Night of the Cobra

by Jack Coughlin

  Just one hour, then each man would be responsible for making his own escape. Each had also been responsible for getting jobs at the mall and for hiding their weapons until needed. Arrado liked the fact that if he didn’t know about the others, then the others did not know about him. The only insignia was that each man would wear a white kerchief around his forehead for easy recognition.

  The hour was done, and the assault had been an indoor hell. Arrado had aimlessly shot into crowds of Americans and flipped in a couple of flash-bang and teargas grenades to cause even more confusion. This was just a good payday for the old Sandinista fighter from Nicaragua.

  The Sandinistas and their former Contra enemies now lived side by side and continued their war, but with words in the National Assembly instead of with bullets in the jungle. The peace in Nicaragua had put a lot of men out of work, and there was not much in the job market for a onetime Marxist revolutionary such as Hector. Arrado had gone to work after the war doing what he had been trained to do, whenever he could find a willing buyer—except for the drug cartels. The money was better with them, but life was much shorter.

  During the mall massacre, he also had looted a few cash drawers, but was not greedy. A bag of money would just slow him down and draw attention, and it was important for him to remain mobile until he was safe outside. Arrado had entered the United States through Texas and had no intention of ever leaving America, the country he once hated with such passion. A hundred thousand dollars was more than a fair wage. A good start.

  At first, the shooting had been unopposed, but Arrado had long ago learned the nuances of a battlefield, and the tempo of the attack had changed. He also was hearing a different sort of shooting, a pattern that was more deliberate. A small pistol did not have the crisp and unique sound made by an M-16 rifle. Danger might be headed his way. It was time to go.

  Along with his hidden arms cache, Arrado had stowed a medical satchel with a big Red Cross emblazoned on it, and in the bag was the blue scrub uniform of a medic, including a stethoscope. He dumped the rifle and his head cloth and changed clothes. A 9mm pistol was hidden in his belt, and it was not difficult to find fresh blood to smear on his face and shirt.

  He was supposed to have yelled “God is great!” a couple of times, too, but had forgotten to do that and discarded the idea of screaming anything at all now as he made his way forward. Along with the new costume, he had one more prop—a little blond boy about six years old, whom Hector had targeted in the opening volley. The child was standing at a popcorn stand that became a handy marker to help Arrado locate the body. He would make his way outside carrying a child.

  * * *

  CAWELLE SHARIF HELD HIS pistol in a two-handed grip as he stood in the darkened doorway of the security office, ignoring the corpses behind him. Kyle would be coming from the far end of the corridor, and the SWATs were expected from the opposite end. He swiveled his gaze back and forth to cover both directions and picked up a distant shadow, coming toward him from the west.

  When he recognized that it was not Swanson, Lucky shouted, “Halt! Police! Get on your knees!”

  The shape moved closer. It was a man carrying some burden. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot me. Please!” he called in a shaken voice without breaking stride.

  Lucky brought the gun square to the approaching target. “I won’t tell you again. Stop right now!”

  “I’m a paramedic with the mall medical staff. I’ve got a badly wounded kid here, and we need to get him to safety.” Hector Arrado extended his arms and offered the dead child out for inspection while he continued to shuffle closer. “He’s going to die if we can’t get him to help.”

  They were only ten paces apart, and Hector Arrado could make out the figure with the gun. It was some kind of cop, wearing goggles.

  “I said stop!” Lucky called out, louder. He could clearly see the boy draped in the arms of a man in bloodstained medic scrubs, with a stethoscope hung around his neck.

  “Yes. I’m stopping. But I can’t put my hands up in the air.” He reached the little body out farther. “Please, Officer. He is hurt bad. I will put him on the floor.”

  Arrado lowered the child, then thrust his arms forward to hurl the fifty-pound body toward Lucky, who automatically wanted to catch the child. Hands now free, Hector yanked the pistol from his belt.

  In the darkness, he never saw the narrow black bulk of the M-16 drop over his head.

