Also by Marc Cameron

Field of Fire

Brute Force

Day Zero

Time of Attack

State of Emergency

Act of Terror

National Security

Dead Drop

A JERICHO QUINN THRILLER NOVELLA

Marc Cameron

PINNACLE E-BOOKS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Also by Marc Cameron

Title Page

Copyright Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Teaser chapter

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PINNACLE E-BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

119 West 40th Street

New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2017 Marc Cameron

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

First electronic edition: July 2017

ISBN: 978-0-7860-4165-7

I have a high art, I hurt with cruelty those who would damage me.

—ARCHILOCHUS, 650 B.C.

Prologue

Virginia

The line to nineteen-year-old Mukhtar Tahir’s concession stand grew longer with each passing minute, as if someone had leaked an awful rumor that the world was running out of shaved ice. Buccaneer Beach Thrill Park was pirate themed, and like most of the other buildings, the ice stand was built to look like the hull of a wooden ship, with cartoonish lines and white sails of carefully tattered canvas.

Handing two drippy paper cones through the large cannon port in the side of the ship’s hull, Mukhtar used his forearm to push the stupid black tricorne hat out of his eyes for the tenth time in as many minutes and caught a glimpse of a pretty twentysomething named Fadila. She must have been on a break, because she loitered on the oak-lined path behind the funnel cake shack. Her long hair hung loose around smallish shoulders and even from half a block away he could see it shimmering blue-black in what was left of the evening sun.

Like Mukhtar, Fadila wore the black uniform polo shirt and khaki shorts of a park employee. She was also from Iraq—from Fallujah, the scene of some of the most intense fighting. Mukhtar thought she must have been very brave to make it out of such a horrible place alive. He was sure she was a virtuous girl, despite the fact that she exposed so much of her body wearing the park uniform. But her family was poor, just like Mukhtar’s, and this was a different world. They both needed this job.

She kept looking over her shoulder, then up the path, as if planning a secret rendezvous. Fadila was assigned to work the smallest roller coaster on the amusements side of the park, which was always much less busy than the water park side. This was lucky, because that roller coaster was a lame ride anyway, with short lines that allowed her frequent breaks and time to loiter in the shadows.

Mukhtar barely had time to use the restroom, much less attend any clandestine meetings. A shaved ice was included in the cost of each admission to Buccaneer Beach—and the roughly fifteen thousand patrons who showed up each day seemed determined to get their money’s worth. There were three stands that sold the sickeningly sweet treats, located strategically around the park. With so many customers, there was rarely a moment when Mukhtar wasn’t refilling syrups, ripping open supplies with his box cutter, or shaving ice. Like soldiers holding a beachhead in a video game, it was all he and the two girls he worked with could do to keep from getting overrun.

His turn on the machine, Mukhtar held a flimsy paper cone under the ice chute and shoved back his pirate hat again, wishing he could throw the stupid thing into the bushes. His two coworkers, college girls from Virginia, actually looked good in their hats. But for Mukhtar, even the purple grackle hopping along the sidewalk with a French fry in its beak seemed to mock his cockeyed pirate hat with a hateful black glare.

Mukhtar handed off the cone and craned his head out the cannon port so he could see behind the funnel cake shack. Fadila still stood there, alone. Mukhtar continued to fill paper cones with ice and began to fantasize that she was waiting to see him when he took a break. They’d spoken before, only briefly, but she had seemed nice, if a little intense. They had much in common, and it seemed destiny that they would connect sooner or later.

Groaning, Mukhtar looked out the gun port at the endless line and shook his head. Some laughed among themselves, some chatted on mobile phones, others stood, drenched from their latest ride, swaying to the park’s swashbuckling music that had sounded cool the first two hours Mukhtar had worked there, but wore thin soon after that. He would gladly have paid ten times the cost of a shaved ice not to have to stand with so many people in wet bathing suits. He’d been exposed to more pallid, sweaty flesh over the last two weeks than any nineteen-year-old boy should have to witness in ten lifetimes.

One eye on Fadila, he shaved up another cone of ice and handed it to a little girl in a dripping green swimsuit, giving her his best smile. He always took the time to smile at the customers. A few smiled back, some looked as if he had just threatened to hijack their airplane. Most ignored him completely.

A wrinkled raisin of an older woman, tan as a mud brick, stomped and cursed when she got bubble gum instead of cotton candy flavoring on her shaved ice. Mukhtar forced another smile and tried to explain that those two flavors were exactly the same; only the colors differed. The woman screamed as if she’d just lost an appendage, demanding blue syrup as well as a full refund of the shaved ice portion of her admission ticket. Mukhtar gritted his teeth and gave her a blue ice, hoping it gave her a particularly bad brain freeze.

He peeled off the clear plastic gloves and pitched them in an empty box at his feet. “I have to use the restroom,” he said. The two college girls rolled their eyes but didn’t say anything. Each of them had already been to the bathroom three times this shift.

Mukhtar left his hat below the counter and made his way through the milling tourists toward the restrooms—by way of the path behind the funnel cake shop.

The sun sank rapidly toward the top of the oak trees along the western wall, beyond the towering, twenty-one-story waterslide that drew tourists like flies to the two-hundred-acre park an hour from Washington, D.C.

Mukhtar was still fifty feet from Fadila when he saw the other boy approaching her through the crowd. It was Saleem, the new guy. His cheeks were hollow and pale and sweat beaded across his high forehead. Even in the late evening, the temperatures still hung above eighty degrees, but Saleem didn’t look hot. He looked ill. Dressed in the same black shirt and khaki shorts as every other park employee, Saleem got to wear the tool vest of someone assigned to maintenance and repair. It was certainly more of a manly job than shaving ice. No wonder Fadila had chosen to meet him.

Mukhtar ducked his head, pushing the aching thoughts of this stupid girl out of his mind and heading for the restroom. Committed with the flow of the crowd, his neck burned with shame that he’d ever considered the thought that this beautiful creature would want to talk with him. He had to pass within yards of the clandestine couple, who now chatted intensely in hushed Arabic under the shade of a broad-hipped oak. Mukhtar slowed a half step when he heard the first snippet of their words.

“. . . if I fail?” Saleem said. “What if I hesitate when the moment arrives?”

“. . . hinges on you . . . we depend on you,” Fadila said. “. . . infidels . . . death . . . fi sabilillah . . .”

Mukhtar could see a series of bulges around Saleem’s waist as he walked by. They were partially hidden under the vest, but he recognized them at once for what they were. He hadn’t been able to hear much, but what he did hear was enough to fill him with a sinking dread. He broke into a sprint to find his supervisor as soon as he rounded the corner and made it out of Fadila’s sight. Infidels, death—he’d heard such talk in Iraq, but it was the mysterious belt under Saleem’s vest combined with Fadila’s last phrase that made him double his pace: fi sabilillah.

“To fight in the cause of Allah.”

Chapter 1

Come now, and follow me, and no hurt shall happen to you from the lions.

—John Bunyan, The Pilgrim’s Progress

Fifteen minutes earlier

Jericho Quinn threw the Impala into park and took a deep breath, reminding himself that everywhere on earth was not a war zone—despite his experiences to the contrary. Still, a nagging sense that something was wrong gnawed at his gut—the Japanese called it haragei, the “art of the belly”—and Quinn had learned not to ignore it.

Even under the best of circumstances, he was not the sort of man to leave his guns in the car, but this evening he had, in fact, gone against every ounce of his better judgment and left his Kimber 10mm and his Japanese killing dagger locked in the safe back at his apartment in Alexandria. The “baby” Glock 27 was locked in a small metal vault in the vehicle’s console—where he knew it would do him absolutely no good. The usual complement of weapons that had driven his ex-wife to divorce him had been reduced to a thin Benchmade 943 pocketknife that he’d tucked discreetly into the inside pocket of his swimsuit. The huge summer crowds at Buccaneer Beach Thrill Park and the fact that Quinn was with his eight-year-old daughter only added to the helpless angst of being unarmed.

“What time do they close?” Mattie said, unbuckling her seat belt and leaning forward to stick her head between Quinn and his girlfriend, Veronica “Ronnie” Garcia, who sat in the passenger seat. The two wore matching canary yellow one-piece swimsuits, but, mercifully for Quinn, his little girl still had a few years before she would be able to wear it even close to the way Garcia did.

Mattie had the park’s website memorized, and Quinn knew full well that her question was not a question at all, but a jab at him for having to work late. Even the fact that he’d been in a meeting with the president of the United States was no excuse for cutting short their promised day at the amusement park.

“We still have four hours,” he said, eyeing the colossal waterslide that loomed in the dusky evening beyond the park gates like a skyscraper, with its looping, twisted guts hanging out. “Looks like we’ll make it in before the sun goes down.”

“Just barely,” Mattie said, falling—no, throwing herself—backward into her seat. The words came on the heels of an exasperated sigh that reminded Quinn of his ex-wife when she was angry.

“Don’t know if you’ve heard,” Quinn turned to look between the bucket seats at his daughter. “But they have this cool new invention called the electric light. Makes it so you can actually have fun after the sun goes down.”

Mattie ignored him. She had the passive-aggressive thing down to level-ten expert. But she couldn’t stay mad for long. The sight of the waterslide known as Dead Drop—so named for its trapdoor beginning—made it impossible for the little girl to even sit still. Pressing her face against the window to stare, her voice fell to a reverent whisper, as if she’d just discovered the golden idol in an Indiana Jones movie. “There she is . . . Shawn Thibodaux says she has a hundred and eighty-nine steps to the top.”

Ronnie Garcia turned to give Quinn a sultry wink, touching one of the many pale shotgun-pellet scars visible below the hem of his board shorts on his otherwise copper-colored thigh. “You didn’t tell me that freaky, ginormous slide was a she.” Thick black hair cascaded over her broad shoulders and fell across the leather upholstery. She reached out and ran the tip of her index finger across the stubble of his dark beard. Quinn had shaved for the Oval Office meeting but, as usual, grown a healthy five o’clock shadow by noon. Thankfully, Garcia didn’t seem to mind that even in a suit, he typically leaned toward the shaggy side.

Quinn shrugged. “I didn’t know it was female, either, until just now.” He threw a glance back at Mattie, who was now up on her knees staring out the window. She had his dark hair and copper skin but, thankfully, her mother’s oval face.

Garcia’s head lolled against the seat. Her full lips perked into a smile. “I guess it makes sense,” she said, hints of her Russian and Cuban heritage seeping out in her accent. “Mattie’s been hanging out with the Thibodaux boys over the last couple of weeks. To hear their dad talk, all the scariest things in the world are female.”

Quinn smiled while he chewed on that for a minute but was too smart to agree out loud.

Garcia was attached to the same working group—she from the CIA, he from Air Force Office of Special Investigations, or OSI. Both fell under the immediate supervision of the President’s National Security Advisor. She’d been present in the Oval Office meeting earlier that day. Quinn had known her long enough to be able to tell by the way she hummed softly under her breath that she was busy processing all the new information. Garcia was always more contemplative after intelligence briefings, as if she took terrorist threats personally. Quinn couldn’t blame her—not considering the things she’d been through, the way she’d been hurt.

“Well, we got here, anyway,” Quinn said, banging the flat of his hand on the top of the Impala’s steering wheel like a judge imposing a sentence. “Now remember, we have to stay together.”

Garcia smiled at him again and opened the door, gathering her gauzy cover-up and small handbag in her lap before climbing out into the sticky evening heat. Quinn didn’t like crowds, but as he sat and watched her exit the Impala, he couldn’t help but look forward to an evening with his buxom girlfriend and her yellow swimsuit. He wasn’t artistically or musically inclined, but if he were, she was the sort of woman who would inspire great works from him.

Marine Gunnery Sergeant Jacques Thibodaux, Quinn’s friend and partner, wheeled the black fifteen-passenger van he called the TAV—Thibodaux Assault Vehicle—into the vacant spot beside the Impala. Quinn counted four round faces pressed against the side windows. He knew there were three more somewhere in the van. The Thibodaux boys ranged in age from twelve to one—no small feat considering the gunny had spent much of the last eight years deployed to various hot spots around the Middle East.

Shawn, the oldest, shot a glance at the setting sun as he jumped out of the van, followed by five of his younger brothers. A frown turned down on his freckled face. All of them wore matching white T-shirts and blue board shorts like their dad, but Shawn had taken a pocketknife and cut the sleeves off his shirt.

“Marlin Shawn Thibodaux!” his mother bellowed as soon as she saw him. “That was a brand-new shirt, mister!” A dark and brooding South Carolinian of Italian heritage, Camille Thibodaux seemed to get pregnant every time Jacques walked by her. Seven energetic sons had made her an expert bellower. A sheer white cover-up hung to her hips, revealing her black one-piece swimsuit that showed off her full figure. She gave one of her patented glares.

The boy shrugged, flashing her a grin. “Sun’s out, guns out, Mama,” he said, flexing his newly discovered biceps. He’d spent much of his life in the northeastern United States, but there was a definite Cajun drawl to his voice. Five minutes around the kid and it was apparent he took after his daddy in physique and irreverent demeanor. He was only twelve, but he was already taller than his mother. Mattie thought it was a secret, but Quinn was well aware that she had a crush on the boy.

One of the other boys, a sensitive eight-year-old named Denny, bent over the pavement beside the open door of the van.

“I need a Band-Aid, Mama,” he said. Blood dripped from his nose.

“You can’t bandage a bloody nose, son,” Jacques said.

“It’s for his wart,” Camille said. “He’s been pickin’ at it.” She turned her attention to Denny and left Shawn alone to show off his “guns.”

“Warty toes and bloody noses,” Thibodaux winked at Quinn. “See what you’re missin’ havin’ just the one kid?”

Quinn was sure all the Thibodaux boys were just as grouchy as Mattie at having their day at the amusement park postponed while their daddy met with a bunch of men in suits. Jacques sauntered around the corner of the van and gave Quinn a high five with a hand that looked like it could palm a bowling ball. He was a mountain of a man with an iron jaw and a Marine Corps–regulation high and tight. A black eye patch, courtesy of a gunfight in Bolivia while on a mission with Quinn, made him look even more severe than the haircut did.

“Well, we made it, Chair Force,” he said, never missing the chance to take a jab at Quinn’s branch of the service. “And that ain’t no small feat. Getting all my boys here without someone throwin’ up or one bitin’ a hunk out of another is a minor miracle. Know what I’m sayin’?”

Mattie ran up and tugged on Quinn’s arm. “Come on, Dad. Shawn says the line to Dead Drop probably gets even longer after the sun goes down.”

“He does, does he?” Quinn shot a glance at Thibodaux. “Do I need to worry about your boy there, partner?”

Jacques gave a solemn sigh. “I would,” he said. “Poor kid’s just like I was at his age.”

Mattie ran ahead with the two oldest boys so they could stare together in awe at the distant waterslide. All three had carefully measured themselves several times over the last week to make certain they would meet the fifty-inch height requirement to step on the trapdoor that would take them down the Dead Drop. Now, even Shawn looked a little shaken by the sheer height of the monstrosity.

Camille stooped beside the van to blot Denny’s bloody nose with a tissue that she dug out of the pocket of the sheer nylon cover-up.

“You sure you don’t want to put on more clothes, Cornmeal?” Jacques called his wife by her pet name, throwing a diaper bag over his shoulder. “I ain’t gripin’ about the peek at your legs, mind you, but it’s liable to get chilly after the sun goes down.”

Camille shot him an impatient glare. “I shaved those legs in great anticipation of this trip,” she said. “And I’m not about to waste a wax by covering everything up.” Leaving Denny pressing the crumpled tissue to his nose, she leaned into the van to drag the baby out of the car seat and then nodded to the diaper bag in Thibodaux’s hand. Quinn had seen the big man in so many firefights and bloody brawls that it was odd to witness him acting like the big teddy bear that he was.

“Don’t forget to put a half dozen more diapers in there,” Camille said, strapping the baby into the stroller she expertly unfolded with one foot. “I just put a new bag behind the seats.”

Quinn walked with his friend to the twin ambulance doors at the back of the van. He shook his head as Jacques stuffed diaper after diaper into the pack. “The park closes in less than four hours. How many do you think he’ll go through?”

Thibodaux gave a long, low whistle while he mashed in more diapers. “I swear my Henry’s like some baby alchemist. He can manufacture a half gallon of poop from two tablespoons of strained peas.”

