“Stay down,” DeWitt’s agent said as he cautiously poked his head up over the seats. Several moments had passed since any gunfire. With his weapon drawn, he surveyed the situation. Behind him, still huddled as low on the seat as possible and covering their heads were A.J., Timmy, David, and Kristen. In the row beside him, DeWitt was still on the floor. In the row in front of him he could see Mahli’s two guards, both dead; Mahli lay beneath them. In the first row one agent was missing, the other stood, slowly swaying, an expression of shock shadowed his face. A moment later his swaying increased until he fell backward across the bow of the boat. One of Roger’s bullets had hit the agent in the side. The agent, driven by a rush of adrenaline, hadn’t realized at first that he had been shot. Now his life’s blood was leaking away inside him until there was insufficient blood pressure to maintain consciousness.
DeWitt’s agent was all that was left. As the boat slowly rounded another bend he shouted, “Out of the boat! Everyone out of the boat.” Then he unceremoniously seized DeWitt by the front of his shirt and yanked him up off the deck of the craft. Everyone who could move scrambled to follow him. A.J. grabbed Timmy and dragged him onto the staging area. Timmy was crying, wailing, and covering his head. David and Kristen followed.
“Here. Huddle here. Everyone stay down.” Alone, frightened, and angry, the agent did what he was trained to do: protect. He turned his back on the small group as they hunkered down next to one of the plywood backdrops. He raised his handgun to shoulder height, holding it with both hands. In rapid motion he forced his eyes to search the area. He saw nothing. Bringing his radio microphone up he announced breathlessly, “Simmons here, we have two agents down. Repeat, two agents down. Sugar Bear is unhurt. We are out of the boat and in …” Simmons looked around him for a landmark that would identify their location. He was surrounded by dolls in African dress and hyenas who were laughing loudly and rocking back and forth on their haunches, their paws crossed over their exposed stomachs in a never-ending simulation of a belly laugh. “We’re in Africa. Guest One, Guest Two, and Guest Three are down. Condition unknown. We also have two gunmen down, condition unknown. I need backup—now!”
Agent Woody Summers heard the report through his earpiece. He responded succinctly: “Understood. Sit tight.” Woody raced along the maintenance path behind the animated exhibits as fast as caution would allow, rounding each corner with his weapon elevated and ready to fire. Fortunately, the ride was not as dark as some rides in the park, so it didn’t take long for his eyes to adjust, but there were plenty of cubbyholes, access ways, and dark corners in which an assassin might hide, and each one had to be approached cautiously. He estimated that he would arrive at the attack scene in less than three minutes.
Outside the ride two other agents, who had been dressed to blend in with the tourists, took positions, one at the entrance, the other at the exit. They had already cleared the long lines of people away from the ride and were shouting orders to Disneyland guards, who quickly cordoned off the area. In the distance, police sirens and ambulances wailed mournfully.
“Do you think they’re gone?” DeWitt asked pensively.
Simmons shook his head, “I can’t say. I didn’t see anyone except the two shooters, and neither one of them is moving. I haven’t heard anything, but then who could with that incessant song.”
Feeling a little more confident that the attackers were either gone or dead, David turned and briefly looked at the others. Each wore a mask of fear except A.J., whose expression was one of profound sorrow. He gazed empty-eyed across the water-filled channel at the still figures lying on the staging, his arms wrapped around the fear-shocked Timmy. It struck David as odd that A.J. would seem so sad at the attackers’ deaths. Turning to Kristen he asked, “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “Yes. How about you?”
“Fine, for the moment.” David started to rise.
“Stay down,” Simmons ordered. “I need you to be as small a target as possible.” David complied immediately, squatting in front of Kristen.
“What about Mahli?” DeWitt asked. “Did you see him?”
“It doesn’t look good, sir,” Simmons replied without turning around. “He was on the floor, or the deck, or whatever you call it with his guards lying over him. His men were pretty shot up. They have to be dead.”
“But Mahli,” DeWitt persisted. “Did you actually see Mahli?”
“No, I didn’t. He was covered by his guard. I assumed he was dead.”