  Kyle Swanson had one hand on the butt and one on the barrel, and pulled the rifle back with all his strength while simultaneously kicking behind the right knee to drop the guy. Swanson rode the terrorist all the way down, and the built-up rage from the senseless slaughter was transmitted into his muscles. The man clawed at the rifle crushing his throat, making strained gurgling noises as Kyle tightened the grip and pulled back even harder while shoving a knee into the man’s back.

  The eyes of the old Sandinista bulged, sharp pain swamped his brain, the bones in his neck shattered to seal off his breath, and his spine felt as if it was breaking. His wordless burbling softened to hacking, mewling sounds, like those of a small animal at the mercy of a larger beast.

  “Don’t kill him, Kyle,” Lucky called out. “We need a prisoner.”

  Swanson gave the rifle a final jerk, and the neck popped with a loud crack. “Then let’s go find one,” he said, and got to his feet. A sardonic smirk played across his face.

  27

  THE RIDE

  THE LIGHTS SNAPPED BACK on throughout the mall with a sudden ferocity. After the period of intense darkness, the bath of brilliant illumination temporarily blinded everyone still alive in the giant shopping complex. Kyle hit the deck to hide his eyes, and Lucky shouted in pain because his night goggles amplified the sudden sun. The loud explosions of flash-bang grenades added even more shock.

  Police SWAT units burst through doors on the east, west, and south sides, following shimmering clouds of smoke grenades. The tactical strike forces of several different law enforcement agencies, all armored up in black coveralls, heavy plate vests, helmets and visors and goggled gas masks, were carrying an arsenal of weapons when they crashed into Mall USA like long black ribbons of menacing aliens. Cops with megaphones yelled for everyone to get down and stay down. Every exit was blocked.

  The heaviest stream of police swarmed in from the east and fanned into a line across the first floor and advanced step by step, almost inviting a terrorist to take a shot. The cops’ guns were up and ready. The south team immediately went pounding up the stairs to the second floor, and the west unit sprinted to the third floor, taking the steps two at a time. The former navy corpsman Ernie Harrison, tending the wounded, sprawled onto the floor and laced his hands behind his head, becoming statue-still. When he finally peeped up, Harrison saw the holes at the ends of three AR-15 barrels in his face, seemingly as large as the mouths of battleship cannons. He smiled and extended his wrists to be cuffed.

  A lieutenant with the St. Paul SWAT team led another small team directly to the security office, running and shouting for Sharif and Swanson, who shouted back and held their badges high. The officer looked around at the carnage and had to fight back the bile surging into his throat. “Holy shit,” he said, then clicked his radio mike and reported slowly, using distinct sounds, to be certain his communication was intelligible. “Comm Six here. Security office clear, and we have linked up with our assets.”

  The officer waved, and the two men got to their feet. “Are you two guys all right?”

  “Why, I’m just skippy,” said Kyle.

  “We’re good,” said Lucky. “It’s all yours.”

  “Don’t kill the medic up on the third floor,” Swanson added.

  “We already have Mr. Harrison in hand. He’s safe,” replied the lieutenant.

  A pair of EMT medics entered the bullet-riddled office and stepped from body to body, looking for signs of life but finding none. Fourteen civilian security guards had been shot to death in this one small part of the second-biggest sho
pping center in the nation.

  Lucky pointed to the body of the man in the hallway. “This is one of the bad guys. He was pretending to be a medic. We need to keep his body apart from the others for forensics, and please take special care with the boy. Bastard used his corpse as a shield.”

  A geek squad arrived with toolboxes and rolls of cable to try and at least slave the surveillance cameras to the command and control center out in the parking lot. Sporadic gunfire echoed from various points of the shopping center as the SWAT officers and snipers engaged the remaining terrorists wherever they could be found.

  The techs, firefighters, doctors, and nurses coming into the mall were veterans of emergency rooms and familiar with the dreadful types of injuries that can befall a human body. None had ever encountered destruction at such a catastrophic level. The mall had the look of a butcher shop bombed by aircraft, and dead and wounded were scattered like bloody rags. Streams of crimson blood had congealed into dark puddles. The specialists stepped over the bodies of the dead, some of whom had sustained enough bullet wounds to have been rekilled several times. The stench of death filled the air, and some lunatic terrorist had scrawled “Allahu Akbar!” in blood on the white wall of a shop that sold sunglasses and small gifts.

