by Marc Cameron
Sarah’s eyes clenched shut and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Mattie thought the poor woman was going to cry, but instead she moved in closer, eager for the friendly company.
Dan made the mistake of looking at one of the gunmen a little too long—a teenager with a sparse black beard. The man raised his rifle and pointed it with a harsh glare. Dan and Mattie both turned, relaxing only slightly when no shots came their way.
“Yeah,” Sarah said, touching the wound on her shoulder again. “They don’t like it when you stare. I can vouch for that.”
“There’s a whole bunch of us and just a few of them,” Dan said. He kept his voice low, though there was no way the terrorists could hear him over the whimpering moans that rose from the pool. “It seems like a bunch of grown-ups should be able to rush them and take away their guns.”
Sarah scoffed. “Grown-ups don’t often work together so very well—”
The abrupt twang of an acoustic guitar with a heavy, clapping beat poured in from the darkness. The sudden noise caused everyone in the pool and the gunmen surrounding it to turn back and forth, looking for the origin. It took a minute to realize the music was coming from speakers all over the theme park.
Mattie perked up as she listened. “That’s ‘Beat the Devil’s Tattoo,’ ” she whispered, recognizing the song immediately. “Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.”
Sarah stopped treading water, cocking her head to look at the nearest shooter. “Listen,” she said. “The music’s playing over the speakers, but it’s also on their walkie-talkies. I wonder where it’s coming from.”
Mattie gave Dan’s ribs a happy nudge as a wide smile spread across her face. “I bet you it’s coming from my dad’s phone,” she said.
Chapter 12
8:38 P.M.
Jericho Quinn pressed his belly flat to the dirt and watched his daughter through the leaves of a Japanese boxwood shrub seventy-five meters from the wave pool. He squeezed the wooden stock on his rifle until he thought it might shatter. Thibodaux lay to his immediate right. Mukhtar waited another twenty meters back at a concession stand that rented swimming tubes, ready to sing out if anyone came up behind them.
“Oo ye yi,” the big Cajun whispered. His breath kicked up bits of dust and leaves beneath the bush in front of him. Quinn half expected his friend to leap up and charge the pool at any moment. Instead, he took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths and nestled down behind his rifle. “The little boogs are still alive, praise the good Lord for that.” His whispered voice was muffled against the wooden stock as spoke. “I count three shitbirds on the pool deck—and two of ’em have better rifles than us, if you can believe it.”
“I can see that,” Quinn said from behind his own gun. Two of the men carried what looked like AK-47s, the other, some kind of shotgun. He wondered if it was just luck of the draw or if they had planned it that way. It didn’t bode well for the people in the pool.
“Alrighty,” Thibodaux said. “Let’s get this show on the road. You take the turd on the left and I’ll take the one on the right. We can both shoot the one at the end if it makes you feel better.”
“Hang on,” Quinn said, continuing to scan back and forth with his rifle. “Something isn’t right. See one, think two . . . see three, think four . . . or five or six.”
“Or maybe these three knuckleheads are just stupid enough to stand out in the open like that with the choppers overhead.”
“I’m sure there are at least a couple more hiding somewhere, out of sight,” Quinn said. “Any law enforcement snipers on the ground are likely to have infrared or at least basic night vision. All the hostages these guys have standing around the pool as decoys will make it difficult to tell good guys from bad at first glance.”
Thibodaux rolled on his side to look Quinn in the face. “Well shit, Chair Force, if the cops use infrared and start shooting guys in the bushes with guns, you and me ain’t gonna last very long.”
“True enough,” Quinn said. “But for now, our bad guys seem to be holding off any police response.”
“Reckon their long game is to wait for the news choppers to show up, then murder everyone in the pool?” Thibodaux said.
“I think that’s exactly what they plan to do,” Quinn said.
“Looks to me like the news chopper is just hovering out there, tryin’ to inch his way in close. Shit-for-brains media gonna be the cause of the story they want to cover.”
