove the blood-slicked knife into the dead man’s chest for the final time. Panting, his face spattered in blood, Quinn let the dead man slide from his grasp.

  Chapter 10

  8:31 P.M.

  Quinn spun, knife still clutched in his hand, thinking he’d find Mattie hiding in the corner. He stood panting, thinking, trying to make sense of things when he saw she wasn’t there. He wiped the blood off the Benchmade on the leg of his wet shorts and returned the knife to his waistband before stooping to pick up the fallen jihadi’s rifle. Water and blood ran in rivulets off his body, forming a dark puddle on the wooden floor.

  Thibodaux stood by the door to the stairwell, the wooden stock of an M1 carbine in one hand, while he studied the dead terrorist with his good eye. He looked up at Quinn to give him a sober nod.

  “You okay, Chair Force?” the Cajun said. “You got a lot of blood on your face.”

  “Good,” Quinn said. He jumped across the log flume to search the area around the pirate mannequins where he’d last seen Mattie and Dan.

  “I figured you’d done what you needed to do when I didn’t hear any gunfire. Mukhtar is right behind me.” He looked over his shoulder. “Come on up, kid.”

  The Iraqi boy stepped hesitantly into the room and gave a wan smile. He looked down at the dead jihadi. “That is Ibrahim,” he whispered. “He is a bully.”

  “Was a bully,” Thibodaux said, looking from the dead man to Quinn. “You shoot him with a piece of bamboo?”

  “Not me.” Quinn held up the white PVC bow. “Mattie and Dan were here,” he said. “They must have run as soon as Danny shot.” Quinn went to the opening where the logs exited the building and peered out, making sure not to silhouette himself. He saw nothing but the dark outlines of trees and the empty splash pool at the base of the log ride.

  Thibodaux came up beside him and took the bow. “My Danny shot that guy with this?”

  Quinn nodded. “Looks that way.”

  Thibodaux pulled the bowstring and sighed. “Clever boy,” he said. “Takes after his mama.” He dropped the bow and turned toward the door. “Come on, l’ami. If they just left they’re likely still down below. We can catch up to ’em before these shitheads do.”

  Both men froze when the radio on the dead jihadi’s belt broke squelch. Quinn picked it up and held it in an open palm between them as they listened.

  “Everyone needs to slow down,” a voice on the radio said, this one absent the Middle Eastern accent of the others. “Keep the prisoners moving but save your ammo.”

  “That one,” Mukhtar said. “That is Terry Spencer—Tariq, the one I told you about.”

  Another voice came across the radio. “Two cops tried again to breach the eastern gate,” the voice said. “I shot them before they could get inside, praise Allah, glory to Him.”

  “Excellent,” Terry/Tariq said. “The news choppers will arrive soon and then we can make our demands. Everyone wait for my signal.”

  “Wahib copy.”

  “Saqr, copy.”

  “Al Riyad, copy.”

  “Yasir, copy.”

  A garbled mix of sounds came next, as several people “bonked” each other, all trying to speak at the same time. Terry/Tariq’s tense voice cut them all off.

  “Shut up! Shut up! All of you!” He all but screamed over the radio. “The police have radios, too, you idiots! Anyone who happens to be listening in on this will be able to count us.”

  The radio fell silent for a long moment before the lone reply.

  “Sorry . . .”

  Thibodaux rolled his good eye. “I think we got us a bunch of highly trained professionals,” he muttered. He tapped an identical radio clipped to the waist of his board shorts. “Which reminds me. I took this off the tall goober I met outside. Turned it off so it didn’t give me away when I was sneakin’ up on another one.”

  Quinn sighed, thinking. “Amateurs can be difficult to figure.”

  Thibodaux stepped to the threshold and did a quick peek around the corner, checking for more gunmen. “I’m goin’ to find my boy,” he said. “You comin’?”

