Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

Was it possible... ?

  Her hand shaking, Mary Lou picked up the receiver and dialed 911.

  Muldoon scanned the crowd, looking for the man Jenk had spotted from the helicopter.

  "I've got him." Duke Jefferson—the sniper in Sam Starrett's helo—sounded calm and almost detached. "Ready on your command, sir."

  "Steady, Duke," Paoletti said. "We're just watching him here. Just an insurance policy. Sam, I want to know if he so much as moves an inch."

  "Aye, sir. He's watching the dais, looking over toward Bryant, like he's waiting for the show to start."

  There were a lot of men wearing white T-shirts today, and from Muldoon's viewpoint—because of the denseness of the crowd—he couldn't see who had a stroller and who didn't.

  If this were an attack by a suicide bomber, chances were the man was acting alone.

  But after 9/11, the entire world had learned to expect the unexpected.

  "Okay," Sam said. "He's putting on a hat. Baseball cap— white—backward. Jesus, is that some kind of signal?"

  And there he was.

  Muldoon saw him. White cap on backward.

  But there was someone else right down in front, over closer to the President, who was also just putting on a white baseball cap, backward.

  "Our head scratcher is almost on top of our guy," Jenk reported from the helo. "And I see about four other suits closing in from all directions—and he does, too!"

  "Gun!" Sam shouted.

  "Duke, fire!" Paoletti shouted.

  "Gun!" Muldoon echoed in unison with Jazz Jacquette, and chaos erupted.

  Joan's first thought was Where?

  "Get down!" someone was shouting. It was Muldoon, and he was shouting at her, a look of disbelief on his face that she should be over there, so close to where the President was being hustled away by the Secret Service.

  What had he thought? That she would just ditch her grandparents when he'd told her that there might be trouble?

  "Come on," she shouted to both Vince and Charlie, pulling them toward the stairs, following the President. This was just a false alarm—it had to be a false alarm. That really wasn't a gun that had been spotted—how could anyone get a gun in here?

  But then shots exploded, a ragged burst of—God!— machine-gun fire.

  Where was it coming from?

  "Gun!" Sam shouted, and time clicked into slow motion. Through the binoculars, he could see their man pull a room broom—a 9mm submachine gun—from the baby stroller. He came up firing even as Tom Paoletti shouted, "Duke, fire!"

  Duke Jefferson squeezed the trigger before the K of his name was out of Paoletti's mouth.

  "Shooter down," he announced in his sniper's calm, and time clicked back to regular fast speed. It was over.

  "Agent down!" Sam shouted.

  But, Jesus, there were more shots being fired, the ripping sound audible even over the throb of the helos. Someone else down there was still shooting—and shooting into this crowd.

  "Second shooter in the stands!" Cosmo shouted from Sea-hawk Two. "He's firing at us!"

  And that would be one fucking disaster, if these fuckers brought one of these Seahawks down into this crowd.

  "Take 'em out!" Paoletti's voice crackled over the radio.

  "Third shooter out in front! White hat!" That was Muldoon’s voice. Jesus, he was unarmed. Sam scrambled to see him.

  "Second shooter down," Cosmo announced.

  "Duke!" Sam shouted. "Do you see Muldoon's guy?"

  * * *

  The chaos was incredible. From where he was, Husaam could barely see Ihbraham. But he caught a flash of blue as his three biker friends brought him down to the ground. And then, as the crowd scattered, he could see one of them—the larger one—kick Ihbraham savagely in the head, hard enough to break his skull.

  Husaam headed with the crush toward the gate.

  Mary Lou heard the first of the gunshots as the emergency operator finally came on the line.

  "Coronado security. This call is being recorded. What is the nature of your emergency?"

  "They're trying to kill the President!"

  "May I have your name and location, ma'am?"

  "Terrorists are trying to kill the President over on the parade grounds!" she sobbed. There was more shooting, a tearing sound that echoed, contrasting hideously with the peaceful tranquility of this beautiful sunny day. Oh, Ihbraham, how could you have done this? "There are four of them. I think there are four of them—brothers—and their name is Rahman."

  "What is your name, ma'am?"