Quinn grinned, then turned more sober, nodding toward the park gates. “What do you think about all this?”

“I’m with you, l’ami,” Thibodaux said. The big Cajun looked sideways at the high walls and constant flow of people coming in and out of the park. “My first instinct is to keep ’em all stashed away behind the safe walls of my home. But I guess there’s risk in everything. There’s sure enough risk in makin’ our little ones grow up locked inside a fortress, that’s for certain.” A wide smile spread across the Marine’s face as his wife walked up beside him, pushing the stroller. “As it is,” he said, “I get to spend the next few hours looking at the best pirate booty around.”

Camille punched him in the arm, but the glow on her face said she never got tired of the attention he heaped on her.

Ronnie sidled up next to Quinn, holding one of the younger Thibodaux boys by the hand. Mothering suited her, but Quinn didn’t dare point it out. Apparently able to read Quinn’s worries from the look on his face, she fell easily into the conversation. “I have to admit I don’t like being unarmed, either,” she said. “I thought about putting a gun in my bag, but then I wouldn’t be able to leave it anywhere. There’s just no way to carry in a water park.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jacques said as the group began to walk toward the gates. Mattie and the three eldest boys took the lead, scampering ahead. Camille pushed the stroller while Jacques threw one boy up on his wide shoulders and took another by the hand. Quinn was the only one not watching out for a Thibodaux boy, which was all right with him. It allowed him to keep an eye on his daughter. He knew she felt like he watched over her with the intensity of a thousand suns—but he didn’t care.

“Wait a minute,” Quinn said, picking up his pace so Mattie didn’t get too far ahead. “You’re armed?”

“Damned right I’m armed,” Thibodaux said. “Got a little Ruger .380 under my board shorts.” He shrugged. “It ain’t much, but it’ll do for a gun-gettin’ gun. I figure if it ever hits the proverbial fan, there’s liable to be guns aplenty. I can use this to get me something bigger.” He gave the crotch of his shorts a tap. “Crossways, right here.”

“Looks like a way to shoot yourself in the femoral artery,” Garcia chuckled.

“Well,” Thibodaux raised the brow over his good eye and wagged his head. “I ain’t pointin’ it at anything important.”

Mattie drifted back, falling in beside Quinn as they neared the gate. “Dad,” she said, apparently having forgiven him for their late arrival. “Shawn says he’ll save me a place in line, but I’m so excited I have to go to the bathroom.”

“We’ll find one as soon as we get inside,” Quinn said. He tried to give Shawn Thibodaux a fatherly glare, but Ronnie punched him in the arm.

“That’s okay,” Mattie said. “I memorized the map. We turn left and walk through the food court. Restrooms are right on the way to Dead Drop.”

“Good job on the map, kiddo,” Quinn said. “But are you sure you want to start with the biggest slide in the park?”

“Daddy!” she said, lowering her voice so Shawn Thibodaux couldn’t hear. “Don’t act like I’m a baby. I’m almost nine, you know. We’ve been waiting all week to do this.” She blushed. “Anyway, Shawn said he’d go before me so I can see what it’s like.”

Quinn sighed. Maybe the nagging feeling in his gut had to do with Mattie discovering boys. If Shawn hadn’t been Jacques Thibodaux’s son, he might have taken the Dead Drop together with the boy and had a little man-toman talk—even if he was only twelve.

Chapter 2

8:00 P.M.

Mukhtar paced back and forth in the outer waiting area of the park offices. He’d demanded to see the manager, Mr. Cunningham, but Ms. Tiffany, the two-hundred-pound ball of rules and regulations who was his personal assistant, had decided any meeting would just have to wait.

Before now, Mukhtar had never known the sun to sink at such an alarming rate. It was well below the trees, and he could picture his father joining other neighborhood men at the mosque down the street from their apartment for Maghrib, or sunset prayer. The stone in the boy’s chest grew heavier at each passing moment.

Mr. Cunningham made it a point to tell all of his employees when they were hired that while he did not want to interfere with any religious practices, park rules forbade them from praying in public and frightening the guests. Mukhtar knew this was probably against some law, but decided he needed the job. Fadila did not argue with the boss, but made it clear to anyone who would listen that Buccaneer Beach was an evil place and Mr. Cunningham was little more than a dog. If she and Saleem were going to do something violent tonight, it would happen during Maghrib.

Mukhtar wheeled from the window and stood directly in front of Ms. Tiffany’s desk. “He is coming back soon?”

Ms. Tiffany was high enough up the park pecking order that she didn’t have to wear one of the stupid pirate costumes. Her green blouse and round figure made her look like an unripe tomato. A pair of white earbuds hung beneath frizzed red hair.

“I told you, hon,” she said, popping out one of the earbuds. “I do not know. Tell me what it is you need and I will pass it on to Mr. Cunningham.”

“You have to listen to me,” Mukhtar said. He leaned across the desk, talking through clenched teeth. “This is a matter of life and death.”

“I see.” The woman’s jowly face blanched white. She picked up the desk phone with one hand and her cell with the other. “Are you threatening me? Because I will not hesitate to call the police.”

“By all means,” Mukhtar said, looking over his shoulder to stare out the window at the orange glow to the west. He looked back at the woman who sat frozen at her desk, then slammed his fist down in front of her, knocking a pile of papers to the floor. “Tell them the threat is to all of us!” Spittle flew from his teeth. “Have you ever seen what explosives can do to a crowd of innocent children? Please, call the police at once!”

He punched in 911 himself on the desk phone before turning to shoot a frantic glance out the window again. The last rays of golden light flickered out in the tops of the oak trees.

The call to prayer would begin any moment.

It did not matter now. The police would never arrive in time.

8:02 P.M.

The gathering darkness of late evening did nothing to thin the huge crowds. Strings of electric lights illuminated the concrete pathways between grass huts and wooden stands selling corn dogs, shaved ice, and pork chops on a stick. The smell of fried grease and chlorine filled the humid air and Quinn could not help but think there wasn’t enough oxygen to go around.

Immediately to their right, off the main path and next to a large wading pool, sat the hulk of a wooden pirate ship, complete with miniature slides coming off the deck. It was hollow inside with places for families to get out of the sun during the heat of the day.

“Listen up, powder monkeys!” Thibodaux bellowed. “If anybody gets separated, we meet back at this here pirate ship.” He raised his brow and looked from son to son. “To konprann?”

All the boys nodded to show they understood. When their daddy broke into Cajun, he meant business.

Mattie sprinted ahead as soon as she saw the long stockade-like building where the restrooms were located. Thick oaks that gave welcome shade during the day provided far too many dark places for bad things to hide to Quinn’s way of thinking.

Garcia stood next to him, patting his shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” she said, starting for the restrooms.

Quinn stifled a gasp when she walked past him. He’d been right about the yellow swimsuit. Theoretically a modest one-piece, there was little that was modest about it. With her build ever so slightly on the zaftig side of athletic, there was really no piece of clothing beyond a loose flour sack that could be considered anything close to modest on Veronica Garcia. She wore a black swimming wrap tied around her waist and a light shawl jacket much like Camille’s over her shoulders. Neither did much to cover anything up. The suit certainly offered no place to hide a weapon, even one as small as Jacques’s gun-gettin’ gun.

“I’ll go with them,” Camille said. “After seven kids, I know better than to pass up a chance to use the little girls’ room.” She took the baby out of the stroller. “It’s been fifteen minutes. I know this one will need a change anyhow.”

“I’ll wait here with the kids,” Thibodaux said, nodding to a bored-looking kid standing beside the high-striker attraction. “When you come back I’ll ring the bell with that big freakin’ hammer and win you a teddy bear or something.” He shook his head and winked at Quinn before staring back at his wife. “I hate to see her leave, but I sure like watchin’ her walk away.” He nodded to the milk can game next to the high-striker but kept his good eye focused on his wife’s back end. “You’re a hell of a pitcher. You should try and win Ronnie somethin’.”

Brad, the three-year-old, suddenly decided he needed to go to try out his new potty training. Jacques told Shawn to take him, but Dan, the second oldest at ten, volunteered. He was quiet, more reserved than any of his brothers.

“Go now or forever hold your pee,” Thibodaux said, rounding up the remaining sons. “The rest of you men stick with me.” Quinn appreciated the way Jacques expected even his youngest boys to act like men—though Shawn might consider himself a bit too much of one.

Streetlights blinked on up and down the park pathways in the gathering darkness. The last feeble rays of the sun finally winked out behind the trees as Quinn looked at his watch.

A fiberglass log splashed into the pool at the end of the log flume fifty meters away, sending up a chorus of giddy screams along with a huge spray of water.

A moment later and the entire park shook with the sound of an explosion.

Quinn and Thibodaux exchanged worried looks. A hot wind, the kind that came on the heels of a blast, blew in the men’s faces, bringing with it the smell of concrete dust and hot metal. Both had been downrange enough times to know the sound of a bomb when they heard it—and both knew full well that the smell of charred flesh would come later.

The Cajun scooped his boys closer in big arms, nodding back toward the gate where they’d entered the park. “It came from that way,” he said to Quinn, his face set in a grim line.

Terrified screams punctuated by sporadic gunfire filled the night air. People fled in every direction, disoriented and panicked from the blast and the ensuing gunfire. A woman ran past holding the limp body of a toddler that looked as if it had been dipped in blood. A man dragging what was left of a shredded leg pulled a woman much older than himself to a nearby patch of grass, where they both collapsed.

Camille ran from the restrooms. She pressed baby Henry tight against her chest with one hand and dragged little Brad along by a chubby arm with the other.

Jacques gave an audible sigh of relief at the sight of his wife. “Thank the Lord,” he said.

“Mattie and Ronnie?” Quinn shouted above the panicked crowd that ran in all directions.

“I thought they were behind me,” Camille said. She did a quick head count and shot a terrified look at Jacques. “Where’s Dan?”

Quinn nodded toward the pirate ship at the end of the kiddie pool. Rifle fire popped in front and behind them, bringing more terrified screams. The hulk of the wooden ship appeared to be the only safe direction to go.

Thibodaux put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Take the boys and hide in the boat. I’ll go get Danny.”

The acrid smell of smoke drifted on a wind from the initial blast. Thibodaux was already moving. Quinn ran beside him against the flow of a fleeing crowd, toward the sound of screams, gunfire—and his little girl.

Chapter 3

Mukhtar stood over Ms. Tiffany with both hands flat on her desk when the explosion rocked the building. The windows nearest the front gate shattered, showering the room with tiny shards of glass. Large white tiles fell from the suspended ceiling. Bits of fiberglass insulation drifted down onto the desk like snow. He’d spent his younger years in war-torn Iraq and knew the bomb was close when it went off.

Ms. Tiffany clutched the phone to her ear with white knuckles. “What was that?”

The flat crack of semiautomatic gunfire and the screams of the dying answered her question.

A rampant twitch spread from the corners of her mouth to her round cheeks, her chin, and then her eyes—as if she’d lost all control over the muscles in her face.

“P-p-please don’t hurt me,” she stammered. “Only Mr. Cunningham and the security guys have the combination to the safe. It’s impossible for me to get to the money.”

Ms. Tiffany obviously thought he was there to rob her. Mukhtar threw up his hands in disgust, causing her to hold up the desk phone receiver like a shield between them.

“I do not want the money,” he said. “I am here to help.”

“I have two kids,” Ms. Tiffany babbled, breaking down in earnest. “Please . . .”

Mukhtar pushed away the fear knotting in his belly and looked down at the pitiful thing. “What must I do to show you I am not your enemy?”

The woman stared at him, blinking back tears, her brain playing some perverse loop of what she thought he was saying. “I don’t have the combination—”

“Ms. Tiffany,” he said, affecting what he hoped was a soft and calming tone. “We need to call the police.” Perhaps a task would calm her down.

She pressed the phone against her ear in a shaking hand. “The line is d-d-dead,” she said, dropping the phone and cowering lower behind the desk. “Please, I am a mother, for heaven’s sake. I beg—”

The office door flew open, causing both Mukhtar and Ms. Tiffany to flinch. Mukhtar felt certain he was about to be shot. Instead, the park manager, Mr. Cunningham, stumbled across the threshold clutching a wide-eyed little boy tight in his arms. Wearing only a bathing suit, the child was maybe two or three years old and covered from head to toe in gray soot. He blinked, staring at nothing with huge brown eyes, likely deafened from the initial blast and too frightened to utter even a whimper. Mukhtar heaved a sigh of relief when he saw it was the man he’d originally come to see. Mr. Cunningham was smart. He would know what to do.

“I believe Fadila and her friends are responsible,” Mukhtar said, spilling all his information at once. He felt a pressing need to explain everything he knew to someone in authority. “I came to tell you I saw Saleem had an explosive belt—”

Mr. Cunningham’s eyes fluttered. He pushed the child at arm’s length as if he wanted someone to take him. His shoulders sagged, and it was obvious he would not be able to hold the position long. Only then did Mukhtar see the jagged shard of wood sticking from his boss’s bloody shirt just below his ribs. Mr. Cunningham’s face grew more ashen by the moment. He gave the boy a final shove, pressing him into Mukhtar’s arms before staggering over to push Ms. Tiffany out of the way and collapse in her chair.

“Park . . . lights,” he gasped, his breath barely strong enough to propel the words. Sooty, bloodstained hands trembled over the computer keys. “Have to . . . turn off lights. Make it . . . easier . . . for everyone . . . to hide . . .”

Cunningham gave a final click of his mouse and the office fell dark. Mukhtar peeked out through the mini-blinds to watch as the main lighting all over the park flicked off, leaving the concrete pathways, the concessions, and the water attractions bathed in the eerie yellow glow of the small number of emergency bulbs. It would indeed be much easier now for people to hide in the shadows. This simple act had saved countless lives. His mission complete, Mr. Cunningham slid out of the chair and pitched face-first onto the carpet. Mukhtar had been around death often enough to know it when he saw it, and this man was dead.

Now completely unhinged, Ms. Tiffany threw her jowly face back toward the ceiling and let go a burbling howl. Her head bobbed in time with the intermittent rattle of gunfire outside, as if she were absorbing the bullets with her body and not just her ears.

“Be quiet!” the Iraqi boy hissed. “You’ll bring them down on top of us!”

The woman leaped over her dead boss and ran to the corner as if she thought she’d find a door there. She bounced when she hit the wall and collapsed there in a heap, screaming as if she’d been set on fire. Mukhtar had seen such a thing and she sounded exactly like that. Some people went catatonic at the death of a friend—or the prospect of dying themselves—others went immediately and completely crazy, as if their last shred of sanity had been whisked away in the awful cyclone of violence.

Mukhtar had no idea where to go, but he knew that to stay here in this place with this babbling woman meant eventual and certain death. He pressed the little child to his chest and then ducked out the door into the vague and inky blackness of the water park—and ran.

Chapter 4

8:04 P.M.

“Contact right!” Quinn hissed. The lights blinked out and the music fell silent over the entire park, leaving nothing but gunfire and screams to fill the sudden void. Still twenty meters from the restrooms, Quinn ducked as he ran, digging in to gain more speed to get him to cover before the approaching gunman spotted him. His stomach rose into his throat at the thought of his missing daughter, but his instinct fell to immediate action over hand-wringing worry. His loose deck shoes slapped the pavement as he ran, and he chided himself for not wearing something more secure. It was hard enough to run, let alone fight, when you were worried about shoes flying off your feet.

Both he and Thibodaux slowed, cutting around a group of oak trees and ducking behind the wooden hut for the high-striker carnival game. A Middle Eastern man, probably in his late teens, worked his way down the adjacent pathway, firing an automatic shotgun randomly at fleeing patrons, cutting some down as they ran, letting others pass unharmed. He wore the black polo shirt and khaki shorts of a park employee. Quinn scanned left while Thibodaux, who was closer, focused on the oncoming threat.

Seemingly oblivious that anyone might actually fight him back, the young shooter focused only on whoever happened to be in front of his shotgun. He laughed when he blasted an older couple in their tracks before turning to stalk directly toward the children’s wading pool—and the pirate ship where Thibodaux’s family was hiding.

The Cajun’s huge fists opened and closed, clenching until his knuckles turned white. A quiet roar welled up from his barrel chest. Rather than drawing the .380 pistol, the furious Marine grabbed the huge wooden mallet from the high-striker machine, gripping it at his side like a war hammer.