“They’re probably trying to get clearance from law enforcement to get closer,” Quinn said through clenched teeth. “The powers that be will likely grant it if only to get more eyes on the ground.” As important as it was to gather all the information he could about the scene, it was almost impossible not to focus on Mattie. Tearing his eyes away, Quinn watched the gunman nearest him and Thibodaux. “See how this guy on the end keeps looking up at the top of the Dead Drop?”
“Waiting on a signal from Terry/Tariq,” Thibodaux mused. “Your little trick steppin’ all over their radio traffic makes sure they can’t communicate—for a minute anyway. How about this for an idea? I’ll stay put and take out these three if it looks like things are about to ramp up. You get to the top of the slide and throw that son of a bitch down here so I can have a talk with him.”
“Sounds like a plan I can live with.” Quinn passed the Mini 14 rifle to Thibodaux. “Let’s trade. Your little .30 caliber is a war winner for close work, but this one will reach out a little better.”
The Cajun handed over the stubby M1 carbine. “I ain’t arguing with that . . . hang on . . .” He rolled onto his side and reached into his shorts to bring out the tiny .380 pistol, handing it to Quinn before taking the larger rifle. “I reckon all the bad guys will start to work their way here for the big finale. Send our young Iraqi friend back to tell Camille and Ronnie to take the boys and haul ass.”
Quinn held the pistol in the palm of his hand and nodded. “Good idea,” he said, already inching his way back on elbows and toes, taking care to be as noiseless as possible in the litter of leaves and twigs. There was no time to come up with another plan.
“Watch your grape, l’ami,” Thibodaux said, already behind his rifle and back onto target.
* * *
“That is Abu Saqr,” Mukhtar whispered, standing in the shadows beside Quinn as they watched the lone gunman pace back and forth in the blue shadows at the base of the Dead Drop tower. “He is the one I saw with the . . . what did you call it? The swamper . . .”
Saqr brought up a two-way radio and tried to call out. A swaying, bluesy number called “Ten Cent Pistol” now poured from the radio, preventing him from getting any message across. Exasperated, the young jihadi threw the radio against the concrete building, shattering it to pieces. He stepped back and craned his head to stare upward, waving his hands as if to get the attention of whoever was at the top. In the end, he took something from his pocket and moved to a darkened doorway at the side of the building.
“He’s going inside,” Quinn said, preparing to sprint after him.
“There is an elevator,” Mukhtar said. “The park makes those who wish to ride Dead Drop climb the one hundred and eighty nine steps to the top, but employees can take a lift from the basement, as Abu Saqr is, or the main floor behind the gift shop. He would have a key, since he works for maintenance.”
“Okay then,” Quinn said, already working through the idea of what he had to do. “Go now,” he said, handing Mukhtar the little .380 Ruger. “You know how to use this?”
“I do,” Mukhtar said.
“Remember, this is a pipsqueak gun,” he said. “If you have to shoot once, shoot three times to be sure.”
“I will die before I let you down,” Quinn heard the Iraqi boy say as he sprinted after Saqr. “You have my word!”
Chapter 13
8:41 P.M.
Bile burned the back of Quinn’s throat as he wove his way over and through a pile of bodies at the base of Dead Drop, apparently cut down one by one as they ran from the stai
rs. Skidding around the corner to make up time, Quinn entered the building at the front, one floor above Saqr. He breathed a sigh of relief to find the elevator doors in a small alcove at the rear of the abandoned gift shop, right where Mukhtar said it would be. Rattling cables and squeaking gears told him the car was already on the move. He used his fingers to pry open the elevator’s outer safety doors to expose the shaft. He’d hoped the car would be at the top since Terry had likely been the last to ride it, but it must have already been at the bottom when Saqr reached it. Quinn was just able to jump through the open safety doors into the shaft as the car flew up to meet him from the floor below.
Quinn wanted to land on a support beam and simply shoot the jihadi through the elevator ceiling, but necessary haste gave him no time to plan or aim his leap. Both feet hit square in the center of the light fixture, sending it crashing down on top of Saqr with Quinn following right behind. The wooden stock of the M1 carbine caught crosswise on the ceiling braces, jamming in place and leaving Quinn hanging in the elevator as if from a chin-up bar.