  "Who the hell cares what my name is! You need to send help! Now!"

  Mary Lou hung up the phone and ran toward the parade grounds, praying that she was wrong.

  Vince saw the gun.

  It was a handgun, not one of those submachine guns he'd heard firing just seconds ago.

  Still, a gun was a gun whether it fired dozens of rounds per second or only a few. It could still kill you and the people you loved just as dead.

  The son of a bitch had it out and was pointing it where the President was being hustled off the stage and down the stairs. Where Joanie was trying to pull him and Charlie.

  Vince did the only thing he could do. He tackled them both, pulling them down to the metal floor of the stage.

  But before he got them down, he heard shots, felt one slap the back of his leg.

  "Crawl!" he shouted to Joan, praying he was the only one who was hit. "Grab Gramma's arm and elbow crawl!"

  Muldoon saw the shooter open fire, saw Vince get hit protecting Charlie and Joan.

  The crowd was scattering in a panic, making it close to impossible for any of the Secret Service agents to reach the third man. And the shooter was running, moving with the crowd, trying to get even closer to the dais.

  "I still don't see him," Jenk, the team's sharpest pair of eyes, reported from the helo overhead. If the man had stood still, they'd have no problem picking him out.

  Muldoon was going to have to do the only thing he could do given these circumstances.

  He was going to have to take this motherfucker out with his bare hands.

  Joan saw Mike running, but unlike everyone who was sane, he was running toward the man with the gun.

  He ran toward the edge of the stage, and when he got there he jumped and dove—kind of like Superman taking to the skies. Only Mike didn't go up, he went across and down.

  The gunman turned and saw him and swung his gun around to fire.

  Another shot rang out just as Mike hit him.

  And Joan knew. If Mike Muldoon died here today, he'd die a hero.

  And her life would never again be as bright, as sunny, as funny and wonderful as it had been these past few days.

  If he lived, she was going to do it. She was going to marry the man. Life was too short to fool around. And if he died, she was going to rip the heart out of the bastard who killed him with her bare hands.

  Muldoon connected hard with the last terrorist.

  "Duke!" Sam ordered, and the sniper got ready in case the unthinkable happened and Muldoon got taken out before taking out the shooter.

  Shit, there was blood on Mike's uniform, garishly red against the bright white.

  But the kid was still kicking.

  He had the shooter in a body lock and twisted hard. Sam could almost hear the crack from all the way up here.

  "Shooter three down," Muldoon said, as he scrambled to claim the man's gun.

  Chapter 27

  "Man down," Tom Paoletti said over the radio, and it wasn't until Muldoon stood up and saw the blood that he realized the man his CO was talking about was him. "Lopez, get your ass down here."

  The bastard had shot him in the arm.

  But that was the least of his worries.

  "I'm okay," he said, looking around for Joan. The entire side of the dais where she'd been standing was empty. There was no one there at all. "It's just a scratch."

  All of the SEALs in the helos were coming down the ropes—which was qu
ite a show from this perspective—and they quickly secured the area.

  As the Seahawks moved off, Muldoon could hear more ambulances approaching, people crying, the continuous chatter from the radio over his headset, and some kind of electronic ringing—

  His cell phone.

  He dug it out of his pocket and flipped it open.

  "Joan?"

  "Michael, are you all right? I saw you jump on that man with the gun and—"

  "I'm fine," he said. Shit, she'd seen that. She probably watched him break the bastard's neck, too. Way to convince the woman to marry him. "Are you okay? When I saw you over by the President—

  "I'm fine."

  "Really? You're not wounded at all? Not even a little?"

  "Oh, God," she said, smart enough to figure out that his concern came from his telling her that he was fine, when in fact he wasn't. "He shot you, didn't he? How bad is it?"

  "It's just a scratch."

  "What is it with stupidass macho he-men?" she ranted. "Gramps got shot in the leg, and he says he's fine, it's just a scratch. Let me give you a tip, okay, tough guy? When a bullet hits you—even if it just grazes you—it is not a scratch''

  "Where are you?" Muldoon asked. He saw Tom's uncle with his arms around Meg Nilsson, helping shield her baby's eyes from the sight of the dead terrorists, who still lay where they'd fallen.