“You get the kids out of the outhouse, l’ami,” he whispered. “I’m about to go all Gallagher on this guy’s brain housing group before he gets to my family.”

Thibodaux ghosted into the trees without another word. Incessant gunfire peppered the terrified screams of children, flooding Quinn’s brain with horrific images of his little girl. He shook his head in a futile effort to clear it, forcing himself to look past the falling bodies and focus on a second gunman who worked his way toward the long wooden building that housed the restrooms. Tongues of flame burst from the muzzle of what looked like a large-caliber handgun, periodically illuminating the man’s park uniform as he stalked along the sidewalk between the cotton candy shop and arcade games. An elderly couple shielded three small boys, giving them time to run, and then fell, mortally wounded.

Naturally wired to run toward the sound of gunfire, Quinn moved obliquely, staying out of the man’s line of sight, while he worked his way closer. For all his years of training and actual downrange experience, thoughts of his daughter out there among these killers made it nearly impossible to control his breath and keep from getting tunnel vision himself.

Using the faded plywood of a mini-doughnut stand as cover, he came up perpendicular to the pistol-wielding gunman and crouched, waiting for him to approach. The shooter was close enough that Quinn could hear the clatter of an empty magazine as it hit the pavement.

A young family struggling with a baby stroller and dragging a toddler tried to make a run toward the emergency exit. The gunman scoffed, and swung the pistol at the same moment he reached the edge of the doughnut stand. Quinn sprang up behind him, close enough now to smell gun smoke and the stench of the man’s body odor.

Still crouching, Quinn swept the back of the shooter’s right leg with his forearm, bending the knee and causing him to fall backward. The pistol shot went wild, missing the young family and zinging off the concrete walk. Quinn’s hand closed around the startled jihadi’s hand, turning his wrist and the pistol back on itself. The young man’s momentum worked with the odd angle to snap the small bones in his wrist, allowing Quinn to snatch the handgun away before the man hit the ground. Wasting no time on negotiation, Quinn put two quick rounds into the jihadi’s chest and a third in his forehead, just in case he was wearing a vest. Quinn groaned inside when the slide locked back on the last round, signifying the gun was empty. It was an FN Five-seveN, a gun that Quinn was familiar with but had never carried. Quinn stooped to search for another magazine but found the kid had run dry—and with the relatively uncommon cartridge, Quinn wasn’t likely to trip over any more unless one of the other shooters carried a similar weapon. It seemed odd that anyone would mount a terrorist attack armed with only a pistol and a handful of magazines, but Quinn had seen people try to kill him with nothing more than a broken broom handle. Cursing that he still lacked a functioning weapon beyond his pocketknife, he stuffed the empty pistol in the waistband of his shorts and then took a quick moment to snap a photo of the dead shooter with his cell phone. He tried to call 911 but got nothing but a fast busy signal.

Expecting he’d be shot at any moment amid near constant gunfire, Quinn sprinted across the open ground. He met Ronnie Garcia as she stumbled out of the women’s restroom. She’d lost her gauzy cover-up, and the strap of her yellow swimsuit hung off her left shoulder. Even in the feeble amber light of the emergency bulbs, Quinn could clearly see her knees and knuckles were badly skinned as if she’d had an up-close-and-personal meeting with the concrete. A streak of blood across the swell of her breasts stood out in stark contrast to her caffè-latte complexion and the yellow swimsuit. She held what looked like a STEN submachine gun, straight from a British World War II movie.

“Where’s Mattie?” Garcia asked, scanning.

“What?” Quinn clutched her arm, as much to steady himself at the news as to check on Garcia. “She was with you.”

“Oh, Jericho,” she whispered. Her eyes met Quinn’s, and then flicked away toward the trees. “People ran in right after the first explosion,” she said. “You know, trying to hide anywhere they could. I’d just grabbed Mattie to get out of there when this guy walked in and started shooting through the stall doors, executing everyone. He was a big kid, like a football player, but he had a knife on his belt and he didn’t expect me. I was able to use it on him from behind . . .”

“Mattie?” Quinn took Garcia by both shoulders and stopped just short of shaking her. “Tell me the truth! What happened to Mattie?” His knees threatened to buckle at any moment.

“I . . . don’t know,” Garcia said slowly, looking at the ground. “She must have gotten away.” The guilt of losing Quinn’s daughter was bright in the timbre of her voice. “She had to have run right past you.” Garcia held up the STEN gun. Well worn and gray, it looked like a piece of pipe. The magazine jutted out the side instead of the bottom.

“I thought we might be able to use the bastard’s gun, but I tried to shoot him with it and it’s in-op.”

“Broken spring or a jam?” Quinn asked.

“I’m not sure,” Garcia said, tugging at the bolt on the side of the metal tube. It didn’t budge. “I’ll bring it with and see if I can get it to work.”

Quinn cursed under his breath. A working firearm would have come in awfully handy. “What about Dan Thibodaux?”

“I never saw him.” Ronnie bit her lip.

More gunfire sent Quinn and Garcia diving for the shadows behind a doughnut shack. They stopped, back to back, peering through the thick foliage before going any farther. Quinn could feel the heat of Garcia’s torso against him as she heaved with each deep breath. He worked to control his own breathing, centering his thoughts. Images of Mattie’s tearful face, the imagined sound of her plaintive cries, threatened to flood his mind and undo him completely. Bits of his soul felt as if they were being ripped away like shingles off a shaky building in a terrible wind.

He nodded at the STEN gun in Ronnie’s hand. “The guy you took that from is dead?”

“Oh yeah,” Garcia said. “Very dead.”

More shots stitched the night—flashes in the trees, whirring ricochets—sending them deeper into the shadows. Quinn put his arm around Garcia’s bare shoulder as they ran. The acrid smell of gun smoke carried on the back of screams. Families and hastily formed groups of complete strangers darted this way and that in the darkness. They moved with no real destination in mind, only running away from the last shot they’d heard. With gunmen closing in from every direction, running, hiding, anything at all seemed a futile game. Some were lucky and spilled around the shooters. Others were cut down as they ran.

“We have to get to the kids’ pool,” Quinn said, taking Garcia by the hand.

She looked up at him with stricken eyes. “Jericho, I’m so sorry.”

Quinn gave her hand a pat, hoping to offer more comfort than he felt himself. He gritted his teeth in an effort to block out the screams of the wounded and dying.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “Jacques told his boys to meet back there at the pirate ship if they got separated. If Mattie and Dan got past us we should find them back there.”

8:10 P.M.

Quinn’s heart sank when he ducked back into the dark belly of the ship with Garcia and found over thirty terrified people crammed inside—but no Mattie.

In the daylight the place was a playground, a place for families. Now, in the scant yellow glow of emergency lights, with the shadowed tables and hidden ladders, it was a hulking black monstrosity. The smell of urine and fear hung heavy in the air, thick enough to cut. Terrified parents clutched their children close, struggling to keep them quiet. Chattering teeth and ragged breathing seemed loud enough to alert any passing shooter. Camille worked her way through the trembling mass of bodies, stopping in her tracks when she saw Quinn.

“Where is my Daniel?” she asked, sniffing back tears. It did not matter that six of her children were safe if one was still out there.

“I’m sure he’s hiding out somewhere safe,” Quinn said, before the poor woman could jump to the same awful conclusions that already filled his mind. “I’m hoping he and Mattie are together.”

Quinn was certain the strain on his face did little to console the Thibodauxs. His mind racing, he glanced at the glowing dial of the TAG Heuer Aquaracer on his wrist—eight minutes since the initial explosion. Time sped by at an alarming rate—and wasn’t likely to slow down anytime soon. A lot of terrible things could happen in eight minutes. He fought the natural urge of a father to run into the darkness, screaming Mattie’s name. It would do her no good if he were dead—assuming she was even still alive.

Both Quinn and Garcia maneuvered through a knot of sweating and terrified bodies until they stood next to Thibodaux, who stood by a small porthole in the ship’s hull, keeping a lookout with a shotgun.

Quinn eyed the gun. Thibodaux had obviously been successful with the high-striker mallet.

“Hell of a thing, Chair Force” his friend muttered, still gazing out the porthole with his good eye. “Having to decide whether your kids would be slightly less screwed up if they saw some dude get beat to smithereens with a wooden hammer instead of getting his skull blown across the concrete with this blunderbuss . . .”

Quinn knew it was a dangerous endeavor to engage in his friend’s battlefield philosophy. Everyone dealt with the vagaries and meanness of mankind differently. Quinn threw himself into the conflict, expecting some shrink would untie his war knots at some later date—if he survived. Jacques Thibodaux philosophized, often while the bullets were still flying.

“I have an empty FN,” Quinn said, nodding toward the submachine gun in Ronnie’s hands. “She took out a shooter in the ladies’ room but he was armed with a vintage STEN that looked like it hasn’t been cleaned since the Korean War. As far as working guns, we have the Remington and your .380 pistol.” Quinn looked back and forth between his two friends, seeking refuge from his thoughts in the formulation of a strategy. “Anybody have a best guess on the number of bandits?”

Camille Thibodaux stepped up, full lips set white in a grim line. She held baby Henry tight to her chest with one hand and grabbed her husband by the shirt collar with the other. Her grip was none too gentle. “Jacques,” she said, squeezing the baby hard enough to make him whimper. “You better go and bring back my Daniel right damn now. You hear?”

The Cajun put a monstrous arm around his wife and gathered her and the baby in close. She looked like a child against his barrel chest. “You can count on us, Boo.” He kissed the top of her head, his chin beginning to quiver. “I guarantee it. But we gotta make us a plan first or we can’t do Dan nor Mattie any good at all.”

Camille closed her eyes, pressing tears from clenched lashes, but said nothing.

“How many?” Thibodaux mused, turning back to Quinn, gulping back his emotions. “Hard to say for certain, but I’d guess at least six more. There’s gunfire and screamin’ all over the damn place, l’ami. Could even be double that.”

“Our cell phones aren’t working,” a man in a pirate hat and lacy white shirt said. He held his iPhone out in a trembling hand as if to offer proof.

“What’s your name?” Quinn asked, checking his phone again. He too found it impossible to get through.

“Larue,” the man said.

“Well, Mr. Larue,” Quinn said. “It could be that everyone is trying to call out at once. Or there’s a chance these terrorists are using some kind of swamper to jam our signal.”

“Do you think the police even know we’re in trouble?” a voice from the shadows said.

Quinn glanced up at Larue. The man looked ridiculous in his frilly shirt and pirate hat but he seemed squared away enough under the circumstances. “You work here?”

The man nodded.

“Does the park have security?” Quinn asked.

“Just two,” Larue said.

“Armed?”

“Yes.” Larue nodded. “But they’re only here to call the police . . . and to stand by when the armored car guys come for the daily deposit. My guess is they both ran off to save their own skins at the first sign of danger.”

“Fair enough,” Quinn said. “How many visitors come through the park each day?”

“Fifteen thousand, maybe, if we have a good day.”

“Okay, we’ll go with that,” Quinn said. “Let’s say a quarter of those were in the park this evening . . .”

Thibodaux gave a low whistle. “Hard to contain three or four thousand people. A shitload of ’em had to have gotten out.”

“Then where are the police?” a woman from the back said. “The people who got out must surely be talking to police, telling them what we’re up against. I mean, people are dying . . .”

“I’m sure they’re passing that information on,” Quinn said, trying to ignore the nervous banter. “Sometimes law enforcement will jump and run toward the sound of gunfire as soon as they arrive if they think it might stop an active shooter. But with so much gunfire and hundreds of potential witnesses pouring out toward them . . .” Quinn shook his head, imagining what he’d do. “Some of the departments around here use drones with remote cameras—but they’ll take time to get into the air and, frankly, it’s time we don’t have.” He looked at Garcia. “Let’s hear your best guess on numbers. How many do you think we’re dealing with?”

Garcia ran a hand through thick hair, pushing it out of her eyes. Though she was dressed in nothing but the yellow one-piece, the blood of the man she’d recently killed smeared across her front said she was all business. “I’m thinking at least eight or nine shooters from the various directions of the shots—but that’s not counting the three we’ve already taken down.” She paused. “And, of course, any sleepers.”

Quinn nodded at that. His mantra of “see one, think two” reminded him to take into account the unseen threats. There was the very real possibility that some terrorists had yet to identify themselves, but hid among the park visitors, waiting for the right time to step into the light and assist with the killing spree.

Nervous coughs and the scrape of shuffling feet suddenly ran through the belly of the pirate ship like a wave of some contagion. The group of people huddled near the door shrank back from a shadowed figure that stepped into view, backlit by the feeble emergency bulbs along the concrete pathway outside. He stepped forward, as if to highlight the particular worry over an unidentified killer.

“My name is Mukhtar,” he said.

Chapter 5

8:13 P.M.

The Middle Eastern newcomer, a teenager really, held a small boy of two or three in his arms. He looked to be protecting the child, but the thought occurred to Quinn that the young man could just as easily be using the small body to conceal a suicide vest. Just like the shooters he and Jacques had taken out, the newcomer wore the uniform of a park employee.

A woman with gray hair, frizzed and tightly curled from the humidity, snatched the child away, nearly falling backward into the crowd in an effort to get away. She looked to be in her late fifties. Her last name was Hatch, but she’d been as stingy with her first name as she was with kind words.

“I’m afraid we’re full, dear,” Ms. Hatch said, through a tight, pasted-on smile. More gunfire and broken screams underscored the thinly masked hatred. “You should just move along.”

“My name is Mukhtar Tahir,” the boy said again, dipping his head slightly. “I only wish to help—”

“Well, Mukhtar,” a skinny man in a Toronto Blue Jays ball cap sneered, eyeing the boy up and down. “How about you tell us what you use that box cutter hanging off your belt for?”

“Opening boxes.” The boy held up his hands. “You must believe me. I am in no way a part of this madness.”

Quinn stepped forward. “You said you want to help?”

“I believe I know the people responsible for the shooting,” Mukhtar said.

“Oh, I’m certain you do, my dear,” Ms. Hatch said through a clenched jaw that made her sound like a transatlantic snob. Quinn was sure he could hear her teeth cracking. “But we really are full to capacity here. You run along now—”

Thibodaux pointed at the woman, glaring at her with all the intensity of his good eye to shush her. “I’d prefer honest mean to insincere sweetness,” he said. “How about you shut up and let the boy say his piece?”

The man in the Blue Jays hat pushed his way through the milling crowd. He wore only a pair of white board shorts, which contrasted sharply with his deeply tanned chest. His teeth and darting eyes stood out clearly in the scant light from the emergency bulbs outside the ship. The man looked at Thibodaux and grunted, as if he wasn’t having any of it. “You’re big as a house,” he said. “I’ll give you that, but being big don’t make you the one in charge.” He rested a hand on top of his ball cap and looked directly at the boy. “Innocent bystander or not, the needs of the many outweigh being politically correct at the moment. This haji puts us all in danger just by being here.”

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?”

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

8:17 P.M.

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

8:18 P.M.

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.

Pistol still in hand, she used her forearm to wipe a spatter of blood from her cheek. She shot a triumphant glance at her boyfriend, a sly smile spreading across her angular face. The killing—all of it—was even more exhilarating than she had imagined it would be.

“It is working,” she said. “Just as you said.”

The boy with a mop of blond hair grinned back at her, brandishing a stubby black semiautomatic H&K MP5 that made him look even handsomer than she already thought him to be. He’d taken up the war name Abu Tariq—the Night Visitor. He was no longer boring Terry Spencer, only son of a mindless pawn for wealthy American pigs. Abu Tariq assured everyone that Terry Spencer was a disappointment to his father, but Abu Tariq did not care. Abu Tariq had left Terry Spencer behind and now wanted nothing more than to submit himself to Allah, to make a difference, and to eventually die a martyr alongside his new friends—especially Fadila.

“Of course it is working,” Tariq said. “It is also entertaining. These dogs will do anything to postpone even certain death, even if it’s just for a minute or two.” He raised a blond brow and cocked his head slightly in the way that made Fadila’s heart beat in her throat. “Who do we have guarding the wave pool now?” he asked.

“Abu Fahad and Abu Nasser,” Fadila said, hoping he did not see her blush.

