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Mukhtar’s shoulders fell. He sighed and turned to leave. “I am sorry. I meant no ha—”

A rapid string of shots cut him off. Quinn held up his hand to keep everyone quiet. Thibodaux kept the shotgun but passed Quinn the little .380. They took up positions on either side of the door. The pirate ship itself was little more than a façade of plastic and wood that offered concealment but not real protective cover. Lead bullets would punch through without so much as slowing down. Thibodaux shot a glance at his wife, who put all her boys flat on the ground without being told, as if they’d practiced this very scenario. Garcia stood off Quinn’s right shoulder, far enough away to allow him freedom of movement, close enough to pick up the gun and defend should he become unable to fight.

On the sidewalk just thirty feet away a group of kids in blue and orange University of Virginia T-shirts had run headlong into one of the killers. Had they not, the shooter would certainly have discovered the pirate ship full of stowaways.

The jihadi was partially hidden from view by a grove of trees, but Quinn could tell from the size of his exposed arm that he was tall and well muscled. He barked orders in heavily accented English. The UVA students raised their hands, the three boys attempting to shield the two girls.

Mukhtar’s mouth fell open. “I know that one,” he whispered. “His name is Kaliq.”

“Please!” one of the girls sobbed, an audible catch in her throat.

“Have you got a clear shot?” Quinn hissed, glancing at Thibodaux.

“Neg-a-tive,” the Cajun said under his breath, the shotgun pressed to his cheek. “Bastard’s behind a tree. Buckshot pattern will spread from this distance and I’m liable to pop one of the kids. I could maybe get him in the knee but if he falls the wrong way and starts to spray us, we’re hosed.”

Outside on the sidewalk, one of the girls whimpered again. “You don’t have to do this—”

Her plea fell on deaf ears. Kaliq, who looked as if he could have played football at the same university, mowed the cowering youths down with a derisive chuckle as if he didn’t consider them worthy of taking the time to aim.

Quinn forced himself to watch the massacre, fearing he’d miss valuable intelligence if he looked away in disgust. All five of the youth collapsed under the gunfire. Mercifully, most died quickly, but one of the boys continued to struggle, attempting to put his body between the jihadi and one of the girls, even after he’d been shot. The gunman finished him off with a shot to the head. They were close enough that Quinn could hear the familiar thump of lead on bone, smell the acrid odor of gunpowder and blood on the night air.

Thibodaux cursed under his breath. “If he’d take half a step more to the right I could wax his ass—”

“Wait!” Quinn held up his fist when he caught movement through the trees. Even under the emergency lighting he could tell from the affected swagger that this was another gunman. “Second shooter at one o’clock, fifty meters out, coming this way.”

“Shit!” Thibodaux said through clenched teeth.

“Can you take them both?” Garcia said.

“Maybe.” The big Cajun shook his head. “But maybe ain’t good enough. They’ll have to get some closer to make it clean with the buckshot. If I only wing ’em…” He shook his head. “Well, you know what that would mean.”

Instead of waiting for his partner to approach, the first gunman walked through the trees to join him.

“Remind me to feed this Kaliq guy his guts when I see him next,” Thibodaux whispered so his sons couldn’t hear.

The man in the Blue Jays hat staggered back a few steps once the immediate danger passed, vomiting on his own flip-flops. His queasiness turned to rage when he looked up at Mukhtar.

“You… you get your ass outta here,” he said, stifling a sob as he stepped forward with a piece of concrete, intent on taking out his fear and frustration on the Iraqi boy.

Quinn slapped the chunk of concrete out of his hand. “Listen to me,” he said. “Everybody’s scared. But we have got to work together if we want to live through this.”

Thibodaux put a hand on Blue Jay’s shoulder. “Look, brother, it won’t do any good to be goin’ all Lord of the Flies on us.”

“I get it.” The man shrugged off Thibodaux’s hand. “You have the gun, so you make the rules?”

“Didn’t you hear what my little buddy said about working together?” Thibodaux said.

The man stooped to pick up the chunk of concrete again, homing in on Mukhtar. His voice was much louder than it should have been. “I don’t give a shit what either of you say. I got as much say as you do, and this guy is outta here.”

Thibodaux’s face fell dark as he leveled the muzzle of the shotgun at Blue Jay’s temple. “I just beat a man to death with a wooden mallet, dumbass,” he said. “I will not hesitate to end you right now.”

The man froze, eyes rolling toward the gun barrel. He choked back a frustrated sob. “Who put you guys in charge?”

Quinn shot a glance toward the door. “Seriously, you need to be quiet.”

Blue Jays shook his head. “You’re not the boss. I’m telling you, that haji’s gonna cry out to his own kind and get us all killed, slaughtered like fish in a damned barrel.”

“I said shut up,” Quinn hissed, fearing the man’s blubbering would draw the shooters back.

“I don’t want to die.” The man sobbed in earnest now, out of his head. “But when I do, I want to die with some dignity—”

“Then wipe the snot off your lip and live with some.” Thibodaux cuffed him in the ear, rattling his teeth and knocking his hat to the ground. “In the meantime, shut the hell up.”

A young mother with tears streaming down her face stepped up from the mass of huddled bodies clutching her little girl. Blood from the wounded child smeared the belly of the poor woman’s swimsuit. “My daughter needs an ambulance. I heard you say the police are on the way…”

Quinn nodded. “I’m sure they are, ma’am,” he said. “But I have to be honest. The first responders will come in fast once they think they know what’s going on. These walls and fences will funnel them into a death trap.”

A high school kid in an open Hawaiian shirt shook his head in sophomoric disgust. “Way to keep everybody positive, mister,” he said.

Quinn stared at the kid hard enough to send him shrinking back into the shadows. “I prefer to see things as they really are,” he said. “Painting a rosy picture of how I wish they would be will just get us killed. I’m afraid we have to save ourselves. The police aren’t going to be much help right now.”

“They better help,” another woman said. “That’s what we pay them to do. You guys look like you’re planning something that will just get us all shot. I say we work our way to the gate. The police are probably already there.“

“Ordinarily I’d say that was a good idea,” Quinn said.

“Well, I think it’s a good idea now,” the woman said.

Quinn shrugged. “Do whatever you want. So long as you’re quiet and don’t get in my way. But I was just out there and saw a couple of shooters hiding near the gate.” It wasn’t in Quinn’s nature to try and convince people of anything. He looked around the room, working out the rudiments of a plan as he spoke. “Anybody in here have medical training?”