  He caught sight of Kelly, too, hard at work over in a makeshift triage area that Lopez was helping her set up.

  Tom Paoletti saw Kelly as well, and Muldoon could see some of the tension in the man's shoulders ease as he headed toward her.

  There were far fewer casualties than Muldoon would have thought after hearing that first rip of machine-gun fire. Most of the wounded were able to walk.

  "We're under the stage," Joan told him. "Gramma and I got everyone down here while you were doing your superhero imitation. Gramps isn't the only one wounded. There are two other men with scratches''

  "Do you need help, coming out?" he asked. He saw John Nilsson catch up with Meg, and with a nod from Tom Paoletti, Nils quickly led his wife and baby out of the area.

  As Muldoon watched, Tom gave his elderly uncle a quick hug.

  "No, we can do it," Joan said. "Gramps insists he can walk. I just wanted to make sure it was safe before we came out. Really, I wanted to make sure you were safe. That was, um, pretty goddamn scary, Mike. And you do this for a living, huh?"

  "It's not usually like this," he told her. "This was what we call a goatfuck, if you'll excuse the expression. However, it could have been a lot worse. You can thank Commander Paoletti for the fact that the casualty count is so low. Two men with machine guns, a third with a handgun. It's a miracle we're not bringing in body bags by the dozens."

  "God," she said. "What a thought."

  He could see her now, leading a ramshackle band of VIPs and dignitaries out from behind the dais.

  She faltered only slightly when she saw the blood on his jacket, hanging up her phone and pocketing it—as if she didn't trust herself to speak to him right at that moment. But by the time she reached him, she'd managed to smile.

  "I think you need to go where we're going," she said. Her eyes were suspiciously bright. "To the hospital. I think your scratch needs stitches, babe."

  He reached for her. "Joan—"

  "Don't," she said, stepping away from him. "I'm just managing to keep it together."

  "Sorry," he said. "I forgot we were still in hide-our-

  relationship mode." -.

  "Whoa," she said. "Wait. We are?"

  "Aren't we?" Muldoon asked.

  "It's going to be kind of hard to have a wedding without telling anyone," she said. "I mean what kind of invitations would we send? I guess it could be like a surprise party in reverse."

  Muldoon's chest felt tight and his throat filled, but instead of jumping or dancing or crying from happiness, he merely nodded, using one finger to push the hair back from her face. "I don't think you're allowed to say something like that to me without, you know, kissing me afterward."

  "If I kiss you, I'm going to start to cry." She started anyway, her face scrunching up as if she were a little kid. "Who would shoot into a crowd like that? Who would do such a terrible thing?"

  He pulled her into his arms and held her close, wishing he had answers for her. "I don't know," he said. "I don't get it, either. It's okay to cry, though, Joan. It is."

  "Can we please just go and get you to the hospital? Because I'm so tired and I need you to get checked by a doctor, and I have to make sure Gramps is all right, and then, God, I really, really want to go home."

  "Home?" he asked. "You mean to the hotel?"

  "I don't care," Joan said. "The hotel will do. As long as I can have a bed to sleep in, and you. That's all I need to be home."

  Muldoon kissed her.

  As far as he was concerned, he didn't even need the bed.

  Mary Lou made it past the guards by showing her ID and proving mat she was, indeed, the wife of one of the SEALs in Team Sixteen. She'd had to run back to her car to get her purse, but once she got it, they let her in.

  She could see where there was some kind of medical area set up to help the wounded, and she ran toward it as the first of the ambulances was pulling away.

  There were seven bodies on the pavement—oh, God!— already neatly in a row, covered with tarps. They were being guarded by a stern-faced sailor, so she made a wide berth around them.

  Please God, please God, please God, let her be wrong!

  Kelly Ashton was there, her hands in surgical gloves and blood smeared down the front of her shirt.

  "Kelly!"

  "Sam's okay," Kelly told her as she took off her gloves and put on another pair. "All the guys are all right. Mike Muldoon needs a few stitches, but other than that..."