Tariq gave a thoughtful nod, running his fingers through his golden hair. “Good. Tell them to shoot anyone who tries to get out of the water. A couple of bloody bodies at either end of the pool should convince most of them to stay in place.” Abu Tariq stared into the distance, thinking of some bit of strategy, no doubt. Fadila had never seen an American boy so good at strategy. “Long enough for our purposes, at least.”

Fadila bowed her head. “Of course,” she said, beaming with gratitude and knowing that she was fortunate to be associated with a man so dedicated to the cause of jihad. It was Tariq who had first shown her the Islamic State videos on the Internet. It had been he who made first contact with the recruiter in Arlington, he who had worked with Islamic State operatives to supply their group with weapons, ammunition, and the belt bomb for Saleem. Every member of their group was pious as well as eager, but they were also young and inexperienced. Tariq had worked with the I.S. contact to devise the perfect plan. Members of the group had pledged their loyalty on a video forum earlier that day, before coming to the park—one by one, ensuring with their violent rhetoric that they could never go back to their former lives. Even the name of their little group of lions, Feesabilillah—“in the cause of Allah”—had been Tariq’s idea. Fadila had never met the Islamic State operative, but Tariq told her the man had heartily approved of the name.

More shooting broke out behind Tariq as he stooped to pick up the black duffel he used to carry his extra ammunition. His blue eyes flashed when he stood up, narrow, with an intensity that sent a warm shiver down Fadila’s legs. She chided herself for the unholy thoughts.

“It’s coming from beyond the tube slides.” Tariq looked at his watch. “That would be the police trying the side gate. They have finally gotten off their fat asses and decided to come to our party.”

More screams filled the humid night. Tariq lifted a yellow handheld radio to his lips as he threw the duffel over his shoulder. “Brothers,” he said. “Listen to me. Conserve your ammunition for when we really need it.”

He clipped the radio to his belt and then held his free hand out toward Fadila. “This will be over soon,” he said, pulling her closer. “The news helicopters will be overhead before long. I’ll watch from the top of Dead Drop, then send word when I see they’ve started to film. Then they can open up on the pool.” He gave her a wink. “I guarantee you it will go viral.”

Fadila squeezed his hand, looking deep into his blue eyes for any sign of resignation or second thoughts. She found none. “And then?” she asked, though she knew what his answer would be. “After you have sent word down to us?”

“Then . . .” he nodded slowly. “Then, I will come down and kill as many policemen as I can before I die beside you, Fadila.”

Chapter 8

Mattie Quinn knelt next to Dan Thibodaux behind a fiberglass log that was as big as a car and made to look like a fat dugout canoe. Larger than life, it was fixed on a stand made of two more fake logs as if in the process of being hollowed out by the animatronic pirates that surrounded it.

Riders boarded the log ride on the floor below, going up and around several turns and splashing into a small pond before making the long, clicking climb up to the second story of the same long building. Once inside, they floated on the man-made river between a motorized scene of fierce-looking pirate mannequins, each armed to the teeth with boarding axes, cutlasses, and blunderbusses, while they worked to bury their treasure and make boats.

A single emergency light cast an eerie yellow glow around the room, throwing huge shadows of the mannequins onto the wooden slat wall. All the pirates had frozen in place when the lights had gone off, but whatever powered the emergency bulbs must have run the water pump and conveyor gears, too, because empty fiberglass logs continued to float into the dim building, bumping the sides of the deep trough with hollow thuds as they moved along the man-made river and disappeared out the far doorway fifteen feet away. Mattie could hear each log as it careened down the flume to splash into the waiting pool below. There was still screaming in the park—a lot of screaming—and gunshots. But sometimes, in between shots, if the screams and the splashes were timed just right, Mattie could imagine someone outside was having fun and not scared out of their minds.

The room was full of motors, rubber belts, and iron wheels—all meant to move the mannequins back and forth to provide a show. The smell of gear oil and dust filled the air. The water had to be deep in the flume in order to float the big fiberglass logs. Mattie had first thought they should try and swim out but decided against it when she thought about the huge drop just outside the door.

Hiding, trying to make herself as small as possible, Mattie found it difficult to breathe, as if she’d been caught in an invisible bear hug. She clenched her mouth shut in an effort to keep her teeth from chattering.

Heavy footsteps clomped around on the wooden floor below. Mattie had caught a glimpse of one of the terrorists when she and Dan ran up the stairs. The man hadn’t seen them yet, but was looking all over the place. Every so often, he called out to anyone who might be hiding, promising he wouldn’t shoot if they came out.

Mattie was only eight, but she was old enough to figure out what her daddy did for a living, and had listened to him enough to know there was no use talking to someone already pointing a gun at you. She’d been close to death before, so close as to sink her teeth into the hand of a man trying to kill her, to give her dad a chance to kill him. She knew her dad would be looking for her. There was no doubt in her mind. So would Ronnie Garcia, but neither of them was here now—and besides, it was a big park, and they wouldn’t even know where to look.

A foot away, kneeling behind the same giant fake log, Dan Thibodaux held a piece of white PVC he’d found outside on one of the fences. He’d first thought to try and use one of the axes or swords from the pirate mannequins, but they all turned out to be plastic. In the end, he’d bent the flexible PVC pipe into a bow with a length of twine he got in the mechanical room. A broken piece of thin bamboo fencing became a makeshift arrow. The top end was notched enough that it fit nicely against the bowstring. The pointy end, where Dan had snapped it off from the ground, looked sharp enough to Mattie that her mom would have taken it away—which made Mattie think it might actually be dangerous enough to work.

Dan had already loaded the arrow and stared intently in the direction of the stairs. Mattie was sure you didn’t say it that way—“loaded the arrow”—but she didn’t know how else to think of it. The rough wooden floor made her knees hurt, but it also creaked and she didn’t want to let the man below know they were there, so she kept still. Dan seemed weirdly calm, even when the footsteps began to clomp up the stairs to get them. It was like he shot terrorists with a homemade bow and arrow every day.

“Think you can hit him before he shoots?” she whispered, her nerves making her talk even when she knew she should be silent. “It might give us time to run.”

Ten-year-old Dan Thibodaux kept his eyes on the stairwell and nodded. Next to her dad, he was the coolest person Mattie Quinn had ever seen.

* * *

Quinn and Thibodaux stopped in a small stand of trees whose branches were decorated with life-size models of pirate corpses hanging in metal gibbets. In a morbid juxtaposition, the bodies of five shooting victims, one of them a little girl about Mattie’s age, lay sprawled in the grass among the same trees where they’d fallen in the process of fleeing their killers.

Quinn motioned for Mukhtar to get behind him when he saw one of the shooters enter the four-story wood-sided building that housed the log ride. A second, taller shooter disappeared around the corner.

“Tell me about the inside of that place,” Quinn said, nodding toward the log ride.

“It is tall,” the Iraqi boy whispered. “But apart from where people board the logs to begin their ride, most of the lower interior is scaffolding of wooden beams. There are only two floors. The second floor is at the very top.” He went on to describe the pirate scene inside while peering into the darkness at the building. Finished, he looked back and forth from Quinn to Thibodaux. “There is another door in the back but it is also on the first floor. If they are inside, your children have nowhere to run.”

“I got the tall son of a bitch around the corner,” Thibodaux hissed. “You take care of the one going in the side door. I’ll join you shortly.”

Quinn gave a grim nod, experiencing the white-hot rush he felt in his chest prior to any deadly conflict. These two surely murdered the little girl at his feet. “Wait here,” he said to Mukhtar, before moving out at a steady, silent trot. He had no weapon, but Mattie was in danger. If he had to, he would use his teeth.

* * *

Jacques Thibodaux was a very large man, large enough to kill one of these teenage pukes with his bare hands if the opportunity arose. But Hollywood movies notwithstanding, killing was rarely a quiet occurrence. People had a tendency to gurgle or squeak before they actually expired. Sometimes it took a brain a while to come to grips with the fact that it was already dead.

Sporadic gunshots popped and rattled around the park—killers, stalking and slaughtering their prey. A few more shots wouldn’t raise any suspicion. What Jacques couldn’t afford was for the kid to get a word out on his radio that someone had decided to fight back—or worse yet, to tip off the shooter inside and screw up Quinn’s approach.

This had to happen quickly.

As big a man as he was, the Marine could be a feather on the wind when he moved. He made a mental note to thank his sweet bride for making him wear the Sperry Top-Siders instead of his favorite pair of squeaky runners.

A giant paw dwarfed the minuscule Ruger .380 pistol. Standing in the shadows of the dark wood at the edge of the building, he cocked his head to one side, listening intently to try and pinpoint the location of his target. He could hear the idiot humming just around the corner, as if the guy was certain he was at the top of the food chain, with nothing to fear in the world. Thibodaux had gathered himself up to pounce when a flurry of movement in the bushes less than ten feet away caught his eye. At first Thibodaux thought it was Dan and Mattie, but it turned out to be three boys huddled together in the manicured shrubs. They looked to be about the age of his middle sons—somewhere between six and nine. Terrified and obviously separated from their parents, they were caught out in the open, in plain view of the shooter.

Still hidden by the corner of the building, Thibodaux raised his arms to try and get the boys’ attention and warn them without giving away his position. Around the corner the humming stopped.

“Hey little children,” a sneering voice called, thickly accented. “Do you think the shadows hide you? I can smell your piss and see the leaves shaking from here. Come out and maybe I will not hurt you.”

Spellbound, the little boys stared, frozen in place. For a moment Thibodaux feared they might actually comply. He reckoned from the sound of the voice and the scrape of a boot on gravel that the shooter was just around the corner—maybe five feet away and certainly close enough to hit the kids with no problem if he shot.

Thibodaux scoured the ground around him with his good eye, looking for a rock, but found none. With nothing else to throw, he kicked off one of the Top-Siders and threw it at the bushes, startling the kids out of their stupor.

Thibodaux heard another telltale scrape of a shoe as the shooter moved closer to the corner, no doubt trying to set up for a shot. Thibodaux heard him chuckle under his breath as the boys broke from the bushes like frightened rabbits.

The big Marine rolled around the corner with the .380 in his hand, coming face-to-face with the startled shooter. Surprised that anyone had the audacity to fight back, the tall jihadi attempted to backpedal. He held the rifle out with both hands, attempting to use the wooden stock to fend off what must have looked like an oncoming freight train barreling down on top of him in the darkness. Thibodaux swatted the rifle barrel out of the way with one hand as he brought the little pistol up directly under the shooter’s chin, depositing three of its seven rounds in rapid succession.

The terrorist’s eyes flew wide open as the bullets tore through his tongue. Three copper-jacketed lead slugs punched through his soft palate and sinuses to lodge in the slurry of bone fragment, blood, and gray matter that had moments before been his brain. Thibodaux grabbed the action of the little M1 carbine as the dead jihadi toppled straight backward like a felled tree.

“And that,” the Marine said to the lifeless body as he tucked the little .380 back in the pocket of his board shorts and shouldered the carbine, “is why I call it my gun-gettin’ gun.”

Chapter 9

“He’s coming,” Dan Thibodaux whispered. Mattie could see sweat beading on her friend’s forehead, but his breathing was steady, still oddly calm. He raised the white PVC bow and aimed the bamboo arrow at the open doorway. The footsteps grew louder on the stairs. “Get ready to run,” he whispered.

A new log came through the black opening at the far edge of the building, splashing with a loud whoosh into the water, bumping and clunking along the side of the flume as it bobbed by between the kids and the opposite door.

Mattie tried to squish herself into a ball, getting as low as possible while keeping both feet flat on the floor. She had already decided she was going to run no matter what happened. One of her earliest memories was of her dad giving her the “Stranger Danger” talk—warning her about what to do if someone tried to kidnap her. Her dad said she should always run. There was a chance the bad guy wouldn’t even hit you if he did decide to shoot. And if he did actually hit you, it wouldn’t be like the movies. The chances you wouldn’t die were a lot better than if you just stood there like a helpless target.

Sometimes, though, it was hard to be anything else.

Mattie clenched her eyes as the steps got closer. Water in the flume sloshed, bringing the log closer with a series of hollow thuds.

“Anybody home?” a voice said. It was almost playful. “Time to come down with all your friends . . .”

The emergency light in the stairwell threw the lopsided shadow of a man with a gun into the room, sending it creeping across the pirate mannequins a moment before the terrorist actually entered. Dan pushed the PVC bow out in front of him. He drew the string all the way back to his cheek, letting the arrow fly the instant the man turned to face them.

The bamboo shaft zipped through shadows, sticking the terrorist in the belly. Instead of falling dead, the man looked up, eyes wide in surprise. He put a hand on his stomach, but left the arrow in place, as if afraid to touch it. His face twisted into a dark grimace.

Mattie felt a shiver run through her body. She gathered herself up to run.

“You little shit!” The wounded man screamed, the protruding arrow bouncing as he glared at Dan Thibodaux. He dabbed at the spot with his fingers in disbelief and came up with blood. “You think you are brave man to save your little bitch.” He threw the rifle to his shoulder, but a series of quick pops outside the building caused him to stop and look toward the door.

Mattie dove for the passing log, feeling Dan jump behind her. From the corner of her eye, she caught a flurry of movement in the flume by the far door. A silver flash rose from the water behind the terrorist, an instant before Mattie and Dan floated out to plunge into the darkness below.

The movement was so fast and fierce that Mattie was gone before she had the chance to realize it was her dad.

* * *

Unable to move directly up the wooden stairs without alerting the shooter, Quinn elected to scramble up the underside of the log ride. The pungent odor of creosote hung in the humid shadows as he worked his way up the scaffolding. The heavy timber beams were spaced just far enough apart that he had to jump to reach each one as he climbed. He had plenty of incentive with Mattie at the wrong end of a gun and made it up to the crosspieces supporting the flume in a matter of seconds. Water dripped from the leaking trough in a steady stream, slicking the timbers and causing Quinn to slip twice, narrowly missing a four-story plunge to the concrete below. Feet dangling, and hanging by his armpit just outside the entrance to the building, he was finally able to pull himself over the side of the flume and slip into the water. He moved belly down in the man-made river, grabbing the side of a floating log and letting it pull him along unseen. Over the lip of the log, he could just see the image of the shooter as he came through the door. Floating steadily forward, Quinn was almost close enough to make his move. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Mattie hiding in the darkness, and he was happily surprised when Danny Thibodaux shot the arrow from his homemade bow. The shot was minimally effective, but bought him a fraction of a second to make his move against the gunman.

Quinn exploded out of the water at the same moment the young jihadi raised his rifle to cut down Mattie and Dan. He saw the children move, but was too focused on the would-be killer to know where they went.

A low growl escaped his teeth as he brought his left elbow across in a devastating strike that all but tore the shooter’s nose off his face. Following through with the same elbow on the way back across, Quinn snaked his arm over his stunned opponent’s throat, snapping the man’s head backward in a reverse guillotine choke that arched his entire body backward over his heels. Probably still in his teens, the kid had no idea what was even happening.

Trapping the shooter in tight next to his armpit, Quinn drove the thin stiletto-like blade of the Benchmade over and over again into his exposed chest in a rapid series of hammer-fists, letting go to rage at the man who had killed so many—and would have murdered his little girl.

“He’s gone, l’ami.” Thibodaux’s thick Cajun whisper worked its way through the angry red mist of Quinn’s brain.

He drove the blood-slicked knife into the dead man’s chest for the final time. Panting, his face spattered in blood, Quinn let the dead man slide from his grasp.

Chapter 10

8:31 P.M.

Quinn spun, knife still clutched in his hand, thinking he’d find Mattie hiding in the corner. He stood panting, thinking, trying to make sense of things when he saw she wasn’t there. He wiped the blood off the Benchmade on the leg of his wet shorts and returned the knife to his waistband before stooping to pick up the fallen jihadi’s rifle. Water and blood ran in rivulets off his body, forming a dark puddle on the wooden floor.

Thibodaux stood by the door to the stairwell, the wooden stock of an M1 carbine in one hand, while he studied the dead terrorist with his good eye. He looked up at Quinn to give him a sober nod.

“You okay, Chair Force?” the Cajun said. “You got a lot of blood on your face.”

“Good,” Quinn said. He jumped across the log flume to search the area around the pirate mannequins where he’d last seen Mattie and Dan.

“I figured you’d done what you needed to do when I didn’t hear any gunfire. Mukhtar is right behind me.” He looked over his shoulder. “Come on up, kid.”

The Iraqi boy stepped hesitantly into the room and gave a wan smile. He looked down at the dead jihadi. “That is Ibrahim,” he whispered. “He is a bully.”

