Danya rolled behind the checkout counter in the gift shop as bullets split the air above her. She was aware of the increased pitch from the turbine engine melding with the deeper whump of rotor blades biting into the air. The helicopter was leaving, and she was helpless to stop it.
She turned to her side and edged her head around the corner of the counter, only to be rewarded with another barrage of gunfire. Some of the bullets gouged chunks of wood from the cabinetry above her face.
The two terrorists split, one continuing on a direct path through the colonnade, while the second detoured past the shot-up drones on the far side of the restrooms, angling to flank their target. The small gift shop offered little protection from bullets, and the space was so confining she would be at a disadvantage if the two gunmen trapped her inside.
Time to move to a better position.
She looked over her shoulder, to the far side of the store, where another window was positioned. She nudged the barrel of her MP5 above the counter surface, rising to a knee to get a decent view through the optical sight. The register and other clutter on the counter broke up her profile just enough that she was able to get off two shots before being spotted. They were fired in haste, and missed, but had the desired effect of forcing the gunman to duck behind the first pillar at the arcade entrance.
She dashed across the store, zig-zagging between the assorted displays, shelving units, and clothing racks. Her shoes crunched on fragments of broken glass scattered across the floor. She didn’t slow as she neared the far wall and launched herself through the window, tucking her head and driving her shoulder through first. Her velocity cleared her body of the frame, avoiding the largest of the falling dagger-like shards.
Her shoulder and back took the brunt of the impact as she rolled to a stop. The sting of skin abrading from her face where her cheek kissed the rough pavement momentarily overrode the ache in her shoulder. She brought her weapon up, aiming toward the boat dock, but there was no one in sight.
Although her tactical position was not ideal, at least she had room to move. Behind her, the courtyard extended to the slope rising up to the parade ground—to the right was the vertical edge of the pavement and the cold water of the bay. She stole a glance around the corner of the store.
The rapid flicker of motion caught her eye. The gunman was repeatedly poking his head past the restrooms. A bad tactic. His brief views limited his brain to capturing only a small portion of the field of view. Even worse, his rapid movements, somewhat akin to a woodpecker’s bobbing head, was like waving a flag, announcing his presence.
She slowly pulled back from the corner to avoid sticking the MP5 barrel forward of the wall. She didn’t have to wait long before the terrorist darted from his hiding spot. He was on a direct line for the portico where it joined to the gift shop. She tracked him, holding the red dot sight on the leading edge of his body until he was less than thirty yards away.
The first shot sent the gunman tumbling forward. His submachine gun slipped from his grip as he piled up just short of the arcade. When he reached for a holstered pistol, she fired twice more, ending his resistance.
The other tango responded with a full-auto burst in a vain attempt to save his partner. The first several rounds embedded in the corner of the store before the recoil raised the muzzle of his gun, sending the remaining shots harmless into the air. Then the gunfire ceased.
She gambled that the magazine was empty, judging that it would take a couple seconds for him to reload. She stepped into the open to have a clear angle of fire, and caught the man fumbling to get a fresh magazine inserted into his weapon.
“Drop it,” she shouted, her ears ringing from the gunfire.
With her gun aimed at the terrorist, she closed the gap one step at a time, her gaze glued to the target.
The gunman glared back at her. He finished inserting the magazine and moved his hand to the charging handle.
“Don’t do it. You can’t cycle the bolt and raise your weapon fast enough. You’ll be dead before you pull the trigger.”
As she issued the warning, his lips retracted, exposing his teeth, yellowed from years of tobacco. Above his pockmarked cheeks, his eyes were narrowed with an intensity she had seen in other men when she worked for Mossad. Men whose misplaced hatred allowed them to be manipulated and twisted into mindless instruments of death. A certain part of her felt sorrow for them. To live their lives as they did, devoid of joy and love, was merely an existence, not a worthy or rewarding life.
As her heartbeat pounded loud in her ears, and time seemed to slow such that seconds were like minutes, she wondered about the man before her. What set him on this path of destruction? Is he a victim of another’s evil influences, or is his hatred the product of generations of racial mistreatment?
The thoughts passed with another heartbeat, and she watched his hand retract the charging handle. As the bolt sprang forward, it shoved a 9mm round into the chamber. The gun was loaded and ready to fire.
“Just put it down. You don’t have to die here.”
The barrel began to rise, and it appeared to Danya as if everything was playing out in extreme slow motion.
“Don’t!” she shouted, even though he was only yards away.
The muzzle continued to rise. He was going to kill her.
Boom!
The shot startled Danya. Her subconscious reflexes responded to training that had become part of her instinctive behavior.
The gunman’s MP5 lowered a little as his nervous system responded to the shock of the bullet driving through the side of his chest. He appeared unsteady and took a half-step backwards, then seemed to channel his energy on raising his weapon. She fired again. The round blew out his heart and exited through his spine.
His body collapsed into a lifeless pile of flesh.
Such a waste.
Precious minutes had been lost in the firefight with the two gunmen, and the Eurocopter had a significant head start on her. Not that she had a clear plan of how to pursue them. Or to where.