  "Is the President ... ?" She couldn't say it. If he was dead, she was an accomplice to a Presidential assassination. Even though it wasn't really her fault, she would be blamed. They were always looking for someone to blame when Presidents died.

  "He's safe," Kelly said.

  Mary Lou followed her over to a man who was holding his arm.

  "I fell off the stands," he told Kelly. "I think it's broken."

  "I think you're right," she said. "Sorry you had to wait so long."

  "Hey, I'm not bleeding," he said. "I didn't mind the wait. How'd they get the guns in?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine," Kelly said. "Although I'm sure there'll be an in-depth investigation. They'll figure it out and you can be darn sure it won't happen ever again."

  Mary Lou had to sit down. An in-depth investigation...

  "It looks to me like you've got a clean break," Kelly told the man. "Although you'll need X rays, of course. Is there a particular hospital you'd prefer to go to?"

  He shook his head. "I'm from out of town."

  Kelly showed him where to go to get a ride to the nearest medical facility. And once again the gloves came off with a snap. She noticed Mary Lou sitting there.

  "Mary Lou, is there something else I can help you with?"

  "Ihbraham Rahman," Mary Lou said, and Kelly sighed.

  "Yeah, that's right, you knew him, too."

  Knew. Past tense. Oh, God.

  "He's hurt pretty badly," Kelly said. "I don't know if he's going to make it."

  Mary Lou looked up at her. "He's still alive?"

  "He was as of fifteen minutes ago. But he's got a serious head injury, and ... these things can be tricky. I have to be honest, it doesn't look good."

  "Is he ... Was he involved?" Mary Lou couldn't help it. She started to cry. Kelly—a doctor—thought that Ihbraham was going to die. But, Lord, maybe that was a good thing. If Ihbraham was a terrorist, he deserved to die. If he was a terrorist, then everything he'd said to her, everything he'd done, was a lie. She hoped that he died. She prayed that he died. And that way no one would ever know that he'd smuggled the weapons onto the base with her help. Her unwitting help— but no one would
believe that.

  "I don't know. The men with the guns were apparently all of Arabic descent," Kelly told her. "Does that automatically mean that Ihbraham was involved? / don't think so. I knew him pretty well, and I just don't believe ... But everything happened so fast—no one who I've talked to really saw anything. I was near one of the gunmen myself, and I have to be honest—when I heard the shots, I didn't know who was shooting, I didn't know where it was coming from. All I know for sure is that after the shooting stopped, Ihbraham was one of the people on the ground, seriously injured. As of right now they've found only three weapons, so it doesn't look like he was armed. If you want my opinion, most of the people who were injured to that degree were the people who actually tried to disarm the three gunmen."

  Mary Lou went even more numb. His brothers. He must have been trying to stop his three brothers. Maybe he wasn't a terrorist.

  But what did it matter? He was going to die.

  She stood up. She had to get out of here. She had to get Haley, to breathe in her sweet scent, to remind herself why it was important that she stay sober on a day when there were so many reasons to drown her pain in a drink.

  Bob Schwegel, Insurance Scoundrel, had tried to steal her virtue and the money in her bank accounts.

  Ihbraham had tried to steal her heart and soul.

  The irony was that when she'd first met him, there'd been nothing for him to take. He'd nurtured her, grown her—like one of his flowers. He'd made her fall in love with him.

  Now here she sat, even emptier than when she'd started.

  "I'm sorry," she told Kelly. "I have to..."

  Mary Lou ran for the gate, ran back to the restaurant. It took all of four seconds to give Aaron her resignation.

  She went home before picking up Haley and quickly packed as much as she could fit into the set of matching luggage Sam had bought her from Sears on Mother's Day.

  Gee, maybe his buying that for her had been a hint.

  She loaded the car, packed a bag of food and snacks, wrote Sam a quick note.

  Twenty minutes later, she and Haley were on the highway, heading east.

  Charlie sat with Vince in the hospital, waiting for the doctor to give him a clean bill of health so they could go home.

  Joan and her young officer had come to this hospital, too. Mike was getting his arm stitched, and Joan bounced back and forth between their two rooms.