“Assumed?” DeWitt exploded. “Assumed? You mean he could be alive? The president will kill me if something happens to Mahli.”
“My job, sir,” Simmons said firmly, “is to make sure someone doesn’t kill you. Keeping your voice down will help me do just that. Besides, no one could have survived that hail of bullets.”
“But they were after me,” DeWitt said morosely. “They were Arab terrorists seeking revenge for my work with Israel. You heard what they shouted.”
“I don’t speak Arabic,” Simmons replied.
“I speak enough to know that they were after me, not Mahli.”
“Well, I’m afraid they got him—”
Simmons was interrupted by a loud voice, thick with accent. He stepped between the huddled group and the direction of the voice.
“BAR-RING-STON!”
A moment later, Mahli, his clothes and skin covered in blood, appeared.
“Don’t move!” Simmons shouted, leveling his gun at Mahli.
“Don’t be an idiot,” DeWitt cried. “That’s Mahli, and he looks hurt.”
“Stay down,” Simmons ordered, lowering his gun only a little. “Sir,” he said to Mahli, “you’re alive.”
Mahli looked at the agent briefly, then quickly raised a handgun and pointed it at Simmons and pulled the trigger. The gun’s report echoed through the building; the bullet smashed into the agent’s forehead. Kristen screamed, and David attempted to cover her with his body. DeWitt swore and quickly covered his head. It was too late to stop the spray of blood. Only A.J. didn’t respond in a panic. Instead, he slowly rose to his feet.
“This is between us,” A.J. said firmly, his eyes fixed on his enemy. “Let them go, and you and I can settle this right here.”
Mahli glanced around him and then laughed, a devilish, evil laugh that reverberated in the air. “Apropos, don’t you think?” he said, waving his gun to indicate the African surroundings. Without hesitation or warning, Mahli aimed the gun—a pistol he had taken from the body of one of his guards—and fired it at a little black dancing doll in African dress. The tiny figure shattered, leaving only a portion of its mechanics clicking and clacking away.
A.J. stepped forward, but not before Mahli leveled the gun at his head.
“You did this,” Mahli said coldly. “You set this up, didn’t you?” A.J. didn’t respond. “First you killed my brother, and now you attempt to kill me. You failed, Mr. Barringston. You failed miserably, and now I’m going to make you pay.”
“What, by killing me?” A.J. said. “I’ve been ready to die for years.”
“Bravo,” Mahli mocked him. “Such a self-sacrificing soul you are. Unfortunately for you, I’m not impressed.”
“What does he mean, you killed his brother?” DeWitt asked timidly.
“Shut up!” Mahli snapped. “Since Mr. Barringston here has no fear of his own death, let us see if he fears the death of his friends. Now who shall it be?” Mahli’s mouth separated into an infernal grin, but his eyes were flat, devoid of any emotion except hatred and anger. He eyed the small group slowly. “The woman? Yes, the woman. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it Mr. Barringston? A woman.” Mahli pointed the gun at Kristen’s head. “You’re angry at me because you think I killed your precious woman doctor. Well, I did kill her and her emaciated friend too. Do you know what, Mr. Barringston? I enjoyed it. I relished it. Unfortunately, I let her die too quickly, but not before she saw her friend bleeding in the sand.”
A.J. said nothing, rema
ining as still as a statue. Only his eyes moved, following every action that Mahli took.
“This woman doesn’t move you? Doesn’t concern you? How about her boyfriend?” Mahli quickly snapped the pistol in David’s direction. David felt his heart stop. Despite his fear, he stood slowly and took one step sideways to interpose his body between Mahli and Kristen.
David watched Mahli closely as the madman suddenly changed his aim from Kristen to him. From Mahli’s fearless, indignant attitude, David knew that he and the others would most likely be shot. There seemed little they could do. It was clear to David that Mahli’s primary concern, maybe his only concern, was tormenting and killing A.J.
“Maybe Secretary DeWitt should be the first to die.” Mahli spat out his words and shifted his aim to the secretary of state who sat on the floor. David watched the man’s eyes grow wide. “What do you think, Mr. Barringston? Should it be old man DeWitt?”
