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  “The Friends?”

  “Employees. Staff.”

  Hendar chuckles, says, in Russian, “Fucking Americans.”

  “Keep it in English,” Gabriel snaps. “Tell Alpha Two to move into camera range. We need to see them.”

  “Understood.”

  “Just two guys,” Betsy says, stepping up beside him and flicking his butt away. “You’re too tense. Just two guys, we can take them.”

  Gabriel gives him a look that says exactly what he thinks of this unsolicited opinion. Betsy shrugs.

  “We may have a problem,” Hendar says slowly.

  “What?”

  “Second Alpha element…they’re not responding.”

  Immediately, Gabriel starts running, cutting between the Wilson Restaurant and the Sweets Emporium, Betsy close on his heels. “Get them on radio!”

  “That’s what I’m fucking trying to do!”

  Betsy stays close at his heels, following as Gabriel vaults the turnstiles at Cannonball Plunge, runs alongside the waterfall, feels its spray on his skin, feels the water evaporate almost instantly. Cuts between two concession stands, submachine gun in his hands, legs pumping. Hendar is silent in his ear, the whole park silent, and he realizes he hasn’t heard gunfire, no shots, and for a moment he can allow himself to believe this is just a coms error, a clusterfuck breakdown. It could be perfectly innocent, if innocence still manages to reside anywhere within WilsonVille.

  This doesn’t have to belong to Jonathan Bell.

  Then he hears the gunfire, the reports rolling through the park, distant, its direction impossible to determine. But he knows where it’s coming from, he knows where it has to be. Just as he knows the source, and the reason.

  “Still no response,” Hendar reports. “Nothing, not a thing—”

  “Watch the perimeter!” He’s rounding the cluster of giant mushrooms that house the toilets between the two live animal shows, realizes he doesn’t know which one he’s heading for. “Where are they? Exactly!”

  “The animal show, they’re—”

  “There are two of them!”

  Hendar says “Shit” in Russian, shouts to Gordo. There’s another battery of shots, this time quicker, a three-round burst, and Gabriel immediately cups one of his ears, closes his eyes. A breath later, a single report, and he thinks it’s south of where he’s standing now. Sets off again as Hendar comes back, still no idea where, why the hell aren’t there cameras backstage?

  “Watch the perimeter,” Gabriel says. “Watch the fucking perimeter, I don’t want any more surprises!”

  Then he’s threading the chain-marked queue at Wild World, half spinning as he comes through the entrance at the side of the amphitheater. He pauses here, presses himself against the wall just outside the seats. Benches rise along one side of the bowl, allowing an unobstructed view of the stage below. There’s no movement, no motion that he can see. With his left hand, Gabriel signals to Betsy, orders him to move around to the other side, to take a flanking position. He hears an echo, faint, the source lost in the acoustics of the amphitheater; metal clanging on metal, then nothing more.

  “Tell me you have something,” Gabriel hisses to his radio. His hands are perspiring around the submachine gun, and he shifts his grip, wipes his palms against his T-shirt. “Tell me you have something.”

  “Nothing, no movement.”

  Across the bowl, opposite him, Gabriel sees Betsy raise a hand in signal, in position. He raises a fist in response, indicates the direction he wants Betsy to take. Settles his grip on the submachine gun, begins to advance in parallel, both men working their way down the aisle, toward the stage. Closing, he catches the scent of the animals, hears them in the distance. The radios have gone silent, no traffic, and Gabriel feels the same adrenaline apprehension he would feel on patrol, in the dust and scrub. Search and destroy, and the environs have changed, but he realizes the mission is the same.

  They flank the stage, holding at the stairs on either side for a moment, each of them again checking their surroundings, listening and looking. Only the sound of the animals, and even they seem subdued now. Another exchange of hand signals, and together they mount, turn, weapons raised, advancing to the scrim, splitting off at the wings, and still there’s no one and nothing, and they come around into the backstage together, overlooking the depressed holding area, the curtained cages, and Gabriel knows they’re too late.

