Chaindragger is coming up beside him, his own weapon held low-ready in both hands. Water from his dip in the Timeless River drips from his Star System Alliance Defense mechanic’s coveralls, pools at his feet, makes his rich brown skin shine.
“Top?”
“Angel was in the command post. No response.”
“Meaning we don’t have eyes.”
“Meaning they do.” Bell scans the immediate area, looking high, for hidden camera placements. He finds three, knows he’s missing at least that number again. Knows that whoever is in the command post is watching, has seen them, will be reacting.
“We’ve got to get these people out of the park.”
“They have our eyes.” Bell indicates one of the bodies. “You see any more of these on your way here?”
“That’s a negative.”
“Check them.” Bell holsters his pistol as Chain drops to one knee, begins searching bodies and bags. Lilac is watching him warily, the boy and girl clinging to her. “You with me? Lilac? Are you with me?”
Lilac nods, hesitantly at first, then again, with resolve, and maybe it’s calling her by her character name that does it, but she takes a breath, stands a little straighter. She is Lilac the meerkat, the heart of the Flower Sisters. Fierce and loyal, yet kind at heart, and she will do what must be done.
“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I am.”
“You get them to the main gate, don’t stop until you’re outside,” Bell tells her, then turns, directing his words at the others. “You understand? All of you, follow Lilac. Follow Lilac. Don’t stop. Run.”
“Lily runs,” the girl says softly. “Lilac dances.”
“Not today,” Lilac says. “Today, we run so fast that Lily won’t believe it when we tell her. Right?”
The girl nods, wide-eyed.
“Go,” Bell tells them.
Chapter Fourteen
Ruiz is racing his Mustang through traffic at speeds no one would call reasonable or safe, listening to the duty sergeant in his ear delivering the bullet. What they know, and more, what they don’t, and then the interrupt he’s been waiting for comes at last.
“I’ve got Warlock,” the duty sergeant says, her voice as implacably calm as ever. Ruiz used to wonder if anything would faze her or the others of her kind, those who staff ops rooms and duty posts in bases and secret and secured rooms all around the world. All hell breaking loose in WilsonVille, worst fears being realized, and that didn’t do it, which makes Ruiz believe nothing ever will.
“Put him through.” A pause.
“Warlock, go for Brickyard.” Hiss-click on the line, background whine of the scrambler, then Jad Bell’s voice.
“Brickyard, I’m in the park. It’s a take.”
“What do you have?” Ruiz asks, wrenching the wheel around an F-150 driven by maybe the only person in Southern California who is actually slowing to stop at a yellow. Horns blare, and Ruiz stomps on the accelerator.
“It’s a take,” Bell repeats. “Chain and I have four neutralized, repeat four neutralized, estimate at least three times that number left in the park, cannot confirm.”
“Assessment?”
“They’re taking hostages and they’re taking the park.”
“Can you confirm they have hostages?”
“Cannot confirm, but highly probable. We have ten, repeat ten, freed and heading out now.” Bell pauses. “We’ve lost contact with Angel. May have been taken when hostiles took the security offices.”
“KIA?”
“Cannot confirm.”
“They have control of the surveillance?”
“Affirmative.”
Ruiz spins the wheel about, the Mustang embracing its notorious heritage, fishtailing into the Wilson Entertainment corporate lot. In the rearview, he can see one of the security guards in the gatehouse he just blew past running after him, yelling into a radio. He’s killing the engine and climbing out as he continues speaking to Bell. “If they’re taking hostages, the botulinum is a hoax.”
“Agreed.”
“I’m putting Bone and Board into play, should have them on the ground and staged for you in three hours. This is the opening move, Warlock, not the endgame. We need to get ahead of them.”
“Understood. Out.”
“You,” Ruiz says as the line goes dead in his ear. He’s facing the visibly jumpy Wilson Entertainment security guard closing on him. The man is unarmed but for a radio, but Ruiz holds out one hand anyway, showing an empty palm, while his other dips into his jacket. Wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt and a windbreaker, he lacks the authority of a uniform, knows he has to make up for it with his voice and manner.
“Colonel Daniel Ruiz to see Matthew Marcelin. I am aware of the situation in the park. Take me to him now.”
The security guard hesitates, tries to be clever about it, reaching out for the ID. Ruiz shakes his head.
“I need to see that, sir.”
“Son, you have a terrorist incident developing in your park,” Ruiz says. “What you need to do is bring me to Matthew Marcelin, and you goddamn need to do it now.”
Ruiz starts toward the entrance of the building, not quite running, but strides that force the guard into a jog to catch up, then keep pace. The man falls in, glancing his way, but doesn’t speak, and at the doors he’s there first, pushing them open and then running ahead, clearing the way. There’s a mural of the Flower Sisters looking sweet on the wall, cavorting with friends, and there’s a crowd in the lobby, executives milling around. Ruiz suspects that the building is being cleared, security protocol, perhaps, fear of another attack or a response to the biotoxin threat.
A threat that is unequivocally false, Ruiz is now certain. The security guard is holding an elevator for him, and he steps in, finds Jerome Wallford inside on his phone, sport coat and slacks and mop of blond hair, looking ten years younger than Ruiz knows he is. Wallford acknowledges him with something like a nod, the guard reaches around, presses a floor, then backs out. Doors close.
Wallford covers the mouthpiece of the phone, still at his ear, with a hand. “You confirm mobile in the park?”
“I have two shooters in the open, they have engaged and neutralized one element. The botulinum-”
“Bullshit, yeah.”
“They lost contact with your girl.”
“I’ve fucking lost contact with my girl.” Wallford uncovers the mouthpiece, says, “Then get onto NSA and shut it down before it starts a panic. Anything else, you call me.”
“Shooting down the balloon.”
Wallford lowers the phone, scowling. “Twitter, Facebook, everyfuckingthing.”
“This won’t stay quiet.”
“It’s already not quiet, it’s already being shouted from the mountain. Media is en route both here and to the park.”
“My man says they’re taking hostages. Means something else is coming.”
“Something else is most definitely coming,” Wallford agrees. “The question is what.”
For a man trying to ride chaos, Ruiz thinks Matthew Marcelin is doing a damn fine job of not losing his head. He’s standing in his outer office, tie loosened and collar open, a Bluetooth in his left ear and a landline held to his right. When Ruiz and Wallford enter, he cuts off midsentence, staring at them.
“You I know,” Marcelin says to Wallford. “Him I don’t.”
“Colonel Daniel Ruiz. Master Sergeant Jonathan Bell belongs to me.”
There’s a heartbeat’s pause, and then Marcelin says the same thing to each of his phones, “Call you back.” The landline goes to one of the assistants standing in the room, the Bluetooth comes out of his ear, and Marcelin gestures to his office, moves to enter without waiting for them to follow.
Wallford shuts the door behind them once they’re inside.
“You bastards knew this would happen?” are the first words out of Marcelin’s mouth. “You knew this would happen to my park?”