Piking his legs, he kicked a surprised Abu Saqr square in the face with both feet. The teenage terrorist bounced off the elevator wall, dazed enough to give Quinn time to kick him again. Reeling from the blows, Saqr dropped his rifle and fell sideways, causing Quinn to have to release his hold on the carbine and spin to continue to face him. Amateur that he was, the young jihadi still had the forethought to draw a dagger from a sheath at his side and thrust it wildly upward. The long stiletto blade caught Quinn in the front of his thigh, piercing meat and scraping bone. There was no searing pain, only the sensation of a heavy punch, and the sickening shiver as the blade glanced off the thighbone and exited the outside of his leg, punching a small hole in his board shorts.
Instinctively, Quinn lowered his center, capturing the hand that held the dagger and turning it back on its owner. Falling, as much from nausea as any martial arts technique, he drove the dagger into Saqr’s chest. He felt the familiar pop as the blade punched through the cartilage connecting the man’s ribs to his breastbone, and slid into his heart.
Quinn left the quivering knife where it was and pushed away. He scooped up the dying man’s rifle, a short AK-47 carbine with a folding stock, and then stood to test his damaged leg. He could put weight on it, so that was a blessing. The entry wound was located just below the hem of his swim trunks. It was a good two inches across, made deeper by the lateral movement of the double-edged blade when Saqr had stuck him. The exit wound was small enough it could be covered with a Band-Aid. Quinn didn’t want to think about the damage done inside. A more experienced man would have slashed the inside of the leg, severing the femoral artery, bleeding Quinn out in a matter of minutes. As it was, his wound wept a steady flow of blood. But nothing arterial, Quinn thought. That was blessing number two.
The elevator doors chimed as they slid open behind him. Quinn spun to find a muscular man with a black beard peering over the railing toward the base of the slide. It was Kaliq, the young jihadi who had laughed while he shot dead the group of UVA students. Music from the Black Keys still played from the two-way radio in his hand. His gun was parked against the rail ten feet from where he stood.
Blessing number three.
Bodies lay strewn around the concrete deck—groups of teens, families, middle-aged couples—arms and legs tangled, stacked as if they’d been dropped on top of one another. They’d been trapped at the top of the waterslide when the shooting began—and eventually murdered as they tried to run.
The top floor of Dead Drop was wide open but for the trapdoor entrance that gave the slide its name. A two-foot-wide column beside the hard plastic door was home to a small panel that housed the simple controls: a green light to signify the bottom of the slide was clear, and a large red button that tripped the door like a gallows, sending the rider on a near vertical drop for the first ten of the twenty-one-story journey. Wooden stanchions and yellow rope, meant to keep people in line as they queued up for the ride, were now a tangled knot, overturned by the stampede of victims as they attempted to flee back down the stairs. Those who had made it out the small doorway accounted for the pile of dead he’d passed at the bottom.
Saqr’s AK at his hip, Quinn aimed at the jihadi’s belly and pulled the trigger. Fresh out of blessings, he heard nothing but the resounding click of the firing pin on an empty chamber.
Chapter 14
8:42 P.M.
Ronnie Garcia had long since given up hope that anyone crowding around her in the belly of the pirate ship would stay anything close to calm. Instead, she tried to keep the noise down to a level that might, if they were extremely lucky, keep them undiscovered and alive. She knew from experience that few people could keep still, let alone quiet, when they were afraid. The more heightened the sense of fear, the jerkier and more vocal the human body became—as if every muscle and bone was crying out in terror. Breathing became ragged, knees jumped uncontrollably, teeth chattered to the point of breaking. Pent-up words hummed and buzzed, struggling for release behind pursed lips. Children and adults alike sobbed and shuffled, embarrassed at not being able to control their bladders. Jericho called it terror-piss, and the smell of it was overpowering in the dank surroundings, adding to the misery—and the noise level—of the little band of refugees.