  One dead man on his back, with a dead snake to keep him company. No weapon, no radio. Parted curtains and an open, empty cage. Broken glass and another body, likewise missing his gear. A jaguar with a bloodied muzzle, watching them with yellow eyes as it lies beside the torn form of a gazelle.

  “Fuck,” Betsy says.

  Gabriel pulls his radio. “Anything?” he asks Hendar.

  Hendar doesn’t respond.

  “Delta One, respond,” Gabriel says.

  Dead air.

  Betsy is looking at him.

  “Coms check,” Gabriel says. “Alpha One, respond.”

  “I have you,” Vladimir answers. “Loud and clear.”

  “Stand by. Delta One, respond.”

  And nothing.

  “Could be power, maybe?” Betsy says. “They would cut the power to the park, right?”

  “Park’s on its own generators.” Gabriel shakes his head. If this was a bank, something else, sure, the authorities would have cut the power long ago. But WilsonVille can’t afford a power outage, not when hundreds of people may be on roller coasters and inside haunted houses when a blackout occurs. WilsonVille has its own power.

  Hendar isn’t responding, and it’s not because coms have gone down.

  Then the phone in his pocket begins to vibrate, and Gabriel Fuller knows the Uzbek is calling.

  And he doesn’t know what to tell him.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  MATTHEW MARCELIN is back from his second press conference, gulping water from a bottle while one of his assistants tries to apply another powdering of makeup in preparation for his third. Looking past his shoulder to the television, Ruiz sees the man again, standing outside and in front of this same building, behind a WE! podium. The volume is muted, but his concern and his competence are both loud.

  “Trouble,” Wallford tells Ruiz. “Incoming.”

  Marcelin’s office has become, to Ruiz, the war room, and to Matthew Marcelin, he imagines, the crisis management center. Junior executives and personal aides scurry in and out, the flat-screen monitor on the wall now fixed on one of the cable news networks, more telephones than people, and more noise than Ruiz would like. Warlock in his ear, giving him the bullet: two more Tangos down, Chaindragger and Angel have secured the command post, and he is escorting the hostages through the tunnels for evac.

  And the ribbon on the package.

  “They have my daughter,” Bell says.

  “I have the rest of your unit joining me, fifteen minutes,” Ruiz says, watching as Eric Porter enters the room. Coming up on four hours since the park was taken, this is the first time Ruiz has seen the director of park and resort safety, and the part of him not evaluating just how compromised his team leader has now become has to wonder just what the hell Porter has been doing in that time, and where exactly he’s been doing it. There’s a flush to Porter’s cheeks, a sheen of sweat, and maybe it’s the forty pounds of extra meat the man carries on his frame, and maybe it’s the stress, but Ruiz wonders if he’ll be smelling whiskey on Porter’s breath in just another few seconds.

  “They have my daughter, Colonel,” Bell says again. “I am securing my wife in the command post, and then I am locating my daughter.”

  “That is ill-advised, Master Sergeant. Hold for the rest of your team, we will move to free all the hostages together.”

  “You are asking me to wait, sir. Would you wait, sir?”

  “That is affirmative, Master Sergeant.”

  “Clarify: Are you ordering me to wait, sir?”

  “I am ordering you to hold position
in the CP until further notice. Confirm.”

  He hears Bell’s breath, a ragged exhale that makes Ruiz wonder if he’s been wounded.

  “I am holding position,” Bell says. “Out.”

  Ruiz kills the connection, pockets his phone. He’s lied to Bell, he knows damn well that if it was his daughter, if he had a daughter, he’d arm up and burn every sorry motherfucker between him and her down to the ground. But he does not have a daughter, he does not have a wife, and right now, that allows him to see with clarity what Jad Bell certainly cannot. They will rescue the hostages, of that Ruiz is sure. But they will do it right, and they will rescue them all.

  Marcelin has come forward to meet Porter, his manner a mix between relieved and enraged. “Eric, Jesus Christ, where have you been?”