  FBI Special Agent Janna Ecklund gave Lucky an unprofessional hug and a kiss on the mouth. “You are in a world of shit,” she told him when she disengaged. He shrugged and sat down to catch a breather.

  Janna called for Swanson and the SWAT lieutenant to join them. “You are a priority now, Swanson. The people in Washington want you out of here, and right now, without being identified. The press would have a field day if they find that a CIA agent was involved. So you were never here.”

  Kyle snapped back, “I shot terrorists!”

  “They won’t make the distinction. To the media, it would be the CIA killing people on American soil,” she replied. “Lieutenant, can you get him through the cordon?”

  “Yeah.” He looked at the sniper’s lean build. “We’ll put a Police Windbreaker and a cap on him and use a marked squad for transport. There are so many vehicles coming and going out of this place on a route that has been secured for emergency vehicles that he won’t be noticed.”

  Kyle glanced at Lucky. “So we go back to Deqo at the hotel?”

  “I have to stay here with Janna and deal with the aftermath and let the boss chew my ass for a while. We’ll be along soon.”

  The gunfire in the hallways and corridors had slackened to individual shootouts. Any terrorists still alive were outnumbered and outgunned, and the police fired at them on sight if they saw a weapon. Two-member attack teams cleared the individual shops and hallways and storage areas, calling out “clear” and spray-painting a large X when they were done. It was methodical and thorough and strong. The medical crews followed along.

  The lieutenant was listening to the radio in his ear and stepped outside for a minute into the main courtyard to survey the damage. He came back in, muttering, “Impossible. Impossible.” His eyes flicked over to Swanson, and the cop nodded approval. “I don’t know who you really are, pal, but thanks. Helluva job.”

  * * *

  A ST. PAUL POLICE car ferried Swanson away from the Mall USA slaughter, through curtains of snow and an angry wind that hissed at the windows. Officer Nellie Roper drove him from Bloomington back into Minneapolis. Roper was actually a twenty-year-old police cadet, but the emergency at the mall was of such magnitude that police departments brought in everyone with a uniform and a badge, even those who were not quite yet rookies. Her firm orders were to take this anonymous passenger to the Graves 601 Hotel, keep him away from the media, and not to ask questions; in fact, to say nothing at all. She shelved her natural curiosity and locked her eyes on the tricky cold roads, her hands gripped at ten and two on the steering wheel. The headlights showed a tunnel through the falling snow. It was not hard to keep her mouth shut, for the mystery man was locked up really tight and absolutely oozed danger. Was he even awake? The smell of gun smoke clung to him like a fragrance that she found to be sexy as hell.

  Swanson was thankful for the silence. He knew that a case of after-action jitters was approaching, the period in which his body calmed and his mind would relax enough to realize what he had seen and endured at the mall, and what he had done in response. Despite the heater’s being on full blast, his hands and feet were numb with cold, and his body so chilled that he pulled his jacket and the Windbreaker tight. He clamped his jaw tight when his teeth started to chatter. He had to just hold off a little bit longer, until he could reach Deqo, who would understand and let him pour it all out. Then, he could be warm again. Swanson yearned for a cup of hot, comforting coffee, and he felt the rhythm of the wheels and each shimmer of the shock absorbers.

  * * *

  THERE WAS A LAKE out there. He could smell it. Of course there was. Minnesota officially was the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes, which was inaccurate because there were really many, many more, from Aaron to Zumbra. When he looked out the side window, streaked by snow, Kyle saw the slick sheen of ice on the lake melting into turbulent water, with small, narrow boats piercing foamy waves. Fire replaced snow along the shoreline. The heat of a blast furnace grabbed him, a heat so real that he flinched. One boat turned and made straight for him. Oh, no. Not now.

  “Hello.” A reed-thin figure in a long and ragged black cloak spoke, with bright ruby eyes fixed on Swanson. “My entire fleet is busy tonight. We have hundreds of freshly dead to ferry into eternity.”