  * * *

  In his darkest moments, Quinn had always seen some glimmer of a way forward, a way out, but by the time he’d scoured the area around the base of the log ride and found no sign of Mattie, he was as close to hopeless as he’d ever been in his life. Thibodaux kicked the body of the shooter he’d killed earlier, cursing at the frustration of not being able to find his son.

  Normally a picture of calm, even during the heat and fog of battle, Quinn peered into the darkness from the shadows of the scaffolding and willed himself not to scream. His chest heaved, his face twisted with worry. “They’re out there somewhere,” he whispered, “trusting us to come save them.”

  Thibodaux stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, facing the opposite direction. The whimpering cries of the wounded threatened to snap Quinn’s last nerve. Mukhtar seemed to know enough to stay well back and out of the way.

  Sirens blared in the distance but offered little hope of rescue. The terrorists’ conversation on the radio showed a police presence was part of their plan—whatever that was.

  “You know these guys are just waiting for the police,” Quinn said. “It’s up to us to stop them.”

  Thibodaux gave a slow nod, like a wolf deciding which member of the herd to cut out and kill. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, l’ami.” He looked at the rifle in Quinn’s hands. “A Mini 14?”

  “It is,” Quinn said, holding up the Ruger. “I have two magazines with a grand total of thirty-one rounds left.”

  Thibodaux scrunched his nose and tapped the carbine’s wooden stock. “Don’t this seem odd to you, Chair Force?”

  “How’s that?”

  “This hodgepodge assortment of guns,” Thibodaux said. “Seems like it came out of some grandpa’s gun safe instead of an ISIS arms supplier. I mean a World War II STEN, an auto-loading duck gun, an M1, and a Mini 14.” He shook his head. “And that one dude had nothin’ but a pistol. What sort of terrorist uses a handgun to launch a terror attack on a park this big? Somethin’ don’t fit. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  Quinn gave a slow nod, chewing on the idea and knowing Thibodaux was right. Still, killers used what they had at hand.

  Wherever the guns came from, the shooters were using them to great effect. There was no way to know how many people had already been murdered, but Quinn had stepped over and around dozens of bodies.

  He turned to Mukhtar. “I counted five separate voices on the radio,” he said. “Even if they’re down to one mag each . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Translates to a hell of a lot more dead kids,” Thibodaux said. “Any idea how many there are, not countin’ the five we’ve already put under?”

  The boy shook his head. “I am not certain, but it is possible there are as many as seven more. I have seen at least a dozen gathered around Terry . . . Tariq, listening to his stories. I once saw him talking to one of the security guards—”

  “The guards that watch when the armored car comes in?” Quinn asked. This was new information. Quinn had been hoping to run across one of the armed guards and enlist their help.

  “Yes,” Mukhtar said. “An older man, much older than you, maybe in his late fifties. It is difficult for me to tell with you Americans. You all look old to me.”

  “Could the security guy have been talking to him about his rhetoric?” Quinn asked. “Giving him a warning maybe?”

  “Maybe,” Mukhtar said. “But they seemed to be on friendly terms.”

  “Maybe one of the g
uards is involved . . .” Thibodaux rubbed his broad jaw, pondering. “And twelve of these bloodthirsty kids.”

  “Perhaps more,” Mukhtar said. “Fadila would make at least thirteen.” His face turned down into a hangdog pout. “Fadila has always been friendly with Tariq, though I was blind to it in the beginning.

  “Fadila?” Quinn mused, thinking that it made sense. At some level, there always seemed to be a woman involved.

  “She works on one of the roller coasters,” Mukhtar said. “I used to like her, but I do not want to have anything to do with her if she is involved in this.”

  “Good thinkin’, that,” Thibodaux said. He took out his cell phone and tried 911 again, then stuffed it back in the pocket of his shorts. “There has to be a swamper around here somewhere.”

  “What is a swamper?” Mukhtar said, tilting his head to one side.

  “A jammer,” Quinn said. “It sends out a signal to confuse cell phones—keeps them from talking to the tower. A swamper that would work on an area as big as this park would have to be fairly large. It might look like a rolling suitcase with a bunch of antennas sticking out the top.”