A.J. offered no response. Instead he stared with piercing eyes at their tormentor.
“Don’t care, huh?” Beads of perspiration oozed from Mahli’s ebony skin. “I know. The boy.” A.J.’s eyes widened slightly, a sign not missed by Mahli. “Yes, that’s it, the boy. You’re fond of him, aren’t you, Mr. Barringston? You’d be unhappy if the young man got a bullet in the forehead, wouldn’t you? You’re tensing, my friend, I can see that. You love the boy, don’t you? Simple as he is, useless as he is, you love him, and having his brains splattered all over the walls would hurt you. I know just how you feel. I felt much the same way when my brother was tossed from that helicopter with his hands tied behind his back. It took me a while to figure out it was you and your people. I think it’s only proper for me to make you suffer the way you made me suffer. The boy it is.”
Mahli took three steps back and aimed the pistol at Timmy, who covered his head with his arms and whimpered. “A.J.! A.J.! Don’t let him shoot me. Don’t let him hurt me!”
Slowly, deliberately, Mahli stretched out his arm, took aim, and began to squeeze the trigger.
Woody couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Hearing voices, he had carefully, stealthily made his way to within ten yards of the group and hid himself behind one of the plywood backdrops. The music and the clicking of the mechanics of scores of dolls made listening difficult, but he could hear well enough. Mahli was holding the others at gunpoint, including the secretary of state. This was not something they had taught him at the academy. Woody knew what he had to do, and he had to do it now. Then he heard the gunshot.
David had heard that motion seemed to slow down in crisis situations. He had found this true once before when he was involved in what turned out to be a minor traffic accident. There was nothing minor about what was happening here. Mahli had pulled the trigger. He did it without blinking or without the slightest change in his sardonic smile. Kristen screamed, and David turned to see where the bullet had struck Timmy. But the bullet hadn’t struck Timmy; it had struck A.J. With unbelievable timing, A.J. had stepped in front of Timmy, interjecting his own body between the boy and the bullet. The copper-plated slug struck A.J. just below the sternum. David watched in horror as a small red circle on A.J.’s shirt expanded. A.J. swayed for a moment, but his strength and near superhuman resolve could not keep him standing. He dropped to his knees, then face first onto the platform.
“A.J.! A.J.! A.J.!” Timmy screamed. Tears gushed down his face. No longer afraid for his own life, and driven by love for the man who had loved him so much, Timmy scrambled to A.J.’s side. “Get up, A.J. Get up. Don’t die. Who will eat hamburgers with me? Who will play video games with me? Please. Please get up. A.J.! A.J.! You can’t die!”
Oblivious to the danger, David sprung to A.J.’s side and pulled Timmy back, and like A.J., interposed his own body in front of the weeping lad. David looked at the bloodstained body of his friend and slowly shifted his gaze to Mahli.
For the first time in David’s life, he truly hated someone. For the first time in his life he was facing someone possessed of absolute evil. And for the first time in his life, David wanted to kill.
“What do you think you’re going to do?” Mahli said bitterly to David. “Do you think you’re a hero?” Mahli raised the gun then quickly snapped the gun to his left. A shot was fired. David flinched and raised an arm in a futile effort to shield himself. The shot, however, had not been meant for him. Instead, a man cried out and fell forward from his position behind one of the plywood backdrops. It was Woody. When the FBI agent hit the floor, his gun slipped from his fingers and danced across the stage.
Mahli walked to the pistol and picked it up, holding it in his left hand while pointing the weapon in his other hand at the fallen agent. “Now who are you?” Mahli asked.
Woody, who had been hit in the shoulder, writhed in pain on the ground.
“I must apologize,” Mahli said to Woody. “I was aiming for your head. But don’t worry. I never miss at this range.” He directed the pistol at Woody’s face.
From his position next to the wounded A.J., David watched as the madman took slow and purposeful aim. Without thought, David acted. Springing to his feet he charged the Somali, screaming each step of the way. Mahli spun around and tried to take aim at David, but it was too late. David slammed into the African with all his might, propelling both men back toward the boat channel. A second later they were both in the shallow water.