“Was a bully,” Thibodaux said, looking from the dead man to Quinn. “You shoot him with a piece of bamboo?”

“Not me.” Quinn held up the white PVC bow. “Mattie and Dan were here,” he said. “They must have run as soon as Danny shot.” Quinn went to the opening where the logs exited the building and peered out, making sure not to silhouette himself. He saw nothing but the dark outlines of trees and the empty splash pool at the base of the log ride.

Thibodaux came up beside him and took the bow. “My Danny shot that guy with this?”

Quinn nodded. “Looks that way.”

Thibodaux pulled the bowstring and sighed. “Clever boy,” he said. “Takes after his mama.” He dropped the bow and turned toward the door. “Come on, l’ami. If they just left they’re likely still down below. We can catch up to ’em before these shitheads do.”

Both men froze when the radio on the dead jihadi’s belt broke squelch. Quinn picked it up and held it in an open palm between them as they listened.

“Everyone needs to slow down,” a voice on the radio said, this one absent the Middle Eastern accent of the others. “Keep the prisoners moving but save your ammo.”

“That one,” Mukhtar said. “That is Terry Spencer—Tariq, the one I told you about.”

Another voice came across the radio. “Two cops tried again to breach the eastern gate,” the voice said. “I shot them before they could get inside, praise Allah, glory to Him.”

“Excellent,” Terry/Tariq said. “The news choppers will arrive soon and then we can make our demands. Everyone wait for my signal.”

“Wahib copy.”

“Saqr, copy.”

“Al Riyad, copy.”

“Yasir, copy.”

A garbled mix of sounds came next, as several people “bonked” each other, all trying to speak at the same time. Terry/Tariq’s tense voice cut them all off.

“Shut up! Shut up! All of you!” He all but screamed over the radio. “The police have radios, too, you idiots! Anyone who happens to be listening in on this will be able to count us.”

The radio fell silent for a long moment before the lone reply.

“Sorry . . .”

Thibodaux rolled his good eye. “I think we got us a bunch of highly trained professionals,” he muttered. He tapped an identical radio clipped to the waist of his board shorts. “Which reminds me. I took this off the tall goober I met outside. Turned it off so it didn’t give me away when I was sneakin’ up on another one.”

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.”

Chapter 11

8:36 P.M.

Mattie Quinn hit the water hard, landing on her back and sliding off someone’s clammy shoulder to go completely under. It was freezing cold compared to the hot night, and she had to fight to keep from gasping in a lungful of water as she fought her way to the surface.

She and Dan had made a run for it as soon as their log slowed down enough for them to clamor out—hoping to get back to the pirate ship where Dan’s dad had told them all to meet up if they got separated. They didn’t even make it back to the restrooms before they met two of the terrorists coming around one of the little concession stands. Mattie almost peed herself she’d been so scared, but instead of killing them, the men had poked them with rifle barrels and marched them into the darkness in the opposite direction of the pirate ship—and then had thrown them in the wave pool with at least a hundred other people.

The wave pool looked like a giant bowl of human soup. It was well over her head, and the danger she might be held under by some flailing grown-up, panicked out of his mind, was a real possibility. The cold water shocked her heart. Chlorine hurt her eyes and stung her nose. She came up sputtering, lungs burning and bursting with fear. Blinded and disoriented, Mattie treaded water as she cried out for Dan Thibodaux. She’d heard a shot when they’d thrown her in and was scared they might have killed him just for fun.

“Hey, Mattie.” His quiet, sure words were nearly drowned out by the hum of other frightened voices and the splashing movement of all the people in the pool. “I’m here. Right beside you.”

He put a tentative hand on her arm, taking care not to push her under. “Are you okay?”

Though most of the park had gone dark, the lights in the pool still worked, making the shimmering blue water stand out starkly in the night. Hundreds of terrified people bobbed in the water. At least a dozen bodies floated facedown amid clouds of blood. Mattie had counted three men with guns when they’d marched her to the pool. The men had forced almost everyone into the water, but she’d seen a bunch more standing around the edge, their hands tied in front of them. Some were men, some were women, but all the people around the edge were grown-ups.

Mattie wiped the wet hair out of her face and nodded, suddenly unable to stop shivering. Her teeth chattered. She blinked hard, trying to clear her eyes and stay above water.

Dan tapped on her shoulder and pointed to the shallow end. “I don’t think there’s an inch of space between anybody down there,” he said. “We’re gonna have to swim for a while.” He sounded an awful lot like his daddy when he was tense.

“I’m fine,” Mattie said, still sputtering. She wiped her face again. Her teeth still chattered uncontrollably. “I can float pretty good.”

“I see three guys with rifles,” Dan said, swirling his arms in the water to spin slowly around without actually going anywhere.

“I wonder why they have some people standing up there out of the water,” Mattie wondered out loud, as much to herself as to Dan Thibodaux.

“I can’t figure that out,” Dan said.

Mattie leaned her head back and peered up through the darkness at the helicopter hovering above. She could see the flashing lights of another one flying in from a long way off.

“It’s a police chopper,” Dan said. “See the spotlight?”

Mattie nodded, blowing water out of her face and trying her best to stay calm. She looked at the men with guns, and then at Dan. “I wish our dads were here. You think the police will start to shoot the bad guys soon?”

Dan shook his head, sniffing and squinting his eyes from the heavily chlorinated water. “I don’t know,” he said.

“I think our dads would shoot them,” Mattie said.

“They might,” Dan said. “But I’ll bet these guys will start killing more people if the police don’t get them all right away. My dad says it’s pretty hard to hit anything from a helicopter.”

Dan was starting to shake, too, but Mattie couldn’t blame him. It was impossible not to be scared bobbing there in the swimming pool next to so many dead people.

Someone bumped into Mattie’s back. She thought it might be one of the bodies and spun hard, pushing away. It turned out to be a blond lady in a black-and-white checked swimsuit, treading water behind her. She looked like she was about Ronnie Garcia’s age, only heavier and with much paler skin. She held a pink foam swim noodle just below the surface.

“Sorry to bump into you,” Mattie said.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” the woman said, forcing a smile. A trickle of blood oozed from a gash on her pale shoulder. She grimaced, obviously in pain. “How old are you?”

“Eight,” Mattie said.

Dan swam up beside her so they were shoulder to shoulder. “I’m ten,” he said. Mattie could tell he was protecting her, and she liked it.

“Eight and ten years old,” the woman said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Y’all are holding it together better than most of the adults around here tonight.” She pushed the foam swim noodle out to Mattie “Here, take this. You need it more than I do.”

Mattie took the end of the float, grateful for the chance to give her arms and legs a rest. “Are you sure? It looks like you’re hurt.”

“I’ll be fine,” the woman said, dabbing at her shoulder. “What is it they say? It’s only a flesh wound. And heaven knows I have enough flesh to keep my head above water. My name’s Sarah, by the way.”

“I’m Mattie.” She looked around. “Are you all by yourself?”

“My date and I got separated in the dark,” Sarah said, looking lost and sad. “I just met him on Tinder, so I hardly knew him anyway. To tell you the truth, I think he probably swiped left and saved himself.”

“What?” Mattie asked.

“Nothing,” Sarah said, sounding sad.

Mattie moved the pool noodle so Dan could lean on one end, and then kicked around to maneuver so the other was directly in front of Sarah. “Stay next to us, then,” she said. “We’re alone, too.”

Sarah’s eyes clenched shut and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Mattie thought the poor woman was going to cry, but instead she moved in closer, eager for the friendly company.

Dan made the mistake of looking at one of the gunmen a little too long—a teenager with a sparse black beard. The man raised his rifle and pointed it with a harsh glare. Dan and Mattie both turned, relaxing only slightly when no shots came their way.

“Yeah,” Sarah said, touching the wound on her shoulder again. “They don’t like it when you stare. I can vouch for that.”

“There’s a whole bunch of us and just a few of them,” Dan said. He kept his voice low, though there was no way the terrorists could hear him over the whimpering moans that rose from the pool. “It seems like a bunch of grown-ups should be able to rush them and take away their guns.”

Sarah scoffed. “Grown-ups don’t often work together so very well—”

The abrupt twang of an acoustic guitar with a heavy, clapping beat poured in from the darkness. The sudden noise caused everyone in the pool and the gunmen surrounding it to turn back and forth, looking for the origin. It took a minute to realize the music was coming from speakers all over the theme park.

Mattie perked up as she listened. “That’s ‘Beat the Devil’s Tattoo,’ ” she whispered, recognizing the song immediately. “Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.”

Sarah stopped treading water, cocking her head to look at the nearest shooter. “Listen,” she said. “The music’s playing over the speakers, but it’s also on their walkie-talkies. I wonder where it’s coming from.”

Mattie gave Dan’s ribs a happy nudge as a wide smile spread across her face. “I bet you it’s coming from my dad’s phone,” she said.

Chapter 12

8:38 P.M.

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

8:41 P.M.

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.

Instinctively, Quinn lowered his center, capturing the hand that held the dagger and turning it back on its owner. Falling, as much from nausea as any martial arts technique, he drove the dagger into Saqr’s chest. He felt the familiar pop as the blade punched through the cartilage connecting the man’s ribs to his breastbone, and slid into his heart.

Quinn left the quivering knife where it was and pushed away. He scooped up the dying man’s rifle, a short AK-47 carbine with a folding stock, and then stood to test his damaged leg. He could put weight on it, so that was a blessing. The entry wound was located just below the hem of his swim trunks. It was a good two inches across, made deeper by the lateral movement of the double-edged blade when Saqr had stuck him. The exit wound was small enough it could be covered with a Band-Aid. Quinn didn’t want to think about the damage done inside. A more experienced man would have slashed the inside of the leg, severing the femoral artery, bleeding Quinn out in a matter of minutes. As it was, his wound wept a steady flow of blood. But nothing arterial, Quinn thought. That was blessing number two.

The elevator doors chimed as they slid open behind him. Quinn spun to find a muscular man with a black beard peering over the railing toward the base of the slide. It was Kaliq, the young jihadi who had laughed while he shot dead the group of UVA students. Music from the Black Keys still played from the two-way radio in his hand. His gun was parked against the rail ten feet from where he stood.

Blessing number three.

Bodies lay strewn around the concrete deck—groups of teens, families, middle-aged couples—arms and legs tangled, stacked as if they’d been dropped on top of one another. They’d been trapped at the top of the waterslide when the shooting began—and eventually murdered as they tried to run.

The top floor of Dead Drop was wide open but for the trapdoor entrance that gave the slide its name. A two-foot-wide column beside the hard plastic door was home to a small panel that housed the simple controls: a green light to signify the bottom of the slide was clear, and a large red button that tripped the door like a gallows, sending the rider on a near vertical drop for the first ten of the twenty-one-story journey. Wooden stanchions and yellow rope, meant to keep people in line as they queued up for the ride, were now a tangled knot, overturned by the stampede of victims as they attempted to flee back down the stairs. Those who had made it out the small doorway accounted for the pile of dead he’d passed at the bottom.

Saqr’s AK at his hip, Quinn aimed at the jihadi’s belly and pulled the trigger. Fresh out of blessings, he heard nothing but the resounding click of the firing pin on an empty chamber.

Chapter 14

8:42 P.M.

Ronnie Garcia had long since given up hope that anyone crowding around her in the belly of the pirate ship would stay anything close to calm. Instead, she tried to keep the noise down to a level that might, if they were extremely lucky, keep them undiscovered and alive. She knew from experience that few people could keep still, let alone quiet, when they were afraid. The more heightened the sense of fear, the jerkier and more vocal the human body became—as if every muscle and bone was crying out in terror. Breathing became ragged, knees jumped uncontrollably, teeth chattered to the point of breaking. Pent-up words hummed and buzzed, struggling for release behind pursed lips. Children and adults alike sobbed and shuffled, embarrassed at not being able to control their bladders. Jericho called it terror-piss, and the smell of it was overpowering in the dank surroundings, adding to the misery—and the noise level—of the little band of refugees.

Thankfully, the port side of the vessel faced away from the concrete pathways and concession vendors, open to the shallow wading pool. In less violent times, this gave parents a place to sit and watch their toddlers play in the water, protected from the sun and general hubbub of the park. Slides came down from the top deck into the water, and ladders made it possible for small children to climb up from inside the ship’s hold. A half dozen plastic picnic tables were situated around the toddler-size play equipment below. It should have been a fun place, full of splashing and laughter, but hope had vanished with the breeze. The fans that normally kept the shady playground cool had clicked off with the lights shortly after the shooting had started.

Forty minutes had passed since the first explosion. The gunfire had slowed, but errant shots and screams still popped and wailed throughout the park, ripping at the last shred of Ronnie’s nerves and keeping everyone huddled in place.

Though physically sick with worry over Jericho and Mattie, Ronnie had no children and could only imagine the stress Camille Thibodaux was going through. So far, the tough little brunette had been a rock, working to fight what had to be bone-crushing despair while she faced the realities of keeping her remaining six sons as quiet and upbeat as possible.

“Mama,” Denny whispered, his voice as frail as he looked. “My nose is starting to bleed again.”

“Hush now,” Camille said, drawing her little boy closer. She removed the sheer cover-up, making her look all the more vulnerable wearing nothing but her swimsuit. Blood dripped onto her bare thigh. “Just hold it there like that. You’ll be fine.”

One of the men in the back scoffed. “Fine?” he mumbled. “That’s laughable. We’re a long way from fine, kid. It’s only a matter of time—”

Camille glared daggers at the man, her intent clear even in the darkness. He turned away and melted back into the crowd.

“I’m thirsty,” a little girl who couldn’t have been over three whimpered.

Her mother, a near catatonic young woman who had watched her husband and in-laws murdered just minutes before, patted the child on the back, but said nothing.

“I could get her some water from the wading pool,” twelve-year-old Shawn Thibodaux whispered. “It’s gross, but it would be better than nothing.”

“It might come to that,” Camille said, giving her eldest boy a proud smile. “Let’s give your daddy a few more minutes before we venture out. He’ll take care of this, I prom—”

“I am sorry,” Ms. Hatch said, speaking through lips pulled as tightly as her gray curls, “but that gentleman is right. We are in serious trouble, and it’s time we admit it.”

Ronnie held up the shotgun as if to illustrate how aware she was of the dangers. “What do you think we’re doing?” she said.

Ms. Hatch rolled her eyes. It was obvious she was used to being in charge and the fact that someone else was calling the shots had crawled up under her skin and galled her.

“It seems apparent to everyone in this place except you two that your men have been . . . taken . . .”

“You mean murdered,” Camille said, her chest heaving, chin quivering. Ronnie knew the poor thing was beginning to crumble. And who could blame her? Her little boy, and now Jacques.

“I didn’t say that, my dear,” the woman said, as disingenuous as ever. “I only mean to say you might want to season your hope with a little dash of realism.”

“You have no idea what my husband is capable of,” Camille whispered.

“If he’s smart,” the man in the Blue Jays hat said, “he’s found a way out of this shithole and saved his own ass.”

Shawn stood and squared off at the man. “My dad would never—”

“Shut your piehole, kid,” the man said. “If your daddy ain’t gone over the wall, then he’s got his ass shot off. We’re stuck with nothin’ to protect us but the hot tamale with a shotgun. End of stor—”

Camille flew at the man like a woman on fire, spitting and clawing at his face. The otherworldly wail of a woman who’d lost her child made the hair on Garcia’s neck stand up.

The idiot backpedaled, barking at Camille to leave him alone, and doubled his fist to hit her. Before he could swing, Mr. Larue smacked him in the side of the head with a piece of broken concrete, knocking him to his knees.

“I’m scared,” Larue said, straightening his pirate hat, “but not scared enough to listen to that.”

Camille stood over the man, one bare leg cocked back as if ready to fly at him again. Her dark hair was mussed, her chest heaving. The right strap of her swimsuit hung off a shoulder. Ronnie didn’t know if she’d ever seen such a burning intensity from another human being.

Blue Jays looked up at Ronnie with squinting eyes, mouth opening and closing—teetering on the verge of a scream. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his head in front of his ear. “You . . . you’re supposed to be some kind of law?” His voice rose in tremulous anger and indignation until it became a ragged scream. “What are you gonna do about this? Huh? Are you just gonna stand there and—”

Ronnie answered his question with a quick thump to the face with the butt of her shotgun, knocking him out cold. “Hot tamale, eh?” Ronnie said, fire flashing in the depths of her eyes. “No, postalita, I am not going to stand around and let you give us all away.” She gave Larue a wink in the darkness. “A necessary evil. He was making far too much noise.”