  “Tried to get down on-site when it started, got caught up in the craziness, getting all the guests out.” Porter rubs his mouth with his hand, shakes his head ever so slightly. “Went back to my office to see if I could get any information, then discovered everyone was here. Jerry? Where are we?”

  “I’ll get you up to speed,” Wallford says, guiding Porter off to one side, away from the television.

  Ruiz turns to Marcelin. “I need a room. Someplace I won’t be disturbed. Plans for the park, underground and above.”

  Marcelin doesn’t even ask why, just nods, calls out. “Natasia? Clear one of the conference rooms, and have someone bring up all the plans for the park for the colonel here.”

  At “colonel,” Ruiz sees Porter raise his head, searching for him. Meets his eyes, and Ruiz acknowledges with a nod, and then Porter’s attention is back to Wallford, listening intently. On the flat-screen, the news is replaying the footage of Xi-Xi being dumped outside the gates. Marcelin has stopped midconversation beside him, caught by the images as well.

  “Jesus,” Marcelin whispers. “Jesus, do we need this on? Do we have to have this on?” He turns in place, speaking to the assembled, his voice rising. “Do we even know who that was? Do we know who she was, at least? Has someone talked to her family?”

  Staff stares back, mute.

  “Can someone get on that, please?” Marcelin asks. “Someone find out who was playing Xi-Xi today, who isn’t accounted for. Can we identify her? Can we do that, at least?”

  Ruiz turns away, finds Wallford and Porter returning.

  “That dirty bomb,” Porter says. “Jerry says you’ve got two shooters in the park. That dirty bomb needs to be their priority.”

  “We’re not certain that threat is real, sir,” Ruiz says.

  “That threat is real. That threat is as real as the woman they dumped.”

  “Do you have any proof, sir?”

  Porter shakes his head, shakes it again. “You need to put your shooters onto finding that bomb, Colonel. That needs to be their priority.”

  “Their priority is the safety and lives of the hostages,” Ruiz says. “That is standard protocol, and until I receive orders directing otherwise, it will remain so. My people are aware of the presence of the device, and they will take steps to identify and neutralize it once the hostages have been secured.”

  “We are dealing with terrorists who have made demands, unreasonable, impossible demands.” Porter’s voice drops as he becomes more insistent, more urgent. “They know we will never meet their demands. They know you have shooters in the park. They will detonate that device, Colonel. They will do it.”

  Ruiz glances to Wallford, is surprised to see that the man has apparently been paying their conversation no attention, is instead now standing in front of the wall of windows, his cell phone to his ear. They match eyes in the reflection off the glass, and Wallford’s expression is dead, mouth moving as he talks, but staring at the colonel at the same time, and Ruiz wonders what the meaning is in this, what the man from the CIA is trying to tell him by not saying anything at all.

  “They will do it, Colonel,” Porter is repeating. “God help us all if we let that happen.”

  Marcelin’s assistant, Natasia, the one tasked with getting the plans and the conference room, calls out from across the room. “Colonel Ruiz? There are two men here to speak with you.”

  “If you could have them meet me in that conference room you acquired, I’d be grateful,” Ruiz says.

  “Listen to me.” Porter shifts, moving in front of Ruiz, trying to keep him from leaving for just a moment more. “You have to forget about the hostages. Those are what, ten, twenty lives? We’re talking tens of thousands dead, hundreds of billions of dollars wasted.”

  “Mr. Porter, sir,” Ruiz says. “I have my orders, and I will follow them.”

  “Who’s your commanding officer, then?” Porter pulls out his phone. “I haven’t been out so long I don’t have pull, Colonel. Who’s giving you these orders?”

  Ruiz shakes his head. “Sir, you do not want to make that call. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Who? Damn it, who do I need to talk to for you to get this straight? The hostages don’t fucking matter!” Porter is shouting, and the room comes to a halt, making his words seem that much louder, and that much more poorly chosen. “Tell me who’s giving you your orders!”

  Ruiz exhales, squares his shoulders.

  “You need to call the White House, sir. Then you will need to ask to speak to the president of the United States. Again, if you’ll excuse me, I have men waiting to be briefed.”