  The Iraqi boy grew animated and he gave an emphatic nod, his face a shadow in the darkness. “I have seen such a device. Abu Saqr took it toward the waterslide at the beginning of shift this afternoon.”

  “That waterslide?” Thibodaux whispered, looking toward the Dead Drop, looming high above the rest of the park, black against the gray backdrop of night.

  “Indeed,” Mukhtar said. “Abu Saqr is assigned to maintenance, so I thought nothing of him having that odd case.”

  More gunfire split the night air, followed by Terry/Tariq’s shrieking voice on Ibrahim’s radio.

  “I told you to conserve your ammo! Is that so impossible to understand?”

  Quinn had no idea what the boy looked like but could picture spittle running down a crazed face.

  No one replied, but the shooting trailed off, leaving only the wails of the dying through the ghostly stillness of the park.

  “Does it seem like the shooters are starting to crumble to you?” Quinn said, half to himself.

  Thibodaux grunted. “Like I said, amateurs. Wouldn’t surprise me if they start blowin’ each other’s brains out here in a minute.”

  “Yeah,” Quinn said, his lips tight. “We can dream, I guess.”

  He studied the dead man’s radio. It was a heavy-duty but off-the-shelf 22-channel FRS/GMRS unit with a range of around a mile and a half. Serviceable, but nothing sophisticated.

  “I know that look, l’ami,” Thibodaux said. “You’re about to mess with their minds. What do you think? Tell these bastards we’re coming to cut their heads off? It’s not like they’re gonna start shootin’ more than they already are.”

  “I’m tempted,” Quinn said. “But I have another idea.” He shot a glance at Mukhtar. “The music they play around the park during the day,” Quinn said. “Where does it come from?”

  “I’m not sure,” the boy said. “I would guess from the main park offices. I think I saw some kind of sound system there during employee orientation.”

  The hollow whump-thump of an approaching helicopter grew louder in the distance, adding weight to the stone that pressed against Quinn’s gut. Tariq had told the others to wait for the media to arrive. But what for?

  “Take us to the park offices,” Quinn said, checking his watch. Thirty-four minutes had elapsed since the initial blast of the suicide belt. “These guys are falling apart. Maybe we can use that to our advantage.”

  “Tricky business, Chair Force,” Thibodaux said through a tense sigh. He turned so he could eye his friend with his good eye. “What’s your plan?”

  “I’m thinking a bit of psyops. Like you said, mess with their minds a little, add to the confusion.” Quinn let out a slow breath. “Then, we’ll go save our kids and stack some bodies.”

  Chapter 11

  8:36 P.M.

  Mattie Quinn hit the water hard, landing on her back and sliding off someone’s clammy shoulder to go completely under. It was freezing cold compared to the hot night, and she had to fight to keep from gasping in a lungful of water as she fought her way to the surface.

  She and Dan had made a run for it as soon as their log slowed down enough for them to clamor out—hoping to get back to the pirate ship where Dan’s dad had told them all to meet up if they got separated. They didn’t even make it back to the restrooms before they met two of the terrorists coming around one of the little concession stands. Mattie almost peed herself she’d been so scared, but instead of killing them, the men had poked them with rifle barrels and marched them into the darkness in the opposite direction of the pirate ship—and then had thrown them in the wave pool with at least a hundred other people.

  The wave pool looked like a giant bowl of human soup. It was well over her head, and the danger she might be held under by some flailing grown-up, panicked out of his mind, was a real possibility. The cold water shocked her heart. Chlorine hurt her eyes and stung her nose. She came up sputtering, lungs burning and bursting with fear. Blinded and disoriented, Mattie treaded water as she cried out for Dan Thibodaux. She’d heard a shot when they’d thrown her in and was scared they might have killed him just for fun.

  “Hey, Mattie.” His quiet, sure words were nearly drowned out by the hum of other frightened voices and the splashing movement of all the people in the pool. “I’m here. Right beside you.”