As they were tumbling into the water, David saw a gun drop into the blue aqueduct. That meant that Mahli was now reduced to only one gun, but he knew that was enough. Clawing madly, David reached for the weapon in Mahli’s right hand, but Mahli fought back viciously. Both men stood in the shallow flow, David clutching the wrist of Mahli’s upraised gun hand. A round was fired, the bullet impacting noisily in the ceiling. David pushed forward against his attacker, and both men fell under the water again, struggling, wrestling, one out of madness, the other out of desperation.
Seconds passed slowly. Mahli had succeeded in rolling over on top of David, pinning him under the water. David’s lungs began to burn and to cry for air. If he had both hands with which to fight, then David knew he stood a chance of freeing himself enough to raise his head above the water, but if he let go of Mahli’s arm, then the madman would have a clear shot. It seemed hopeless.
Staring up through water, David saw the out-of-focus image of Mahli grimacing down at him. Then there was another figure, one with red hair. A second later there was a splash and the weight of Mahli was removed from David’s chest. He struggled to stand on the slippery floor of the culvert as he gasped for sweet air, but what he saw immediately took his breath away: Kristen was locked in battle with Mahli. David watched helplessly as Mahli raised the gun high in the air and then brought it down on Kristen’s head with a sickening thud.
“Kristen!” David shouted.
She slumped face first in the water. The current carried her toward David, who pulled her up and to himself, cradling her in his arms. Blood ran freely from the crown of her head.
“You Barringston people are a challenge,” Mahli shouted. “But not much of one.” He raised the gun and took aim. David spun on his feet to cover Kristen with his body. A shot was fired, then another. David waited for the pain.
There was no pain, but David felt something in the water bump him. Slowly and leaning against the flow, he turned to see Mahli floating facedown. The water around him turned crimson.
A second later he heard, “Here, let’s get her out of the water.” David looked up to see Stephanie Cooper reaching for Kristen. “Well, come on,” she said. “Anyone who fights like that deserves to be saved.”
It took all of his remaining strength, but David, with the help of Stephanie, lifted Kristen out of the water and set her on the stage. “You stay with her. I’m going to check on the others,” Stephanie said.
David turned to see the lifeless body of Mahli carried away by the water’s flow.
David rolled A.J. over and cradled his head in his lap. Kristen stood behind him, her hands
on his shoulders, weeping softly. Timmy wept unashamedly and repeatedly cried, “Don’t die, A.J., don’t die!” A.J.’s eyes fluttered open. His body was limp, his skin pale, and his breath ragged.
Woody sat nearby, his hand clutching tightly his wounded shoulder. Secret Service agents and local police poured into the ride. An ambulance siren wailed outside.
“Hang on, A.J.,” David said. “Help’s on the way. Just hang on.”
A.J. shook his head. “Too late. Sor … sorry. You weren’t supposed … to know … not involved … my fault …”
“Don’t try to talk now,” David admonished. “There will be time for that later.”
“No time,” A.J. muttered, then he coughed. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. “Is Timmy all right?”
“Yes, he’s here.”
“I’m here, A.J. Please don’t die.”
Slowly, and with astonishing effort, A.J. raised his hand and stroked Timmy’s check. “You be a good boy … do … your work … listen to David.”
“I will, I promise, just don’t die.” Timmy was crying uncontrollably, weeping with great sobs. Tears raced down his face.
Looking at David, A.J. said weakly, “Timmy …”
“I know. I’ll take care of him,” David said, finishing A.J.’s sentence. David’s own tears fell unabated onto A.J.’s bloodstained shirt.
“Maybe I was wrong, David,” A.J. began. “David?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Don’t let the … work die with me. Make sure it goes on. Much … good to do. Lives to save. Talk to my father. He knows what to do.”
“Just hang on, A.J.,” David said urgently.
“Promise you’ll try, David. I trust you. I need you. You have the heart for it. Promise.”
“I promise, A.J., I promise,” David wept openly.
A.J. smiled weakly, “You’re a good man, David. Better than me. We both have a heart … but you have a soul.”
Terminal Justice Page 31