“I hate to say it,” Larue said, eyeing Ronnie and keeping his voice to a judicious whisper. “But it is true that your friends aren’t back yet. It’s been over a half an hour. We may need to try another option.”

Ronnie took a deep breath. Maybe the man was right. Jericho and Jacques had been gone too long.

The scrape of a boot on gravel outside the ship caused Ronnie to wheel back to the porthole. She held up her left hand to silence everyone in the crowded ship, and pointed the shotgun out the porthole, toward a man wearing a park uniform approaching from the shadows.

* * *

Fadila Baghdadi watched as a flower of orange flame erupted like cannon fire from the side of the wooden ship. A hundred feet away in the trees, she clutched her pistol and watched as Abu Nasser pitched forward into the darkness, cut down by the sudden blast. She’d witnessed many deaths that night, and expected to witness many more. Her own death was inevitable, part of the plan—but she still found it painful to see her friends die.

This was not part of the plan at all. Abu Nasser was not supposed to go yet. They would all go together when the cameras arrived and police stormed the park in a final, glorious battle. But somehow, someone inside the ship had gotten their hands on a gun.

Fadila kept to the shadows, working her way toward the dark hulk of the pirate ship, stopping alongside a wooden shack that smelled of sweets, less than twenty yards away. There were definitely people inside, several of them from the sounds of murmuring—hiding there, waiting to cut down her friends as they walked past. The thought of it set a hot ball of rage alight in her belly.

She wondered if the people inside the ship were the ones responsible for the incessant music that had cut off their communications and rendered the radios useless. Hers was off, but she abandoned it on the sidewalk anyway, realizing it would give her away.

Lifting the black polo, she shoved the pistol down the waistband of her khaki shorts in front of her hip bone. She took a deep breath to steel her resolve, then pulled a green egg-shaped object from her front pocket and held it in her open palm, staring at the oblong outline of a RGD-5 hand grenade. There were only two. Tariq had one and she had the other. They’d planned to use them together, taking many infidels with them at the time of their own deaths. Not as powerful as the American grenades, the Russian weapon was far cheaper, and much easier to obtain. It would most certainly kill anyone hiding in the stupid ship.

She stuffed the grenade back in her shorts, leaving it high in her pocket so she could reach it easily. The fuse would burn for less than four seconds, so Fadila knew she would die as well—but that was of no consequence.

She mussed her hair to look as if she was also being hunted, then affected the terrified expression she’d seen on the faces of the people she’d killed that night. Americans were quick to trust a woman in jeopardy. Whoever was in the ship, police or otherwise, would believe her long enough to give her the opportunity to kill them all.

Chapter 15

8:43 P.M.

Quinn gave the base of the AK-47’s magazine an upward smack with the flat of his hand, and then racked the bolt and pulled the trigger. Years of training had embedded the tap, rack, bang drill in his brain for a failure-to-fire malfunction—

Tap, rack . . . but no bang. Quinn chided himself for not checking the chamber when he’d picked up the weapon, realizing Saqr must have run it dry.

Abu Kaliq turned out to be much more athletic than the others in his group and jumped sideways at the first sight of Quinn, as if to try and dodge his fire. The jihadi smiled when the gun malfunctioned, and then dove for his own rifle that leaned against the wall. Quinn threw the useless AK like a spear, crashing in behind it with the point of his shoulder.

Quinn felt the other man’s rib cage bend inward as they came together. It would have been a devastating blow, but the knife wound in Quinn’s thigh throbbed as if it had been stuffed with hot coals and robbed him of a considerable amount of power as he sprang forward. Still, it knocked the wind out of Kaliq long enough for Quinn to get him rolled back on his heels—for the moment.

Quinn saw the black plastic box that had to be the cell phone jammer and tried to work his way to it, but Kaliq circled, putting himself in front of the device. Tariq was nowhere to be seen, but Quinn didn’t have time to worry about anyone who wasn’t trying to kill him right then and there.

Battle, especially in close quarters, was frenetic and unpredictable—but for a victory, it had to be fought with an end goal in mind. Inflicting pain might slow down the opponent or redirect his energy, creating a different avenue for attack. But pain didn’t stop a determined fighter. In the end, blood or oxygen to the brain had to be interrupted, from a correctly applied choke, a bullet, a blade—or the sudden fatal meeting with the concrete after a fall from twenty-one stories.

Quinn pressed forward, shoving Kaliq backward toward the rail, driven by momentum and rage. But the young jihadi had other plans, and stepped off-line to slow Quinn’s attack. At the same time, he reached over Quinn’s shoulder to yank the T-shirt up his back toward his neck, gripping all the gathered fabric from neck to hem in a stout fist. Crossing his forearms, Kaliq snaked in to grab a second handful of shirt and collar on the other side of Quinn’s neck—and then squeezed.

His turn to push, the heavier man drove Quinn backward as he pulled his forearms together, bashing Quinn into the clear Plexiglas tube that covered Dead Drop’s entry. The flimsy tube was meant for safety, not security, and it separated from the wall under the force of Quinn’s body. Tipping sideways like a tree, it rolled across the concrete to expose the trapdoor.

The collar of Quinn’s own shirt pressed against the arteries at the side of his neck, cutting off the blood to his brain. With only seconds until he passed out, Quinn shot his left arm between Kaliq’s elbows, putting the flat of his own hand to the side of his head, wedging open the jihadi’s grip with his arm and shoulder—a simple but effective choke escape called “answering the phone.”

Quinn felt the tingling rush as blood returned to his brain, and he used the renewed energy to pummel Kaliq’s open left side with a series of brutal uppercutting hooks, digging deep into the soft underbelly just below the man’s rib cage. Kaliq struggled to put some distance between himself and the brutal beat-down to his spleen. Smart enough to know he shouldn’t run, the jihadi mounted another attack the instant he felt any relief from Quinn’s punches. Injured and fatigued, the kid lumbered forward, intent on using his greater mass. Quinn sidestepped, throwing out the inside of his forearm like a club and letting it thud directly across the brachial plexus on the left side of Kaliq’s neck. The disruption of nerve impulses caused the jihadi to gurgle unintelligible sounds as his feet outran the upper portion of his body. He tried to regain his balance, but found himself caught in an explosive flurry of hooks and crosses that sent him staggering back directly over the slide’s now-exposed trapdoor. Slamming against the control column, his back collided with the red button and the door fell away, sucking him out of Quinn’s grasp.

Unwilling to let Kaliq escape to the bottom and alert the rest of his crew, Quinn dove in before the door could swing shut, following Kaliq headfirst into the gurgling darkness of the tube.

* * *

As the name implied, Dead Drop’s tubular slide fell away at a stomach-churning near-vertical drop for the first ten stories, or ninety feet, with riders’ bodies gradually coming back into greater and greater contact with the slide itself as the angle increased with each passing foot. A steady spray of water greased the way.

Diving headfirst with his arms outstretched, Quinn was in virtual freefall, coming into far less contact with the slide and producing greater speed than Kaliq, who slid on his back, feet forward. Obviously terrified, the young jihadi screamed at the top of his lungs. He flailed wildly as he slid, causing him to careen back and forth inside the tube, slowing him down even more.

Rocketing down the slide near highway speeds, Quinn gritted his teeth, arching his neck to keep his nose above the jet of water that rushed down the base of the slide. A rooster tail of spray flew up behind Kaliq as he slid. Quinn’s fingers curled around a knot of his trailing hair two seconds into the ride. The jihadi went apoplectic, screaming even louder, a hollow, otherworldly sound inside the close confines of the plastic tube. He’d had no idea Quinn was behind him, and flailed wildly when he felt something out of the darkness grab his hair.

They reached fifty miles an hour about the time the angle of the slide rose up to meet them. Quinn pulled himself forward with Kaliq’s hair as if it were a rope. Both men careened up on the side of the tube as it curved sharply to the right in a series of two downward spiraling corkscrew loops. Unable, or at least unwilling, to put his arms up over his head and fight back, Kaliq jerked his head from side to side as he sped along, in an effort to shake off the unseen attacker. Quinn tensed his core, locking his ankles and tucking his shoulders to gain as much speed as he could. Kaliq’s fighting only slowed him all the more, allowing Quinn to move forward enough to slide his right hand over the screaming face, groping forward to claw at the man’s eyes. Thrashing like he was out of his mind, Kaliq arched his back, inadvertently allowing Quinn to sink his fingers into the man’s eye sockets up to his knuckles. Kaliq tore at his own face with both hands, but it did no good. Pain and physics made his efforts hopeless. Quinn gripped the young terrorist’s face like a bowling ball, allowing his legs to come apart slightly, slowing him, forcing Kaliq to drag him along by the eyes.

The jihadi screamed a broken scream. Quinn’s stomach fell away as the two men shot out of the final loop and plunged downward another twenty feet. The angle decreased and the top of the slide opened up to form a trough instead of a tube. What had been a lubricating spray became two feet of water, slowing the men’s forward motion as surely as if they’d deployed a parachute. Eighteen seconds after they’d dropped through the trapdoor twenty-one stories above, they reached the end of the Dead Drop.

Maintaining the claw grip, Quinn arched his body and let his legs fly past the thrashing jihadi, flipping on his belly and clamoring onto the man’s back to hold his face underwater. Expecting to be shot at any moment by one of Kaliq’s compatriots, Quinn locked his legs around the man in an effort to quiet the sound of splashing water. It was over much more quickly than Quinn expected it to be and he lay there on the man’s back, holding him under long after he’d stopped his struggles.

Drenched and oozing blood from the knife gash in his leg, Quinn left the dead jihadi floating facedown in the slide. He took a quick moment to look around and gather his thoughts, finding himself alone in the shadows. A blue glow from the lights in the wave pool flickered up through the trees to his right. Apart from the music coming from the speakers, the park was eerily silent.

He’d hoped to find Terry Spencer at the top of the slide, kill him, and disable the cell jammer. The immediate scrap with Kaliq had left the swamper operational—and Terry hadn’t even been there. Quinn took a series of deep cleansing breaths, trying to make sense of things. Terry wasn’t at the top, but he had to be somewhere.

The Lynyrd Skynyrd version of “Call Me the Breeze”—another song from Quinn’s playlist—began to play over the speakers.

If Terry Spencer had any knowledge of the park at all, he’d go straight for the office to fix the problem with the radio and reestablish communication with his team.

Quinn kept to the shadows and sprinted toward the park office. Once more he found himself without a rifle. The Benchmade folder had slipped out of his shorts during the slide, so now he didn’t even have that. He saw two shooters as he ran, loitering in the trees just inside the side gate. He noted their positions, but gave them a wide berth.

Fifty meters out, Quinn saw the front door to the park offices swing shut. He dug in, ignoring the sickening ache from the wound in his thigh, and picked up his speed.

Mattie and Dan were still in the pool along with over a hundred other hostages—all surrounded by cruel men with their fingers on the trigger, waiting for an order.

Chapter 16

8:44 P.M.

Ronnie Garcia watched the dead jihadi for over a minute. She’d seen him topple over in the shadows but wanted to make sure he was going to stay down. At just under twenty-five meters away, most of the nine lead pellets had slammed into his chest and neck, rendering him DRT, as Jericho would call it—Dead Right There. Garcia thumbed another shell into the shotgun, topping it off. The tight yellow swimsuit offered no pockets to store extra ammo. She’d tried to tuck a couple of shells down the front of her cleavage, but they’d both become irretrievable without stripping off the suit. In the end, she’d asked Camille to stand near her with a handful of shells, passing them to her as needed. She didn’t trust anyone else.

“Any more out there?” Camille whispered, almost reverently, leaning forward to peer through the porthole. Her broad shoulders suddenly tensed, as if she’d seen another threat.

Ronnie didn’t want to expose their position by sticking the shotgun out the window, so she had to lower it in order to get a wider view.

“What is it?”

“Someone else,” Camille whispered.

“Shoot him!” An unidentified voice, but the murmur rippling through the crowd said it was the general sentiment.

“Hang on,” Ronnie said. “It looks like a girl. She’s got nothing in her hands.

Ms. Hatch crept up closer to one of the portholes. “She’s a park employee,” the woman said. “That means she’s one of them.”

Mr. Larue scoffed. “I’m a park employee,” he said. “Not all of us are part of this.”

“She looks the part,” the woman said. “If you know what I mean.”

Ronnie raised the shotgun, but glared sideways at the bony woman. “Because she has dark skin? You need to keep a lid on your trash, calaca.” Literally, skeleton. “I’ll shoot who I have to shoot. Killing isn’t quite as simple as you make it sound.”

The woman ruffled like an angry hen. “Well, dear, you seem to know a great deal about it.”

Outside, the young woman walked past the porthole with tentative steps. She approached the door with her hands in the air, looking back and forth as if afraid she might be shot. Garcia felt a sinking feeling burble through her gut, but reminded herself of the boy who was helping Quinn.

Garcia nodded to Camille, then glanced toward the porthole. “Do me a favor and keep a watch for more bad guys.”

“Roger that,” Camille said, sounding like her husband.

Garcia turned, moving to put the rest of the group behind her. The threshold of the door was made of metal, likely the best cover on the entire ship. She cocked a hip out to steady herself against the frame, allowing her to peek out at the approaching woman without making herself too much of a target. Some might have felt overly exposed, dressed in nothing but the tight yellow bathing suit, but Garcia had gotten over such a notion a long time ago. She knew how to use her body—and the temporary lapse in judgment it caused—to gain the upper hand.

The tactic worked most of the time, but when she stepped into the doorway holding the shotgun, the young woman who approached the ship seemed to look right past her. When Ronnie called out in challenge, she realized that what she had perceived as fear was actually anger.

“Stop right there!” Ronnie gave a whispered hiss. “Let me see your hands.”

The young woman dipped her head submissively. She was close enough that a blast from the shotgun would cut her in half, but she hardly seemed to notice it. Apparently oblivious to the gun, she shot furtive glances over her shoulders, then back at Garcia.

Garcia raised her head, giving the girl a jaundiced look, and kept the shotgun trained at her belly.

“What’s your name?” Garcia said.

“Fadila,” the young woman said. “Please, I am frightened.” She cast another look over her shoulder. Ronnie couldn’t tell if she was afraid or waiting for backup.

“Please,” the girl asked again. “May I come inside?”

Garcia didn’t budge from her spot by the door. “You work here?” she asked.

Fadila nodded. “I know the people who have done this,” she said, her voice breathy. “They are killing everyone. I only just managed to get away.” She leaned forward. “Whichever of you shot that one out there certainly saved my life.”

Garcia took a step back, holding the shotgun up with one hand and motioning the girl inside with a flick of her wrist. “Get in before someone else sees us,” she said.

Fadila let out a long sigh. Her shoulders dropped. “Thank you,” she said, stopping just inside the door.

She stood up straighter as she surveyed the crowded interior of the ship before looking directly back at Garcia. “There are so many of you,” she said, as a dark smile spread across her face. “It is good.” Her eyes crawled up and down Garcia, appearing to see her for the first time. “Are you not ashamed?” The words came out on a hateful whisper that caused the tiny hairs on the back of Garcia’s neck to stand on end. “How can you walk around dressed like that?”

Garcia took a half step back, but it was too late.

Fadila didn’t seem to care if she lived or died, stepping directly across the muzzle of the shotgun. Ronnie’s finger searched for the trigger and fired, but the blast went over the girl’s shoulder, missing her by a hair, and doing nothing but deafening everyone inside the ship with the concussive boom. Throwing herself at Garcia, Fadila grabbed the shotgun by the end of the barrel and thinnest part of the stock, just behind the trigger guard, attempting to wrench it away. Ronnie held tight, but Fadila brought her knee up in a vicious series of rapid kicks, slamming into Garcia’s groin. Garcia doubled over, feeling as if her pelvis had been broken in two. She clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth from the pain and gulping back wave after wave of overwhelming nausea.

Women screamed and children began to howl at the sudden violence. Garcia heard the muffled cries of several men shouting for Fadila to stop her attack. But no one stepped in to help—no one but for Camille Thibodaux.