  Kyle refused to answer. If he didn’t respond, maybe the Boatman nightmare would paddle away. He squeezed his fists tighter in the jacket pockets.

  The Boatman continued, unbothered by the silence. He stirred the water slightly with the long oar at the stern. “Look at my boat. The rest are filled to overflowing with new passengers, while I have only these six.”

  Swanson knew those were the faces of the men he had killed at the mall. They were ghastly. The Boatman always came to haul away Kyle’s victims.

  “You only killed a handful for me! It was hardly worth the trip. I am very disappointed. Perhaps you have grown too old for our little game, and I should reconsider our relationship. You’re not even a marine anymore. Why don’t you step into the boat and leave your worries behind. I will allow you to sleep forever.”

  Swanson jerked his head sharply back and forth. NO!

  “Hmm. I could insist,” mused the Boatman. “But you are always a good supplier, so once you get the proper feel for your new position, you will again be a reliable harvester. We now won’t be leashed by those bothersome Marine Corps regulations and rules of engagement. Actually, I foresee a future of certain slaughter now that you can operate beyond all rules; shining new numbers of souls for me to ferry home.” The spectral figure giggled. “You really have no idea of the possibilities. Your new employer will let you shoot first and ask questions later, but there will never even be questions. Finally, you will live up to your potential, and the marine’s best sniper will become the world’s best assassin.”

  Kyle was now sweating heavily, and he unzipped the jacket and pulled off his gloves. His breath began to huff to steady his nerves. He was never emotional while doing his job, but there was always this bitter brew waiting at the end. Then his post-traumatic stress would be over—until the next time.

  The Boatman gave a final wave and then pushed on his oar, and the stiletto-thin craft with six dead men knifed back to join the similar boats going to and from the mall. “Only six! You should have done better.”

  Swanson blinked and saw that solid winter had returned beyond the windshield, with snow dancing through the lights. Fire had been quenched by ice. The dream was gone. He snarled, almost to himself, “I gave you what I could, you bloodthirsty bastard. I, too, wish I had killed more.”

  A faint call returned like a fading echo. “I am not the only one disappointed with your work. Because you did not kill more of your enemies, you allowed them to slaughter more innocen
ts. Look how full the other boats are. You failed everybody.”

  The patrol officer had stopped the car in front of the Graves 601, more than a bit alarmed at the strange behavior of her passenger, who was dazed, sweating, and talking to himself. Perhaps there was a concussion. “You don’t look too good, sir. Let me take you to the hospital.”

  Kyle snapped out of it and gave her an almost invisible smile. “No. I’m fine. Thanks for the ride, Officer.” Swanson stepped into the subzero night and breathed in deeply, then walked into the hotel. Safe at last. Tired to the bone.

  SUNDAY MORNING

  Lucky and Janna arrived after two o’clock the next morning, having followed a snowplow for the last bumpy mile. Deqo was asleep in her room with two blankets pulled up to her chin. Kyle was asleep in a chair facing the door, with his Colt .45 resting on a side table. Dim light was provided by a single sixty-watt bulb in the entranceway, for he had turned off all the others. It was difficult to keep his eyes open, even with the strong coffee, and he had lost that fight.

  Deqo stirred when they entered, then put on a robe and came out to them. Lucky walked across and kissed her on the forehead. “Happy birthday, Grandma,” he said.

  The old woman smiled. Janna tossed away her heavy jacket and kicked off her boots, sat on the sofa, and put an arm around Deqo. “Birthday girl!”

  Deqo Sharif burst into tears. “I saw him. I saw that devil, that evil man,” she said. “What happened at the mall, Lucky? Kyle wouldn’t let me watch TV after midnight.”

  Lucky did not sugarcoat the truth. He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. “The last official count is more than five hundred confirmed dead, with another eight hundred or so wounded. There apparently were at least sixteen terrorists, and most of them are dead, too. Only two were taken prisoner. We don’t know how many, if any, escaped.”

  Kyle gave a low whistle. Thirteen hundred casualties, estimating on the low side! He slipped the pistol back into its shoulder holster. “You guys look a little beat up. Let’s have some coffee and slice up that birthday cake.”