Strong Cold Dead (Caitlin Strong, #8)(103)
Caitlin added her help and fire to bystanders, pulling the wounded to safety, as far out of harm’s way as she could. Amid it all, in insane counterpoint, the rides continued to twirl and spin, on three-to five-minute looped cycles that swept riders about, through, and above the carnage and panic, as more people rushed to flee Klyde Warren Park.
“Go, go, go!” she instructed, herding panicked patrons along, ready the whole time with her SIG Sauer.
An ISIS fighter, wounded by fire from Paz’s troops, snapped a fresh magazine into his Kalashnikov and started to sweep it forward. Caitlin poured bullets from her SIG into him, punching him backwards until he flopped over a trash container and took it down with him to the grass. Gunfire continued to sound, a bit more sporadically now, as she turned her attention back to protecting the crowd.
And spotted al-Aziz dragging Daniel Cross with him toward the botanical garden and the nearest exit, which spilled out not far from Captain Tepper’s and Beauchamp’s position.
“You read me, Captain?” she said into her hand mic.
“Got ourselves a genuine shit storm out here.”
“It might be about to get heavier. Al-Aziz is headed your way with Daniel Cross in tow.”
“Jesus H., Ranger. Where’s Lee Harvey Oswald when you need him? The Mountie and I will be ready.”
Caitlin lit out after al-Aziz, stopping just short of the boarding point for the roller coaster, pistol steadied, with al-Aziz square in her sights. She was about to fire, when a huge shape obscured her vision of everything ahead, seeming to block out the whole world, in the last moment before she was launched airborne.
102
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Dylan could only shake his head when Cort Wesley finished explaining Ela’s map. “Pedestrian tunnels? Beneath Houston? How could I never have heard of them?”
“Because you never had call to use them, son,” Cort Wesley told him. “Twenty feet below street level, spanning six miles over maybe a hundred city blocks. Whole bunch of access points from buildings and off the streets. A subterranean world all onto itself.”
Dylan looked down at the map lying on his lap, as Cort Wesley sped down an access ramp to Route 290 that would connect up with the 610 into Houston. “Then these ten red X’s…”
“Major chokepoints at what’s got to be one of the most congested areas during rush hour, all centered around the Downtown loop where lots of the retail establishments are concentrated.”
“Let me have your phone.”
*
“Jesus,” Dylan said, jogging through the app he’d just downloaded for Houston’s underground tunnels on Cort Wesley’s smart phone, “there’s like two hundred stores. They got everything down there.”
“Including people, lots of them. In a confined space where that shit can spread at will.”
Dylan was trying to compare a schematic featured on the app to the red X’s on Ela’s map. “You’re right. They’re all in one central area, along the tunnels converging on this food court here. Shit, you wouldn’t believe how many Starbucks are down there.” He shook his head. “Near as I can tell each of the X’s is located near one of the entrances.”
“Chokepoints,” Cort Wesley repeated, “like I said.”
“Each between fifty and a hundred yards apart, all centered around this part they call the Downtown Loop.”
“Highly congested for sure and accessible via the McKinney Garage where the terrorists can all park.” Cort Wesley checked his truck’s dashboard clock. “Give me my phone back. I need to try Caitlin again.”
*
Cort Wesley had never driven faster, the miles to Houston along U.S. 290 East dragging on forever. Caitlin wasn’t answering her phone, Jones wasn’t answering his phone, nobody was answering their phone. And he didn’t know if he was going to reach Houston in time for it to matter. His navigation screen had read 166 miles at the outset of the trip, and they had covered the bulk of those already, slipping from one lane into another, then veering sharply across traffic when space allowed, the whole time holding his breath against the possibility of congestion or an accident snarling traffic. He was ever so glad, in that moment, that he’d let Dylan and Luke talk him into buying the more expensive truck model, which included the sport package.
“I’m sorry, son,” he said, breaking the silence that had settled between them.
“For what?”
“For Ela.”
“She’d tried to stop them, Dad. She changed her mind.”
“I know.”
“I was holding her when she died. It brought me back to when Mom died. I never wanted to feel that way again.”
Cort Wesley swallowed hard. “You said it yourself, son. It was different this time.”
The boy twisted toward him, tugging against the bonds of his shoulder harness. “Sure it was. Because you were right all along. I let myself be duped. I didn’t see it coming ’cause all I saw was Ela. I feel like an idiot. I feel like it’s my fault.”
“How’s that?”
“I should’ve known I was getting played. I should have played her instead.”
“You mean, like, show her the error of her ways?”
“Something like that. At least get her to change her mind, get her to realize she had things wrong.”