Terminal Justice (43 page)

As Roger slipped from consciousness, he let another burst of bullets fly, but he was too shocked, too weak to control the weapon. The gun fired endlessly as he fell to the ground, its bullets screaming through the air and destroying dancing dolls and scenery. As he fell, the weapon’s aim moved forward from the middle of the boat where Roger had been firing to the front. Four rounds struck and killed the nearest Secret Service agent. The man spun on his feet and fell backward over the front of the ride and splashed into the water. The current moved him along the channel in front of the boat.

“Agent down! Agent down!” his partner cried into his microphone. He spun to his right in time to see Roger fall face forward onto the staging, taking several of the robotic dolls with him. Spinning back
the other way he saw Sheila—a tall masked assailant with one of the deadliest automatic weapons in the world. He leveled his weapon at her chest and squeezed off a series of rounds. After each shot he quickly adjusted for the recoil and the movement of the boat and fired again.

Sheila had seen Roger fire at Mahli. She saw the closest guard take several hits and watched as he fell backward over Mahli. The other Somali guard had been hit, too, and fell sideways over the left side of the boat before slumping backward over the bodies of his companions. She wasn’t sure if Mahli had been killed. So intent was she on her aim that she saw neither Roger nor the Secret Service agents killed, nor did she see the remaining agent take aim at her.

Snapping her weapon around, she took aim at Mahli’s position in the boat. Her rounds never fired.

The first round from the Secret Service agent struck her under her left arm, an area unprotected by the bulletproof vest. The impact drove the breath out of her; it also pierced her aorta. The next round caught her in the ear. She died as she fell to the ground.

“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.