The fiery brunette crashed in as if she was protecting her own child. She hit both women with such force it knocked them to the ground and sent the shotgun flying against the ship wall with a plastic thud.

Both arms pushed up over her head, writhing on her back, Garcia tucked her knees to her chest and bucked her hips, keeping herself from being crushed but unable to get Fadila off her. Past injuries to her shoulders at the hands of a madman made the angle impossible to escape. She could feel the hard imprint of a gun against her knees, tucked under the young woman’s shirt.

Ronnie outweighed Fadila by at least forty pounds, and bum shoulders notwithstanding, she was plenty strong enough to hold on to the girl’s hands, putting the two women in a sort of stalemate—each holding the other, Ronnie unable to wrench free because of her shoulder, Fadila unable to reach her pistol.

“You killed my friend!” Fadila hissed. Her lips pulled back as she gnashed her teeth. Spittle flew from her lips and she threw herself back and forth, craning her neck and trying to bite Garcia in the arm and hands.

Garcia was strong, but she knew she couldn’t hold on forever. Beginning to worry, she searched desperately to locate Camille. The rough concrete floor scraped her neck and shoulders. Tresses of black hair puddled around her face, adding to the darkness. A glimmer of hope hit her when she saw Camille had the shotgun.

Fadila screamed like a crazy woman, redoubling her efforts to tear her hands free. Instead of trying to escape, Garcia held what she had and let her legs separate around the woman’s back, wrapping muscular thighs around her waist. Hooking her ankles together, she did her best to squeeze the life out of her attacker.

Camille raised the shotgun to her shoulder. “What do you want me to do?” she yelled over a screeching Fadila.

“Shoot her!” Garcia snapped, bearing down with her thighs. She was pretty sure she felt a floating rib snap, but the enraged woman refused to let up.

“I can’t,” Camille all but screamed. She stepped to the side, then back again, all the while keeping the shotgun trained on the two women. “You’re moving around too much! I’m afraid I’ll hit you!”

“Just shoot!” Garcia said, grunting from exertion and the weight of the other woman. “She’s got a pistol in h—”

Fadila gnashed out again, nearly biting a chunk out of Garcia’s wrist. A moment later she relaxed. She looked down at Garcia, and a gloating smile spread over her face—as if she’d already won. A small metal pin hung from a silver ring between her clenched teeth. Still on her back, Garcia let her head fall to the side, looking up at the young woman’s right hand to find it held a green metal egg. Garcia recognized it immediately as a Russian grenade. Her grip on Fadila’s smaller hand was the only thing that kept the spoon in place—and the grenade from going off.

Garcia tried to scream. “Camille, wait!” But Fadila came up on her toes, pressing her weight against Garcia’s chest. Her words came out as a breathy moan. Garcia knew she might survive a piece of buckshot or two, but even a slight wound might cause her to lose her grip. If the grenade fell away, it would kill or maim everyone within twenty meters.

“Grenade!” Garcia gasped, unsure if Camille or anyone else in the ship could understand her. “Get out! All of you!”

Fadila threw her body from side to side in an effort to free her hand. Still smiling, she seemed to know it was only a matter of time. Garcia held fast, squeezing harder with her thighs. She knew she was doing damage, but her grip was too low, catching the girl around her middle rather than her ribs. Crushing liver, spleen, and gut, it had to be extremely painful, but she was too low to put a quick end to things. Garcia had to pin the girl, cut off her air, or somehow wrench the grenade away without it going off in order to win the fight.

Fadila had only to open her hand.

A dark shadow suddenly rose up behind Fadila. Garcia cursed, thinking one of the stupid men had finally decided to step in and help her. If they dragged the girl away, she’d lose her grip—and Garcia and anyone close to her would be turned to red mist in a matter of seconds.

Garcia felt something press against her locked ankles and Fadila suddenly grew heavier, as if she’d gained a hundred pounds. The young woman’s head flew back and she began to thrash even more wildly, trying to throw off this new threat. Garcia caught a flash of movement in the darkness above her as three shots popped in quick succession. They were too quiet to be the shotgun. Fadila’s eyes flew wide, then rolled back in her head as her body went slack.

Mukhtar’s head poked over Fadila’s shoulder, skin pale, lips trembling. He looked at Garcia, blinking.

“Are you alright, miss?

Still on her back, Garcia grabbed the Russian grenade in both hands and peeled Fadila’s fingers away, taking care to keep the flat metal arming spoon in place.

“Thank you,” she said as she wriggled out from under the body, rolling her sore shoulders. She bent to retrieve the pin from the concrete beside Fadila’s slack lips.

“I’m okay,” she said, breathing easier after she’d reinserted the pin. “Thanks for saving me.” She sat back on one of the picnic benches and nodded, still panting from the fight. “For saving all of us.”

Mukhtar held up Jacques Thibodaux’s .380 pistol. “Mr. Quinn said this is a pipsqueak gun,” he whispered, looking down at the dead girl. “If you’re going to shoot once, shoot three times . . .”

Chapter 17

8:47 P.M.

Lynyrd Skynyrd still played over the park speakers when Quinn pulled open the door to the main office, the electric guitar riff helping to mask his approach. The inner lobby was just as he’d left it, the body of the park manager slumped at the front desk. His assistant, a woman named Tiffany according to Mukhtar, had been shot in the back, where she’d cowered in the corner, curled in a fetal position.

The door to the back hallway stood ajar, the feeble glow of emergency lighting coming from the manager’s office where the public-address system was located. Quinn paused at the threshold before going in, getting his bearings, remembering the layout of desks, doors, and windows from when he’d taped his phone to the handheld radio and placed it next to the PA microphone. More light spilled from the open door on the right side of the hall, less than fifteen feet away. He heard a rustle of movement, footsteps on carpet, and a nervous cough.

“I gave you what you needed,” a male voice said. “And this is what you give me?” It was gruff, and direct, accustomed to being in charge.

“Yeah, well,” a younger voice said. “You know how it is, Uncle Frank. It just looks better this way.”

“Hang on—” Two distinct cracks from a rifle came from inside the room, cutting off the older voice midsentence. It was dark enough that Quinn could see the flash of each shot.

Padding with quiet purpose down the hall, he stopped before he reached the office, stepping sideways inch by inch to get a glimpse of the interior without giving up his position. Cutting the pie, they called it.

The console against the wall across from the door came into view first. Quinn’s phone and the radio were still there, right where he’d left them. He took another half step, revealing the feet and legs of a prone man—the recipient of the recent gunfire. The dead man wore the gray slacks and navy blazer of park security. Blood plastered a thick mop of blond hair and broken skull to the carpet. A Glock pistol lay on the floor, inches from the man’s glazed eyes but too far from Quinn to do him any immediate good.

The squeak of metal from the other side of the desk drew Quinn forward another step. A low whistle followed the squeak, then whispered words Quinn couldn’t quite make out.

Quinn had opened enough safes in his life to know the sound of a door swinging open. A burglary? It was a stroke of cold and evil genius to hide a simple theft in the middle of a massacre of hundreds by religious zealots.

Another step brought the entire desk into view. A young man wearing the black polo of a park employee knelt in front of a box safe by the wall off the end of the desk. He stuffed banded stacks of money into a small black duffel. Apparently satisfied that everyone else in the park was too busy to bother him, Terry Spencer had leaned his rifle against the wall, a good five feet behind him, after he’d murdered his uncle. Focused on the money, he’d set a Russian RGD-5 hand grenade on the desk beside him, obviously intending to use the little green egg to blow up the place and cover his tracks when he left.

Quinn reached the desk in three quick bounds, snatching up the grenade and pulling the pin before Terry Spencer even knew he was there.

The boy spun at the noise and raised his hands as he tried to get a grip on the situation. He cocked his head sideways, then glanced at the rifle he’d left leaning against the wall.

Quinn held the grenade in his fist, the spoon under his fingers rather than the proper grip with it toward his palm.

“What are you going to do with that?” Terry smirked. “You toss a hand grenade and we both die.”

“Maybe so,” Quinn said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

“Those other guys out there . . .” Terry said, giving a bored sigh. “They can’t wait to be martyrs.” His eyes narrowed at Quinn and he shook his head. “But you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who wants to die.”

“All this for a robbery?” Quinn tamped back the rage. At this point, unbridled anger would only slow him down.

The kid smiled, taking Quinn’s question like some kind of compliment. He kept his hands up but wagged his head as if bragging over some touchdown pass he’d just made. “I know, right? The park’s so deep in blood right now, I get away with a couple hundred thousand cash and no one’s the wiser. Admit it. It’s pretty damn slick. They’d write books about me if they knew who I was.”

“Dozens of people . . .” Quinn whispered. “You planned all of this in order to cover a theft . . .” He wasn’t really surprised. Nothing another human did surprised him anymore.

“Two birds,” Terry said. “My friends have a little cause, and I simply jumped on board for my purposes. My uncle had connections to get us a few grenades. He was also nice enough to lend me a few of his guns . . .”

“And you kill him for it,” Quinn said, suddenly very tired.

“Who gives a shit about an uncle?” Terry scoffed. “Anyway, he was in on it, too. Listen, this has been fun, but I gotta run.” His eyes shifted again to his rifle.

Quinn waved the grenade again. “I wouldn’t do that, Terry,” he said. Cockroaches like these enjoyed darkness and anonymity, and speaking their names out loud often disrupted the loop of their thought process.

The boy gave a slow nod of pride. “You know who I am then?”

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

8:49 P.M.

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

9:32 P.M.

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.

“Look,” he said. “It’s easy to see why you’d think Mukhtar might be involved, especially with upstanding citizens like Brooks giving you your intel, but I’m the one who called you guys over the PA. This man helped save a lot of people in there—including my daughter.”

“It’s not as simple as that.” The older agent shrugged. “I think we—”

“It’s exactly as simple as that.” Quinn stepped in, nose to nose with the man. “I don’t know who you are, and frankly, I don’t care. I’ll give you a number to call, but I’m warning you, you’re going to wish you’d taken the cuffs off before you called it.”

Quinn’s boss—the man on the other end of the number he gave the agent—happened to be sitting in the Oval Office when he took the call. Mukhtar’s father had been waiting frantically in the outskirts of the parking lot. He was finally let through the outer perimeter and allowed to collect his son.

Ronnie Garcia exchanged numbers with the boy with the promise that she and Quinn would join his family for dinner in a few days. Mr. Tahir then wisely whisked his son away from the crowd, which was still jumpy about anyone with dark skin wearing a Buccaneer Beach Thrill Park uniform.

* * *

Exhausted to the point of falling over, Quinn held both Mattie and Garcia close as he staggered back to the triage tent where Jacques waited with his family. The ringing in Quinn’s ears made it difficult to hear everything that was being said, but he could tell Camille Thibodaux was busy alternately chastising Dan for running off on his own and showering him with hugs and kisses.

“A burglary, Chair Force?” Jacques said from where he sat in the folding chair next to Quinn, shaking his head. “I’m hearing estimates of a hundred and three dead and twice that number wounded . . . All this killing for a little dab of cash?”

Quinn shrugged. Mattie sat in his lap. Garcia sat in the chair beside him. He took a moment to give her shoulder a squeeze and sniff Mattie’s hair before he spoke. “A park as big as Buccaneer Beach could rake in a quarter million in receipts every day,” he said. “And that’s not counting the concessions.”

“Wouldn’t a lot of it be credit card receipts?” Ronnie asked, batting exhausted brown eyes at Quinn.

“Some of it would,” he said.

Thibodaux rubbed his jaw in thought, following the logic. “But if he rounds up a bunch of guns from his uncle’s safe and a bunch of radical yahoos take care of the shootin’ spree that covers his crime, this little sociopath had no upfront investment and no accountability. Even half the daily gross in cash would be free money.”

“Exactly,” Quinn said.

Thibodaux leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. “I guess they all got to die as martyrs,” he said.

Mattie lifted her head from Quinn’s chest. “What’s a martyr, Daddy?”

Thibodaux gave a low groan, his eyes still closed. “Martyr is another word for dumbass,” he sighed. “Go ahead and quote me if you want to, darlin’.”

Quinn hugged his daughter and chuckled. “We’d better not mention that definition to your mom,” he said.

Mattie pulled back, blinking huge blue eyes, her mother’s eyes. She sniffed, flashing a beautiful grin—the type of grin that made him want to buy her things.

“Sorry I scared you, Daddy,” she said. “But there was this guy with a gun, and you always told me I should run from a guy with a gun. Then Dan said we should run, too, so I did.”

“He was right,” Quinn said. “And so were you.”

“Did you see Dan made a bow and arrow out of a piece of plastic pipe?” Her beautiful eyes grew even bigger. “And it really worked.”

“I saw that,” Quinn said, squeezing her as if she might fly away. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

Mattie went on talking without taking a breath. “Then the bad guys threw us into the swimming pool. And it was really deep, and we treaded water, but Dan said we should stay out of the shallow end because we might get trampled.”

“He did?” Quinn said, shooting a sideways grin at Ronnie.

“It was really, really scary, Dad.” Mattie gave an emphatic nod, her arms still around Quinn’s neck. “We thought they were going to shoot any minute, then Dan told me and my friend Sarah that we should swim close to the edge and run—”

Jacques looked at Quinn, smiling broadly, mouthing his words so Mattie couldn’t hear him. “Well, Chair Force,” he said. “Looks like she got over Shawn . . .”

Keep reading for a preview of . . .

“One of the hottest new authors in the thriller genre.”—Brad Thor

The first target is Dallas, Texas. Then a deadly nerve gas called New Archangel is unleashed upon the City of Angels, claiming innocent lives, spreading nationwide panic, and fueling global fears of another attack. In the icy reaches of rural Alaska, special agent Jericho Quinn is enlisted to hunt down the man who created the bioweapon—a brilliant Russian scientist who is trying to defect and is hiding in the Alaskan wilderness. But time is running out. The scientist is beginning to lose his mind to dementia. If Quinn doesn’t find him before the Russians do, the entire western seaboard and beyond will feel the wrath of New Archangel—and darkness will fall upon the earth.

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Chapter 1

Near Anchorage, Alaska, 3:25 P.M.

Jericho Quinn knew an ambush when he saw one. He rolled the throttle of his gunmetal gray BMW R1200GS Adventure, leaning hard over into the second of a long series of S turns. Sometimes called the two-story bike of the motorcycling world, the big GS flicked easily on the twisty road. A chilly wind bit the tiny gap of skin between the chin of his helmet and the collar of his black leather jacket. Behind him, riding pillion, Veronica “Ronnie” Garcia squeezed with strong thighs, leaning when he leaned, moving when he moved as he negotiated the narrow, seaside road. Her soft chest pressed against his back, long arms twined around his waist.

Popping the bike upright on a straightaway, Quinn shot a glance in his side mirror and watched the grille of a dark panel van loom behind him. It came up fast, pressing aggressively on the winding two-lane that ran on the narrow ledge between mountain and ocean. Quinn bumped the throttle again and sped up, easing farther to the right and buying some distance while he considered any and all options that didn’t end with him and Garcia as twin grease spots on the asphalt or Wile E. Coyoted into the mountainside.

The van accelerated, moving close enough that it filled Quinn’s side mirrors with nothing but chrome grille. Just as he was about to swerve onto a gravel trail that cut off toward the ocean, he got a clear view of the guy at the wheel. A kid with a thick mullet haircut pressed a cell phone to his ear while gesturing wildly with the hand that should have been reserved for steering. Quinn kept up his speed but took the shoulder instead of the trail, allowing the van to barrel past before the next blind corner. For all Quinn knew, the guy never even saw him.

He’d ridden the Seward Highway south of Anchorage hundreds of times while growing up and knew there was a passing lane less than a mile ahead. Cell phones, sleepy drivers, drunks, turds with mullets—all made Quinn want to beat someone to death with an ax handle—but road rage had no place from the back of a motorcycle. No matter the traffic laws, the reality of physics dictated a right-of-way by tonnage if you wanted to stay alive.

“I’m proud of you, Mango,” Garcia’s sultry voice, spiced with a hint of her Cuban heritage, came across Quinn’s Cardo Bluetooth headset as he flicked the leggy BMW back onto the highway proper. “You didn’t even mutter when you yielded to that dude.”

Quinn poured on more speed, sending up a tornado of yellow leaves from a tiny stand of birches along the road. “I’m not much of a mutterer,” he said.