  Natasia escorts him to the conference room where Cardboard and Bonebreaker are waiting, gear bags resting on the floor. Board stands, already studying the blueprints displayed in PowerPoint on the wall. Bone sits, boots on the table, leaning back in his chair, and neither man acknowledges Ruiz’s arrival. Ruiz thanks the young woman, waits just inside the door as she turns and leaves. Bone watches her go, craning his head to catch the last glimpse of the woman as she departs.

  Then they’re alone, and Ruiz closes, locks the door. Bone gives him a nod of acknowledgment, moves to sit beside Board at the table.

  “The mission is to rescue the hostages, to rescue the hostages,” Ruiz says, indicating the blueprints still being displayed. “Your secondary objective is to locate and verify, and in the event of verification, to disarm the radiological device believed to be in the park.”

  “We have numbers?” Board asks.

  “At this time we believe there are between fifteen and twenty hostages still in the park.” Ruiz pauses for a fraction. “There is a complication. Six of those hostages are deaf. Warlock’s daughter is one of them.”

  Both of the men, already attentive, already focused, shift. Boots come off the table, spines straighten a fraction, and Ruiz feels the transformation, the easy slip from professional to personal. Their community is a small one, the bonds between them precious and forged quite literally under fire. What strikes at one comes to strike all, and never more so than when it strikes their Top. Of Warlock’s team, Cardboard has been with him the longest, Bonebreaker a year shy of that, Chaindragger the most recent member. Of Warlock’s team, Cardboard is divorced with two children, Bonebreaker recently married with one on the way, Chaindragger single.

  All of them know Jad Bell, and all of them know Jad Bell’s family. All of them know Amy, and all of them know Athena, and Cardboard, in particular, has memories of piggyback rides and birthday parties, his children and Bell’s.

  This strikes home.

  Hard.

  “He knows we’re here?” Cardboard asks, swipes his hand over his shaved head, clearing it of perspiration. “You have commo?”

  “Just cleared. He and Chain burned another two, liberated a group of six, have them safely in the park’s security office, used as a command post. They have an additional asset, CIA-placed, call sign Angel.”

  Cardboard slides a look at Bone, then both men are looking at Ruiz.

  “He’s holding?” Bonebreaker asks.

  “Warlock is holding on you gentlemen,” Ruiz says. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  CHAIN
AND Angel moved the bodies before Bell brought the group back to the command post, but coming up the steps and into the room, the group sees that the signs of the killings remain. A battery of surveillance monitors are dark, glass cracked and the screens a smoke-coal shade, the victims of a flashbang that detonated too close to the equipment, perhaps. Still-wet blood staining the carpet, and a handful of spent brass. He can read the room, and he can tell; Chain and Angel never gave the Tangos a chance.

  There are five with him, plus Amy.

  Amy, who hates him more than she ever has before, because he’s following orders.

  Bell had found the keys on the second man, the one he’d shot, pulled himself painfully to the cage where his wife and these strangers waited, looking at him anxiously from behind the bars. His throat ached, the sensation of the man’s thumbs still upon it, a dull throbbing that was too slowly beginning to recede behind his eyes. One forearm soaked with blood and the submachine gun in his hand, more blood flowing from his lacerated palm, and he didn’t blame any of them for the looks they gave. Amy at the front, taking him in, and from her reaction, he knew he was a sight.

  “Listen,” he said, fitting the key, voice so hoarse he almost couldn’t hear it himself. Coughed, repeating, “Listen, there are more of them, more of them coming. You will follow me, you will stay right on me.”

  He pauses for a breath that hurts to take, that feels like wet concrete in his upper chest. The door unlocked, still closed, and he meets each set of eyes in turn, they have to understand him. An early-thirties couple, husband and wife from their rings and the way they keep their children close, more children, three of them, one only a toddler in arms, a boy, and two girls, neither far into their teens.

  “Stay on me, close to me, no talking until we’re in the tunnels. Nod if you understand.”