A young woman flanked by two teenage boys raised her hand.
Quinn didn’t even ask what sort of training. “You’re in charge of medical needs,” he said. “See if you can stop the bleeding on this one and then triage anyone else who’s hurt.”
“Run, hide, fight,” another man said. “I read online that’s what they say to do?”
“Yeah,” Ronnie said, “But who’s ‘they’? Every instance is different. ‘They’ don’t know shit about what’s going on here and now.”
“Maybe,” the man said. “But these guys have guns and we don’t. We can’t very well fight them off. Running might be our best option.”
“It may come to that,” Quinn said, holding up his hand at the sound of more gunfire as it illustrated his point. “But these shooters are moving around in ones and twos. The shotgun will hold off an immediate threat.”
“Excuse me for saying this,” Larue said, pushing the pirate hat back on his head. “But I heard you say you’re going out to find your kid. What are we supposed to do without the shotgun?”
Quinn shot a glance at Thibodaux, then looked back at Larue. “The shotgun stays here. We’ll take what we need from the terrorists. If you do have to run and it comes to a fight, swarm the bad guy. Everyone go at him at once. Attack back, so to speak. These guys are young. They won’t be expecting that.”
“A lot of people will die if we do it that way,” Larue whispered.
“They might,” Quinn said. “But it’s a certainty if you don’t. This can’t be handled with some easy checklist you read on the Internet. You have to be fluid, willing to change your strategy.”
“What about the police?” Larue asked. “Surely—”
“Look,” Quinn cut him off. He looked from face to face in the terrified group. “We have to rely on ourselves for the time being. These terrorists picked this park for a reason. High walls, limited access points. If the police that get here first make it inside without getting killed — and that’s a big if — they’ll move directly toward the sound of gunfire, working to stop the threat before more people are killed. They will step over the wounded — even children — and keep going, in an effort to get to the shooters as quickly as possible.”
“And you know his how?” the gray-haired woman asked, turning her glare on Quinn.
“Because that’s what I would do,” he said.
“We’re staying here,” Camille Thibodaux said. She gathered her remaining sons to her like bear cubs around a very protective mama. The desperate look in her eyes was clear, even in the dim belly of the ship. She seemed to force herself to look out the porthole, peering across the deserted walkway at the bodies of the murdered students.
“Jacques,” she said, her eyes still locked on the horrific scene outside. “You go bring back my Daniel. You hear me?”
“I’m sure he’s with Mattie,” Garcia said, the guilty catch still in her voice. “They probably ran together while I was busy fighting the guy in the restrooms.”
The Iraqi boy stepped forward, holding up both hands to show he was not a threat. He tipped his head to Ronnie, averting his eyes as he did. “A small girl wearing a yellow swimsuit much like yours and a boy with a very short haircut?” He turned quickly toward Quinn, as if gazing for too long on Garcia’s voluptuous figure might turn him to stone. “I saw these two little children on my way here. They ran toward the mechanical room above the log ride.”
Quinn’s head swam at the news. This boy had actually seen his daughter alive.
Garcia put a hand on his arm, seeming to read his mind. “Go,” she said. “I’ll stay here and look out for Camille and the others.”
Quinn opened his mouth to object, but she shut him down.
“I’d just split your focus — and we can’t have that.” She kissed him fiercely on the lips, something she rarely ever did in public.
“Boys,” Jacques said. “You protect your mama while I go and retrieve your brother. You hear me?” All six of them nodded. Even baby Henry.
Thibodaux passed Ronnie Garcia the shotgun, patting the wooden stock with the flat of his hand. “I’m much obliged, chérie,” he said. “Plug’s out of the tube so you got ten rounds of big mamma jamma buckshot in here. That’s ninety little lead chances to send some of these bastards to hell before you even have to reload. Don’t you let anyone near this place. Got me?”
Garcia nodded. “I’ll use them wisely,” she said.
“And some extras if you need them,” Jacques said. He gave her a handful of loose shells he’d got from the dead shooter’s pocket.
Quinn eyed the Iraqi boy. “You said you want to help?”
“I do,” Mukhtar said. “Very much so.”
“Then you’re with us.”
The boy gave an emphatic nod. “What are we going to do?”
Thibodaux scoffed as if the answer was all so clear. “We’re gonna go save our kids, and then hunt these sons of bitches down and kill every last one of ’em.”
Chapter 6
The park was eerily still as Quinn and Thibodaux ran with the Iraqi boy through the darkness, past the restrooms. They kept to the cover of now-deserted snack stands and carnival games, working their way toward the fort-like wooden structure that housed the workings of the log ride. Gunfire popped and cracked at various points around the park, but the broken cries of victims seemed to pour in from every direction. Here and there, dark shadows crept and scurried through the trees like terrified rats — surviving patrons and park employees, all desperate to stay hidden but unable to find a way outside the high park walls. Any of them foolish enough to try the gates were cut down on the spot.
Quinn kept Mukhtar between him and Thibodaux as they ran. He shot a glance at the boy. “When we run into any of the shooters, you stay out of the way and let us handle it. Hear me?”
“Obviously,” Mukhtar said, trotting easily beside the men. “You appear to know what you are doing. I assume you were both in the U.S. military. Did you ever go to Iraq?”
Both men nodded.
“My father,” the boys said, “he was interpreter for the United States Marine Corps in Fallujah.”
“Well, ain’t that somethin’,” Thibodaux said, sounding unconvinced.
Mukhtar’s shoulders slumped. “It does not matter what I do,” he whispered. “No one here will trust me…”
“Well, son,” Thibodaux said, still jogging, “you gotta admit, these murdering sons of bitches who happen to all dress and sound and look just like you have put us in a tough spot. Makes it hard to tell the difference between the good guys and the bad guys. Sometimes profiling is the only thing between a bullet in the brain and makin’ it home to see your kids.”
“But they do not all look like me,” the boy said, his hands up and open, pleading to be understood. All three slowed to a stop, thirty meters from the hulking shadow of the log ride. “Tariq,” the Iraqi boy continued, “the one who I believe to be in charge, he is American.”
“A convert?” Thibodaux mused. “Are his parents refugees?”
“You do not understand.” Mukhtar shook his head, then shrugged, hands still up, and moving to emphasize each and every word. “His real name is Terry, Terry… Spencer, I think, but everyone calls him Tariq. He says his father is some kind of lawyer in Washington, D.C. He is as white as you.”
Chapter 7
Fadila stood at the base of the Dead Drop waterslide and turned away from the young couple she’d just cut down at point-blank range with her pistol. They had tried to help her, believing that because she was a female, she was also a victim. Fools. Weak, incompetent fools.