“Yeah, well,” Ronnie chuckled, “you’re not much of a yielder, either.”

Turnagain Arm, a narrow bay off the Cook Inlet of the Pacific Ocean, lay to their right, silty waters whitecapped and churning as if her tremendous tides hadn’t quite figured out which way to flow. Craggy peaks of the Chugach Mountains loomed directly to their left in a mix of rock, greenery, and waterfall that tumbled right to the shoulder of the winding road.

Quinn moved his neck from side to side, letting the adrenaline brought on by the idiot in the van ebb—and taking the time to enjoy the ride until the next idiot barreled up behind him. He flicked the bike around a basketball-sized rock that had come to rest in his lane. Here and there, great swaths of stone and shattered trees that had been bent and torn by avalanches fanned down the mountainside, just beginning to heal from the previous winter.

Quinn could relate.

It felt good to be back—back in his home state, with a badge back in his pocket, and back on his bike with the woman he loved on the seat behind him. Along with the two guns and Japanese killing dagger that hid under his black leather jacket, he bore as many scars as the avalanche chutes that cut the mountains above him. Some of the wounds were still painfully raw.

Ronnie bumped the back of his helmet with the forehead of hers and worked in closer behind him, giving him a playful squeeze. She was a strong woman, just a few inches shorter than Quinn, with broad, athletic shoulders and strong, alluring hips. Far from fat, her Russian father had called her zaftig. Her ex-husband—a man who wisely steered well clear of Quinn—described her as having a “ghetto booty.” But if the powerfully aggressive BMW reminded Quinn of the Death Dealer’s black warhorse, Veronica Dombrovski Garcia was no helpless maiden, cowering at the feet of a Conan or John Carter of Mars. She was a beautifully fierce warrior princess, clutching her own sword and flanked by pet tigers. Quinn’s seven-year-old daughter had privately confided to him that Garcia looked an awful lot like Wonder Woman.

As strong as she was, Garcia’s squeezes were considerably weaker than they had been, absent the ferocity they’d once possessed. It was understandable. Her treatment at the hands of sadistic captors had left both shoulders badly damaged, one requiring a lengthy surgery and months of physical therapy to repair. There had been concerns that she might not be able to use that arm again at all.

It would take a while, but Quinn was sure she’d heal, maybe only to ninety percent—but ninety percent of Ronnie Garcia was ten percent above any other woman Quinn had ever met. She pushed the limits being out of her sling, but he wasn’t really in a position to admonish her.

Gripping the handlebars, Quinn rolled his own shoulders back and forth, feeling the telltale pop and grind of damaged gristle and working out some of the stiffness and aftereffects of being shot by a Chinese terrorist just months earlier. Emiko Miyagi, friend and defensive tactics mentor, had done wonders with shiatsu massage and her specially designed, if incredibly painful, yoga routines. He could deal with physical pain. It was the thought of being incapacitated that haunted him.

The official written orders from the Air Force doc at Andrews had been to take it easy. But in an off-the-record chat, he’d told Quinn to work the injury until he started to “piss it off,” and then dial back some. Riding the bike definitely pissed off his old wounds. He found the hyperawareness and attention to balance it took to negotiate the mountain roads and prosecute the tight turns on the leggy Beemer to be just what he needed to put a bow on his recovery process—both mental and physical. In any case, disobeying doctor’s orders was part of his DNA. He’d been doing it for weeks, adding dead hangs and then pullups to his physical therapy regimen as soon as he could make a good fist. His old man had once lamented that Jericho could burn calories just sitting in the corner and looking mean. The older he got, the less that was true, so exercise was a necessity, injured or not.

Quinn knew he might not be a very good yielder, but he was a good healer. At nearly thirty-seven, the mending just took a little longer.

Both he and Garcia wore beaked Arai dual-sport helmets, his gray with an airbrushed paint job of crossed war-axes on the sides, hers canary yellow. Racing gloves and full black leathers protected them against an accidental dismount and the icy crispness of an Alaska autumn. Icon Truant motorcycle boots offered protection to his ankles but allowed him the freedom of movement to run should the need arise.

Though not a heavy woman by any stretch, Garcia was ample enough to make an extremely pleasant backrest. Her warmth seeped through Quinn’s leather jacket, bringing with it an added layer of comfort against the chill and an excited happiness that he hadn’t felt since his daughter was born.

Garcia gave him another playful squeeze. It sent a twinge of pain through Quinn’s bruised ribs but he didn’t care. His father had often urged him to lead the kind of life that bruised ribs. Now, as an agent for the Air Force Office of Special Investigations or OSI, he’d been assigned to work directly for the President’s National Security Advisor—doing the things that needed the heavy hand of his particular skill set. He wasn’t about to let a couple of old wounds—or some jackass with a mullet—stop him from enjoying this trip with Garcia. They’d been apart for far too long, and now he’d finally gotten her to his home state.

They’d been in Alaska for the better part of the week, going to the Musk Ox Farm and eating reindeer hot dogs in downtown Anchorage with his seven-year-old daughter Mattie. The two got along well enough that they shared whispered girl-secrets that they kept from him. To Quinn’s astonishment, even his ex-wife Kim seemed at ease with the fact he’d brought his girlfriend up to spend time with his parents—an obvious final step before any more permanent arrangement.

The trip was never meant as a test, but if it had been, Garcia would have aced it. Every new place Quinn took her threw her into a state of childlike awe. If anything, she appeared to love Alaska even more than he did—which was saying something.

The pavement was still clear and dry, but the mountains along the Seward Highway had been dusted by snow that same morning. This “termination dust” signified the end of Alaska’s short autumn but gave the already breathtaking scenery an extra shot of beauty. Quinn couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to impress anyone as bad as he wanted to impress Veronica Garcia. It was a difficult endeavor considering everything they’d been through together.

As if she knew he was thinking about her, Garcia moved even closer—if such a thing were even possible.

Quinn absorbed it all, flicking the BMW back and forth through a maze of rocks that had tumbled onto the road on the far side of a blind curve. Like Quinn, the bike was happiest when dealing with the rough stuff.

Garcia’s husky giggle poured through the Cardo earpiece in his helmet. “She wiggles like a sassy woman.”

“That she does,” Quinn said, his lips pressing against the foam microphone. “But she doesn’t wiggle herself. I wiggle her.”

“You got that right—”

Always scanning, Quinn tensed at a sight a quarter mile up the highway, causing Garcia to stop mid-sentence.

He could tell by the way her body moved—or stopped moving—that she saw it right after he did.

A white Anchorage PD patrol car sat parked in a paved pullout overlooking the ocean. The driver’s door gaped open and a uniformed officer crouched behind the back bumper. He was bent over the prone body of his partner, one hand on the downed man’s chest, the other at the radio mic clipped to his lapel. A scant three hundred yards ahead on a long straightaway, a red pickup and a white Subaru sedan sped away, southbound, past the turnoff to the ski village of Girdwood.

Quinn slowed, using his left hand to unzip his jacket and reach inside to retrieve a black leather credential case. Pulling up on a fallen officer without ID was a good way to get shot.

The downed officer lay on his back, surrounded by shattered glass from the rear window. His eyes were open and he writhed in pain. A good sign, Quinn thought as he put his foot down to steady the bike and flipped up the visor on his helmet. A line of what could only be bullet holes stitched the side of the police car. The other officer, a younger man with the earnest look of a full-grown Cabbage Patch doll, glanced up at the sound of the approaching motorcycle. His big eyes narrowed with adrenalized intensity. He nodded at the sight of Quinn’s OSI badge and returned to his radio traffic.

“. . . medics code red,” the officer said, calling in help for his injured partner.

The officer’s earpiece had come unplugged and the steady voice of the dispatcher spilled out of his radio. “All units, 10-33 for 25-Bravo-2,” she said, advising others on the frequency to yield to the officer’s traffic.

The young officer continued with his description. “Two white male adults, one white female. They . . . it . . . I mean . . . the vehicle’s still going south.” His face was flushed, his voice a half an octave higher than it should have been.

Quinn recognized the wounded officer as Greg Sizemore, a man Quinn had gone to high school with. A patch on the shoulder of his navy blue uniform identified him as an FTO or Field Training Officer, which made his partner a trainee. New or not, the rookie was doing everything right by applying pressure to an apparent gunshot wound just above Sizemore’s collarbone.

“Are both vehicles involved?” Quinn asked, nodding toward the tiny dots that were the pickup and the Subaru as they faded into the distance around a mountain curve.

“Only the white sedan,” Sizemore said, grimacing at the pain from his wound. “The pickup came by just before the shooting. I think the white car must have passed him. Driver and . . . front passenger are both armed. Don’t know about the girl in back.”

Quinn felt Ronnie tap him on the shoulder. He scooted forward against the gas tank, giving her room to get off the bike. The bullet looked to have caught Sizemore just above his vest, probably destroying his collarbone. Blood seeped up through the rookie’s clenched fingers but he appeared to have it stopped until an ambulance arrived. Ronnie peeled off her helmet, shaking out long black hair, and bent to help.

“You good for me to go get ’em, bud?” Quinn asked, looking at the downed officer.

“Hell, yes,” Sizemore grunted, stifling a cough. “Sons of bitches shot me. Tear ’em up.”

The rookie looked up at Quinn. “We have units responding from South Anchorage and a Trooper coming north from Summit Lake—”

“Tell them the man on the bike is a good guy,” Quinn said, before flipping down his visor and giving the highway behind him a quick head check. A cloud of smoke rose from the BMW’s rear tire as he rolled on the gas, falling in after the white Subaru.

The GS accelerated quickly, scooping Quinn into the seat as it ripped down the highway. He leaned hard, nearly dragging a knee as he rounded the first corner past the Girdwood cutoff. He pushed from his mind the fact that the only thing that kept him upright were the two rubber contact patches where his tires met the pavement, each about four square inches.

Chapter 2

Quinn’s mind raced ahead of the bike, looking for rocks, vehicles jumping out from side roads, and any other obstacles that could send him over the side of the Seward Highway in a flaming ball of twisted metal and leather.

He toed the Beemer down a gear, feeling the aggressive pull of the engine. The speedometer on the GPS display between his handlebars climbed past ninety and then a hundred miles an hour. The Subaru moved fast, and the red pickup stayed tight on its tail, but Quinn began to gain ground the moment he left the downed officer.

Still a mile back, Quinn watched the red pickup move up as if to pass the little Subaru on a long straightaway. Instead of passing, the larger truck jerked to the right, un-tracking the sedan and sending it spinning out of control and slamming it against the mountain on the left side of the road. The red pickup flew past, smoke pouring from its rear tires as it skidded to a stop, and them began to back down the middle of the road toward the wrecked Subaru.

Quinn reached back with his left hand, feeling along the metal cargo box until he found a one-liter metal fuel bottle.

He was still a little over a half mile behind the Subaru. At his present speed, the GS would close the distance in less than twenty seconds. It took Quinn a few of those precious seconds to flip the latches that held the fuel bottle in place, but he finally felt it snap and brought the bottle up by his handlebars, holding it tight in his left hand.

Ahead on the left, people began to boil out of the wrecked Subaru, surely stunned. They’d shot a cop, so Quinn still considered them plenty dangerous.

He eased off the throttle but kept the bike moving around forty miles an hour as he neared the man who’d climbed out the driver’s side of the Subaru—the shooter. The man from the red pickup was already engaged in a shouting match with the Subaru passenger, who’d made it out first. Quinn saw the gun in the Subaru driver’s hand when he was still fifty feet away. The sneaker-like Truants would allow him to fight and run better than his usual motocross boots, but he wanted to tenderize the men as much as possible before he even got off the bike.

Quinn goosed the throttle, closing the distance in an instant, bringing the aluminum bottle up just in time to catch the driver in the side of his head with a resounding “tink.” Two pounds of aluminum and fuel traveling over forty miles an hour dropped the witless shooter in his tracks. Quinn let the bottle go the moment after impact, grabbing a handful of brakes and skidding the bike to a hard stop along the asphalt shoulder. He drifted the rear wheel during the slide to bring the back end of the bike around so he was facing his threat.

He got the Beemer stopped in time to watch the driver of the red pickup, an older man with a tweed driving cap, slap the Subaru passenger in the ear with an open palm, driving him to his knees. The female passenger from the Subaru threw her hands in the air, wailing and cursing as if she was being beaten herself, but giving up immediately. Quinn drew his Kimber 10mm from the holster tucked inside the waistband of his riding pants and scanned the area.

The man in the driving cap had drawn a gun of his own and now trained it on the downed Subaru passenger.

“Jim Hoyt, DEA,” he shouted to Quinn. “Retired.”

* * *

The driver of the Subaru, a skinny twentysomething covered with meth sores, looked up at Quinn from where he sat against a slab of rock, a bloody hand pressed to the side of his head. “You could have killed me,” he said. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m gonna sue the shit out of you, mister.”

“Hell of a thing,” Hoyt said. “You’d think a little shitass cop shooter who got smacked from the back of a moving motorcycle would be a little more sedate.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow, wondering how Hoyt knew a cop had been shot.

“Got a scanner in the truck,” Hoyt said. “Heard the description go out about the same time this rocket scientist flew past me.”

There was a no-nonsense air about Jim Hoyt that made Quinn wonder just what he’d done for the DEA—and how long he’d been retired. A tall woman with long, silver hair and a silver gleam in her blue eyes introduced herself as Mrs. Hoyt. She’d moved their pickup out of the roadway and now stood beside the open door, arms across the large bosom of her fleece vest. She looked at her husband and shook her head, giving a resigned sigh—certainly a policeman’s wife, accustomed to his behavior.

Quinn and Hoyt worked together to pat down the occupants of the Subaru, lining them up face down in the grass along the shoulder of the road. Bad guys secured, Hoyt stepped up to Quinn, keeping an injured elbow tucked in tight against his body. His cheeks were flushed, and he was obviously in pain judging by the way he treated the elbow. Pain or not, his green eyes sparkled with a mischievous grin. His jacket fell open when he extended a large hand toward Quinn, revealing a sweatshirt bearing a blue Air Force Academy Falcon logo.

“That was some good work back there pitting these guys, Mr. Hoyt,” Quinn said, nodding to the man’s shirt and giving him a knowing wink as they shook hands. “Fast, neat, average . . .”

“Ah.” Hoyt returned the wink with one of his own. “Friendly, good, good,” he said, providing Quinn with the second half of the phrase used by one Air Force Academy graduate to identify another. Taken straight from the Mitchel Dining Hall comment card, Fast, Neat, Average, Friendly, Good, Good were the only acceptable critique freshman cadets were allowed to give on the mandatory Form 0-96.

Hoyt stepped back to give Quinn a more thorough up-and-down look. “Class of seventy-five.”

“Two thousand and two,” Quinn said.

“Oh.” Hoyt rubbed his elbow. “That class.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said, “that class.” He decided to steer the subject away from the fact that he’d graduated from the Air Force Academy the same academic year Al-Qaeda brought down the Twin Towers and crashed a plane into the Pentagon. “You sir, are a good guy to have around.”

“That was hellacious!” Hoyt grinned, shooting a glance at his wife. “Work as long as you can, son. Retirement’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Quinn chuckled, rolling his shoulders to relieve the pain in his ribs as he nodded to Hoyt’s elbow. “You should probably have that looked at.”

“Don’t worry about him.” Mrs. Hoyt gave a little good-natured scoff. “He’ll be glowing about this for days,” she said. “Best thing in the world for him, getting to mix it up with some bad guys. Makes him realize he’s still relevant.”

A white Alaska State Trooper SUV approached from the north carrying Ronnie Garcia in the passenger seat. Quinn could tell immediately from the frown on her face that something was terribly wrong.

“What is it?” Quinn said when she opened her door. “What’s the—”

Half in, half out of the car, Ronnie waved Quinn over. “Jericho,” she said. “You need to come hear this.”

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Photo by V. Otte

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A native of Texas, MARC CAMERON has spent over twenty-nine years in law enforcement. His assignments have taken him from rural Alaska to Manhattan, from Canada to Mexico and points in between. A second-degree black belt in jujitsu, he often teaches defensive tactics to law-enforcement agencies and civilian groups. Cameron presently lives in Alaska with his wife and his BMW motorcycle.

Table of Contents

Also by Marc Cameron

Title Page

Table of Contents

Copyright Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Teaser chapter

ABOUT THE AUTHOR