Pistol still in hand, she used her forearm to wipe a spatter of blood from her cheek. She shot a triumphant glance at her boyfriend, a sly smile spreading across her angular face. The killing — all of it — was even more exhilarating than she had imagined it would be.
“It is working,” she said. “Just as you said.”
The boy with a mop of blond hair grinned back at her, brandishing a stubby black semiautomatic H&K MP5 that made him look even handsomer than she already thought him to be. He’d taken up the war name Abu Tariq — the Night Visitor. He was no longer boring Terry Spencer, only son of a mindless pawn for wealthy American pigs. Abu Tariq assured everyone that Terry Spencer was a disappointment to his father, but Abu Tariq did not care. Abu Tariq had left Terry Spencer behind and now wanted nothing more than to submit himself to Allah, to make a difference, and to eventually die a martyr alongside his new friends — especially Fadila.
“Of course it is working,” Tariq said. “It is also entertaining. These dogs will do anything to postpone even certain death, even if it’s just for a minute or two.” He raised a blond brow and cocked his head slightly in the way that made Fadila’s heart beat in her throat. “Who do we have guarding the wave pool now?” he asked.
“Abu Fahad and Abu Nasser,” Fadila said, hoping he did not see her blush.
Tariq gave a thoughtful nod, running his fingers through his golden hair. “Good. Tell them to shoot anyone who tries to get out of the water. A couple of bloody bodies at either end of the pool should convince most of them to stay in place.” Abu Tariq stared into the distance, thinking of some bit of strategy, no doubt. Fadila had never seen an American boy so good at strategy. “Long enough for our purposes, at least.”
Fadila bowed her head. “Of course,” she said, beaming with gratitude and knowing that she was fortunate to be associated with a man so dedicated to the cause of jihad. It was Tariq who had first shown her the Islamic State videos on the Internet. It had been he who made first contact with the recruiter in Arlington, he who had worked with Islamic State operatives to supply their group with weapons, ammunition, and the belt bomb for Saleem. Every member of their group was pious as well as eager, but they were also young and inexperienced. Tariq had worked with the I.S. contact to devise the perfect plan. Members of the group had pledged their loyalty on a video forum earlier that day, before coming to the park — one by one, ensuring with their violent rhetoric that they could never go back to their former lives. Even the name of their little group of lions, Feesabilillah—“in the cause of Allah”—had been Tariq’s idea. Fadila had never met the Islamic State operative, but Tariq told her the man had heartily approved of the name.
More shooting broke out behind Tariq as he stooped to pick up the black duffel he used to carry his extra ammunition. His blue eyes flashed when he stood up, narrow, with an intensity that sent a warm shiver down Fadila’s legs. She chided herself for the unholy thoughts.
“It’s coming from beyond the tube slides.” Tariq looked at his watch. “That would be the police trying the side gate. They have finally gotten off their fat asses and decided to come to our party.”
More screams filled the humid night. Tariq lifted a yellow handheld radio to his lips as he threw the duffel over his shoulder. “Brothers,” he said. “Listen to me. Conserve your ammunition for when we really need it.”
He clipped the radio to his belt and then held his free hand out toward Fadila. “This will be over soon,” he said, pulling her closer. “The news helicopters will be overhead before long. I’ll watch from the top of Dead Drop, then send word when I see they’ve started to film. Then they can open up on the pool.” He gave her a wink. “I guarantee you it will go viral.”
Fadila squeezed his hand, looking deep into his blue eyes for any sign of resignation or second thoughts. She found none. “And then?” she asked, though she knew what his answer would be. “After you have sent word down to us?”
“Then…” he nodded slowly. “Then, I will come down and kill as many policemen as I can before I die beside you, Fadila.”
Chapter 8
Mattie Quinn knelt next to Dan Thibodaux behind a fiberglass log that was as big as a car and made to look like a fat dugout canoe. Larger than life, it was fixed on a stand made of two more fake logs as if in the process of being hollowed out by the animatronic pirates that surrounded it.
Riders boarded the log ride on the floor below, going up and around several turns and splashing into a small pond before making the long, clicking climb up to the second story of the same long building. Once inside, they floated on the man-made river between a motorized scene of fierce-looking pirate mannequins, each armed to the teeth with boarding axes, cutlasses, and blunderbusses, while they worked to bury their treasure and make boats.
A single emergency light cast an eerie yellow glow around the room, throwing huge shadows of the mannequins onto the wooden slat wall. All the pirates had frozen in place when the lights had gone off, but whatever powered the emergency bulbs must have run the water pump and conveyor gears, too, because empty fiberglass logs continued to float into the dim building, bumping the sides of the deep trough with hollow thuds as they moved along the man-made river and disappeared out the far doorway fifteen feet away. Mattie could hear each log as it careened down the flume to splash into the waiting pool below. There was still screaming in the park — a lot of screaming — and gunshots. But sometimes, in between shots, if the screams and the splashes were timed just right, Mattie could imagine someone outside was having fun and not scared out of their minds.
The room was full of motors, rubber belts, and iron wheels — all meant to move the mannequins back and forth to provide a show. The smell of gear oil and dust filled the air. The water had to be deep in the flume in order to float the big fiberglass logs. Mattie had first thought they should try and swim out but decided against it when she thought about the huge drop just outside the door.
Hiding, trying to make herself as small as possible, Mattie found it difficult to breathe, as if she’d been caught in an invisible bear hug. She clenched her mouth shut in an effort to keep her teeth from chattering.
Heavy footsteps clomped around on the wooden floor below. Mattie had caught a glimpse of one of the terrorists when she and Dan ran up the stairs. The man hadn’t seen them yet, but was looking all over the place. Every so often, he called out to anyone who might be hiding, promising he wouldn’t shoot if they came out.
Mattie was only eight, but she was old enough to figure out what her daddy did for a living, and had listened to him enough to know there was no use talking to someone already pointing a gun at you. She’d been close to death before, so close as to sink her teeth into the hand of a man trying to kill her, to give her dad a chance to kill him. She knew her dad would be looking for her. There was no doubt in her mind. So would Ronnie Garcia, but neither of them was here now — and besides, it was a big park, and they wouldn’t even know where to look.
A foot away, kneeling behind the same giant fake log, Dan Thibodaux held a piece of white PVC he’d found outside on one of the fences. He’d first thought to try and use one of the axes or swords from the pirate mannequins, but they all turned out to be plastic. In the end, he’d bent the flexible PVC pipe into a bow with a length of twine he got in the mechanical room. A broken piece of thin bamboo fencing became a makeshift arrow. The top end was notched enough that it fit nicely against the bowstring. The pointy end, where Dan had snapped it off from the ground, looked sharp enough to Mattie that her mom would have taken it away — which made Mattie think it might actually be dangerous enough to work.