Quinn opened his hand to let the spoon fly off the grenade. Terry Spencer’s eyes flew wide at the sound of the muffled pop as the fuse ignited.
“Not really,” Quinn said. He pitched the grenade underhanded, past Terry Spencer and into the open safe, before diving sideways behind the desk, hands over his ears, mouth open.
The thick body of the safe acted like a mortar tube, focusing the force of the grenade’s blast out the open door, directly into Terry Spencer’s face.
Grenades were deadly, but they were nowhere near the massive explosions Hollywood made them out to be. Out of the line of the blast, Quinn was able to roll during the detonation and come up with the Glock. He was stunned and half deaf, but absent any permanent damage.
He turned immediately to cover Spencer but needn’t have bothered. The force of the blast had taken off much of the left side of the boy’s body. White tiles from the suspended ceiling littered the carpet. Bits of charred cash in various denominations fluttered down in the dusty air. The grenade had demolished half the room, but the PA system remained undamaged. Lynyrd Skynyrd played on uninterrupted, and the last few bars of “Call Me the Breeze” twanged away over the speakers.
Quinn now had two working guns, but was too far away to run back to the wave pool. The other terrorists had surely heard the explosion. He needed to contact Jacques before they worked out what had happened, but with the cell jammer still up there was no way to get him on the phone. Quinn staggered to the public sound-system console and stared down at the two-way radio he’d taped to his iPhone, working out the pros and cons of what he planned to do next.
Chapter 18
Mattie Quinn expected the men around the pool to start shooting any minute. She’d been in the water so long that her fingers were getting all pruney, something she’d always found funny in the past. Now, she could only feel sad. In scary stories, the people always worried about getting killed or hurt, but all Mattie could think about was her dad and Ronnie Garcia, and poor Mrs. Thibodaux and her little baby — and what her mom would do all by herself.
Dan Thibodaux leaned closer, coughing to clear his throat from the constant slosh of water. “We should get closer to the edge, maybe,” he said. “The minute they start to shoot, we can jump out and run.”
Their new friend Sarah wiped a strand of wet hair out of her eyes and gave a resigned sigh. “I suppose it would be better than just floating here and getting shot. I have to be honest with you, though. We’re still likely to be shot.”
“Not if a bunch of people go at once,” Dan said. “We can swim around and spread the word. Some people might be too scared, but some might not…”
“Worth a try,” Sarah said. “We’ll just go slow. Don’t make them any more nerv—”
The music suddenly stopped. All three of the men with guns stood completely still, staring back and forth at each other as if they were afraid of the quiet.
Then, Mattie heard a sound that made her begin to sob. Her dad’s deep, sure voice suddenly blasted over the speakers.
“Jacques Thibodaux, Jacques Thibodaux,” her dad’s voice boomed. “Drop them! Drop them all now!”
The bad guys looked up at the loudspeakers. Three quick pops later and they all lay dead on the pool deck.
Mattie held her breath, waiting, fighting back the tears she’d been holding inside.
The speakers boomed again, all over the park, almost as soon as the last bad guy fell. It was even louder now, but Mattie was so excited she could hardly hear it.
“Off-duty federal agent on the inside to any law enforcement who can hear this. You have two armed hostiles in the trees twenty meters in and approximately ten meters to the north inside the east gate — both male, with dark hair. Both wearing park employee uniforms.”
Everyone in the pool fell silent, in shock from their ordeal and entranced by the voice that seemed to be on their side. There was a flurry of gunfire somewhere in the distance.
“The shots came from the east gate,” Sarah said, nodding with satisfaction. “Sounds like the cops got them.”
Mattie’s dad spoke again. “And there will be a female hostile somewhere. Also a park employee. Name of Fadila Baghdadi…”
Ronnie Garcia’s voice came over the speakers next, strained and breathy. “Fadila is no longer a problem, Quinn.”
Sarah looked at Mattie. “Quinn?” she said, blowing water out of her face. “Isn’t that your name?”
Mattie closed her eyes and began to cry in earnest. “Uh-huh,” she said. “That’s my dad.”
Epilogue
An hour and a half after the first explosion, Quinn adjusted the grip of Mattie’s arms around his neck so she didn’t choke him to death. Ronnie wasn’t much better. Wrapped in wool blankets to combat the onset of shock from the ordeal, neither had let an inch of space come between them and Jericho since the police had swarmed the place and escorted everyone to the waiting medical triage facilities that had been erected in the parking lots. First responders now lined up like taxis outside the main gate. The most critically wounded were still being loaded into what looked like an endless number of ambulances from the five closest hospitals and police cars from every jurisdiction within an hour’s drive.
A medic insisted on wrapping Quinn’s wounded leg, threatening him with all kinds of horrible infections if he didn’t get it cleaned and checked. Ronnie promised she’d get him to a doctor as soon as the more seriously wounded were taken care of.
A commotion of strained voices from three tents down drew Quinn’s attention. Stepping away from the glare of portable construction lights, he could see Mukhtar seated on the tailgate of a pickup truck. Three men in suits stood in front of him, peppering him with questions. As Quinn moved closer he could see the boy was cuffed behind his back.
Garcia tensed at the sight and stepped away from Quinn, peeling off her blanket to reveal the tight yellow swimsuit — the chest and belly of which were smeared with dark blood. Quinn handed Mattie to her.
Mukhtar lit up, nodding brightly at Quinn. He tried to slide down from the truck but one of the men caught him and shoved him back.
“There’s been a mistake here,” Ronnie said over the top of Mattie’s head, addressing the men in suits. “He helped us. He doesn’t belong in handcuffs.”
The eldest of the three men gave her a condescending smile, spending just a little too much time studying the ups and downs of her swimsuit, to Quinn’s way of thinking.
“Mr. Brooks says he could be cooperating with the shooters,” the oldest agent said.
“Who’s Brooks?” Ronnie raised a dark brow.
“That’s me.” The man in the Blue Jays hat stepped up beside the truck and puffed out his chest. “You can’t tell me this haji son of a bitch isn’t a part of all this.”
Ronnie rolled her eyes and looked at Quinn. “That’s the guy I was telling you about.”
“A hot tamale?” Quinn said, bouncing the man’s head off the side of the truck. Brooks staggered, then slid to the pavement in a heap.
Two of the suits advanced on Quinn but he raised his hands. He stepped over beside Garcia and took Mattie back to show he wasn’t a threat to the suits.
“You just knocked that guy out,” one of the agents said.
“Sorry,” Quinn said. “Guess the stress of this got to me…”
One of the men stooped down to check on a muttering Brooks, who looked like his pride was hurt more than anything else.
Quinn looked at Mukhtar and then the senior agent. He assumed they were DHS or local detectives. If they’d been FBI they would have told him already.