First priority, though, was to get help. She approached the dead man and kicked away his gun. Placed a finger beside his neck—no pulse, as she expected. His radio was still clipped to his belt, and she removed it and turned up the volume. Just static. She listened for several seconds, expecting someone to check-in now that the gun battle was over. If any of the radicals remained, someone would want to touch base, circle up and regroup.
Nothing but static. Although she was listening intently, her gaze still swept her surroundings, ever wary of new threats.
A door behind her opened onto the arcade. She spun around, the MP5 moving as one with her body, ready to take down the assailant.
As she applied pressure on the trigger, she was greeted with the image of Sue Kincaid.
Danya relaxed and lowered her gun. “Do you have any idea how close you came to being shot?”
Sue’s eyes bulged, and her mouth gaped. “I’m…I’m sorry.”
“Forget it.” Then Danya was running toward the three injured children who were still in the courtyard.
The Boy Scout had done an admirable job trying to stop the arterial bleeding from the leg wound. But pressure alone wasn’t sufficient—a tourniquet was needed. She told the skinny boy to run back to the gift shop and return with a pen or something they could use to make a tourniquet.
He dashed off, and Danya examined the two wounded girls. A bullet had passed through the ear of one of the girls—painful, but not life threatening—and the other had suffered a nasty bullet wound to her forearm. It looked like either the ulna or radius had been shattered. White bone fragments were embedded within the mangled flesh. The girl was also suffering shock, as was the boy with the leg wound.
The Boy Scout returned with Sue right behind him. Without any words being spoken, Danya inserted an ink pen through the neckerchief and turned it to twist the scarf tight and close off blood flow to the leg. Fortunately, the young boy was already unconscious and he didn’t have to bear the pain.
Next, she turned her attention to the arm wound. The immediate concern was blood loss. She removed a bandana from a pocket and pressed it against the wound, causing the girl to scream in pain. Then she, too, passed out. Danya secured the makeshift dressing with the web belt the Boy Scout had been wearing.
Sue took in the carnage—the three injured children and the dead grandmother—and felt sick. Abruptly, she turned, took two steps, and emptied her stomach. After retching for a half-minute, she wiped her mouth and faced Danya.
“Is it safe? We heard gunfire, and then it stopped.” She glanced down to the children. “Are they all gone? The terrorists, I mean?”
Danya rubbed her hands over her face. They felt moist. She exhaled and raised her gaze to meet Sue’s.
“In a manner of speaking, they’re dead.”
“All of them?”
“A couple escaped in a helicopter. They have one of my friends as a hostage, and an FBI agent. Since you’re standing here, I assume there aren’t any more guards inside?”
Sue shook her head.
“What about the cell house?” Danya said.
“What?”
“The prison, up on top of the hill. I heard them talking on the radio, and they have hostages up there. I think they called down the guards, but I’m not certain.”
“I don’t know.”
Motion caught Sue’s attention. A few people were creeping through the sally port.
She pointed. “There—more of the hostages.”
Danya turned. “I guess that answers my question.”
“What do we do now?” Sue said.
“Help me cover the injured children. They’re in shock, and we have to help them stay warm. And we need to cover these bodies. No one should have to see them.”
She led Sue into the gift shop, and together they stripped armloads of sweatshirts from the racks and shelves. After making the children as comfortable as possible, they covered Margaret’s body, and then the dead assailants littering the courtyard.
When the task was done, Sue’s face was streaked with tears.
“How could anyone do that?” She wiped her cheeks. “They were only children,” she whispered.
Danya placed a hand on the teacher’s shoulder.
“There is no answer. I’m sorry. But I need you to be strong—for the children.”
Sue sniffled and nodded. “Okay. Okay.” She dabbed a finger to the corner of an eye. “Now what? Are the police coming?”
“Soon. Are your students inside?”
Sue nodded. “They’re with another group of kids. I told them to stay together while I checked outside.”
“Good thinking. Now I need you to take charge of these people. They’re frightened. They need leadership, someone to assure them help is on the way, and that they are safe until it arrives.”
“I can’t do that. I’m just a teacher.”
“Yes, you can do it. You teach elementary school, right? Pretend all these people are students at your school, and you’re trying to get everyone to settle down before an assembly.”
“But—”
Danya raised a hand. “Believe me—getting adults to follow you is a lot easier than getting a bunch of rambunctious boys and girls to listen.”
The restroom door opened, and a young boy meekly stuck his head out.
Seeing Danya and Sue, he said, “Is it okay to come out now?”
Sue stood with her arms outstretched, and the boy ran to her, followed by four other youths. The stream of people coming through the sally port was also growing, and they were all approaching Danya and Sue.
“Look,” Danya said. “Organize several search parties to find the backpacks, cell phones, and wallets that were confiscated. They have to be around here somewhere. Maybe inside the barracks or cell house, in an office or closet. That will keep people busy.”
“What are you going to do?” Sue said.
“I’m going to make sure help is on the way. Then I have a friend to rescue.”