Thankfully, the port side of the vessel faced away from the concrete pathways and concession vendors, open to the shallow wading pool. In less violent times, this gave parents a place to sit and watch their toddlers play in the water, protected from the sun and general hubbub of the park. Slides came down from the top deck into the water, and ladders made it possible for small children to climb up from inside the ship’s hold. A half dozen plastic picnic tables were situated around the toddler-size play equipment below. It should have been a fun place, full of splashing and laughter, but hope had vanished with the breeze. The fans that normally kept the shady playground cool had clicked off with the lights shortly after the shooting had started.
Forty minutes had passed since the first explosion. The gunfire had slowed, but errant shots and screams still popped and wailed throughout the park, ripping at the last shred of Ronnie’s nerves and keeping everyone huddled in place.
Though physically sick with worry over Jericho and Mattie, Ronnie had no children and could only imagine the stress Camille Thibodaux was going through. So far, the tough little brunette had been a rock, working to fight what had to be bone-crushing despair while she faced the realities of keeping her remaining six sons as quiet and upbeat as possible.
“Mama,” Denny whispered, his voice as frail as he looked. “My nose is starting to bleed again.”
“Hush now,” Camille said, drawing her little boy closer. She removed the sheer cover-up, making her look all the more vulnerable wearing nothing but her swimsuit. Blood dripped onto her bare thigh. “Just hold it there like that. You’ll be fine.”
One of the men in the back scoffed. “Fine?” he mumbled. “That’s laughable. We’re a long way from fine, kid. It’s only a matter of time—”
Camille glared daggers at the man, her intent clear even in the darkness. He turned away and melted back into the crowd.
“I’m thirsty,” a little girl who couldn’t have been over three whimpered.
Her mother, a near catatonic young woman who had watched her husband and in-laws murdered just minutes before, patted the child on the back, but said nothing.
“I could get her some water from the wading pool,” twelve-year-old Shawn Thibodaux whispered. “It’s gross, but it would be better than nothing.”
“It might come to that,” Camille said, giving her eldest boy a proud smile. “Let’s give your daddy a few more minutes before we venture out. He’ll take care of this, I prom—”
“I am sorry,” Ms. Hatch said, speaking through lips pulled as tightly as her gray curls, “but that gentleman is right. We are in serious trouble, and it’s time we admit it.”
Ronnie held up the shotgun as if to illu
strate how aware she was of the dangers. “What do you think we’re doing?” she said.
Ms. Hatch rolled her eyes. It was obvious she was used to being in charge and the fact that someone else was calling the shots had crawled up under her skin and galled her.
“It seems apparent to everyone in this place except you two that your men have been . . . taken . . .”
“You mean murdered,” Camille said, her chest heaving, chin quivering. Ronnie knew the poor thing was beginning to crumble. And who could blame her? Her little boy, and now Jacques.
“I didn’t say that, my dear,” the woman said, as disingenuous as ever. “I only mean to say you might want to season your hope with a little dash of realism.”
“You have no idea what my husband is capable of,” Camille whispered.
“If he’s smart,” the man in the Blue Jays hat said, “he’s found a way out of this shithole and saved his own ass.”
Shawn stood and squared off at the man. “My dad would never—”
“Shut your piehole, kid,” the man said. “If your daddy ain’t gone over the wall, then he’s got his ass shot off. We’re stuck with nothin’ to protect us but the hot tamale with a shotgun. End of stor—”
Camille flew at the man like a woman on fire, spitting and clawing at his face. The otherworldly wail of a woman who’d lost her child made the hair on Garcia’s neck stand up.
The idiot backpedaled, barking at Camille to leave him alone, and doubled his fist to hit her. Before he could swing, Mr. Larue smacked him in the side of the head with a piece of broken concrete, knocking him to his knees.
“I’m scared,” Larue said, straightening his pirate hat, “but not scared enough to listen to that.”
Camille stood over the man, one bare leg cocked back as if ready to fly at him again. Her dark hair was mussed, her chest heaving. The right strap of her swimsuit hung off a shoulder. Ronnie didn’t know if she’d ever seen such a burning intensity from another human being.