Chapter 12
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
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 stairs. 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.