Dead Drop

Chapter 6

The park was eerily still as Quinn and Thibodaux ran with the Iraqi boy through the darkness, past the restrooms. They kept to the cover of now-deserted snack stands and carnival games, working their way toward the fort-like wooden structure that housed the workings of the log ride. Gunfire popped and cracked at various points around the park, but the broken cries of victims seemed to pour in from every direction. Here and there, dark shadows crept and scurried through the trees like terrified rats — surviving patrons and park employees, all desperate to stay hidden but unable to find a way outside the high park walls. Any of them foolish enough to try the gates were cut down on the spot.

Quinn kept Mukhtar between him and Thibodaux as they ran. He shot a glance at the boy. “When we run into any of the shooters, you stay out of the way and let us handle it. Hear me?”

“Obviously,” Mukhtar said, trotting easily beside the men. “You appear to know what you are doing. I assume you were both in the U.S. military. Did you ever go to Iraq?”

Both men nodded.

“My father,” the boys said, “he was interpreter for the United States Marine Corps in Fallujah.”

“Well, ain’t that somethin’,” Thibodaux said, sounding unconvinced.

Mukhtar’s shoulders slumped. “It does not matter what I do,” he whispered. “No one here will trust me…”

“Well, son,” Thibodaux said, still jogging, “you gotta admit, these murdering sons of bitches who happen to all dress and sound and look just like you have put us in a tough spot. Makes it hard to tell the difference between the good guys and the bad guys. Sometimes profiling is the only thing between a bullet in the brain and makin’ it home to see your kids.”

“But they do not all look like me,” the boy said, his hands up and open, pleading to be understood. All three slowed to a stop, thirty meters from the hulking shadow of the log ride. “Tariq,” the Iraqi boy continued, “the one who I believe to be in charge, he is American.”

“A convert?” Thibodaux mused. “Are his parents refugees?”

“You do not understand.” Mukhtar shook his head, then shrugged, hands still up, and moving to emphasize each and every word. “His real name is Terry, Terry… Spencer, I think, but everyone calls him Tariq. He says his father is some kind of lawyer in Washington, D.C. He is as white as you.”