  He put a tentative hand on her arm, taking care not to push her under. “Are you okay?”

  Though most of the park had gone dark, the lights in the pool still worked, making the shimmering blue water stand out starkly in the night. Hundreds of terrified people bobbed in the water. At least a dozen bodies floated facedown amid clouds of blood. Mattie had counted three men with guns when they’d marched her to the pool. The men had forced almost everyone into the water, but she’d seen a bunch more standing around the edge, their hands tied in front of them. Some were men, some were women, but all the people around the edge were grown-ups.

  Mattie wiped the wet hair out of her face and nodded, suddenly unable to stop shivering. Her teeth chattered. She blinked hard, trying to clear her eyes and stay above water.

  Dan tapped on her shoulder and pointed to the shallow end. “I don’t think there’s an inch of space between anybody down there,” he said. “We’re gonna have to swim for a while.” He sounded an awful lot like his daddy when he was tense.

  “I’m fine,” Mattie said, still sputtering. She wiped her face again. Her teeth still chattered uncontrollably. “I can float pretty good.”

  “I see three guys with rifles,” Dan said, swirling his arms in the water to spin slowly around without actually going anywhere.

  “I wonder why they have some people standing up there out of the water,” Mattie wondered out loud, as much to herself as to Dan Thibodaux.

  “I can’t figure that out,” Dan said.

  Mattie leaned her head back and peered up through the darkness at the helicopter hovering above. She could see the flashing lights of another one flying in from a long way off.

  “It’s a police chopper,” Dan said. “See the spotlight?”

  Mattie nodded, blowing water out of her face and trying her best to stay calm. She looked at the men with guns, and then at Dan. “I wish our dads were here. You think the police will start to shoot the bad guys soon?”

  Dan shook his head, sniffing and squinting his eyes from the heavily chlorinated water. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “I think our dads would shoot them,” Mattie said.

  “They might,” Dan said. “But I’ll bet these guys will start killing more people if the police don’t get them all right away. My dad says it’s pretty hard to hit anything from a helicopter.”

  Dan was starting to shake, too, but Mattie couldn’t blame him. It was impossible not to be scared bobbing there in the swimming pool next to so many dead people.

  Someone bumped in
to Mattie’s back. She thought it might be one of the bodies and spun hard, pushing away. It turned out to be a blond lady in a black-and-white checked swimsuit, treading water behind her. She looked like she was about Ronnie Garcia’s age, only heavier and with much paler skin. She held a pink foam swim noodle just below the surface.

  “Sorry to bump into you,” Mattie said.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” the woman said, forcing a smile. A trickle of blood oozed from a gash on her pale shoulder. She grimaced, obviously in pain. “How old are you?”

  “Eight,” Mattie said.

  Dan swam up beside her so they were shoulder to shoulder. “I’m ten,” he said. Mattie could tell he was protecting her, and she liked it.

  “Eight and ten years old,” the woman said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Y’all are holding it together better than most of the adults around here tonight.” She pushed the foam swim noodle out to Mattie “Here, take this. You need it more than I do.”

  Mattie took the end of the float, grateful for the chance to give her arms and legs a rest. “Are you sure? It looks like you’re hurt.”

  “I’ll be fine,” the woman said, dabbing at her shoulder. “What is it they say? It’s only a flesh wound. And heaven knows I have enough flesh to keep my head above water. My name’s Sarah, by the way.”

  “I’m Mattie.” She looked around. “Are you all by yourself?”

  “My date and I got separated in the dark,” Sarah said, looking lost and sad. “I just met him on Tinder, so I hardly knew him anyway. To tell you the truth, I think he probably swiped left and saved himself.”

  “What?” Mattie asked.

  “Nothing,” Sarah said, sounding sad.

  Mattie moved the pool noodle so Dan could lean on one end, and then kicked around to maneuver so the other was directly in front of Sarah. “Stay next to us, then,” she said. “We’re alone, too.”