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 guards 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.”