Marc Cameron - Act of Terror

She took the seat on his left. Bo sat to his right, beside an attractive Alaska Native woman in a long green dress. Bo struck up a conversation easily, leaving Jericho with the nagging in his gut and a disgruntled ex-wife’s elbow digging into his ribs.

The Atwood Concert Hall’s cushioned green seats were filled to capacity, even up to the nosebleed section. The curtain opened to thunderous applause. Anchorage had plenty of musically talented youth, but six-year-old prodigies were very rare indeed. Alaska’s social elite-Quinn called them the NPR crowd-wanted to witness such an event firsthand.

A full youth orchestra sat on risers behind a single chair out front in the middle of the stage. The youngest members were over twice Mattie’s age. Most were in their late teens. Miss Suzette sat at a baby grand piano a few feet from the chair, stage left.

Babette cradled in her tiny hand, Mattie Quinn walked onto the stage with all the poise of a woman five times her age. She curtsied toward the audience, saluted the conductor and Miss Suzette with her bow, and daintily took her seat.

A hush fell over the hall and Mattie began the hauntingly perfect notes of Bach’s Chaconne…

Quinn closed his eyes, listening to the music. He knew something was wrong before he opened them.

The first man appeared from the flowing shadows of the side curtains left of the piano. He was tall, with close-cropped black hair and the wispy beginnings of a black goatee. White socks stood out against an ill-fitting brown suit and ratty dress shoes. A youthful face glistened with sweat under the harsh glare of stage lights. He stood motionless for a long moment, as if frozen by stage fright-half on, half off. His right hand was hidden in the dark folds of the heavy curtains.

The conductor, a heavyset man in his fifties with a sweating bald head, attempted to wave the intruder off with white-gloved hands.

Music continued to pour from Mattie’s bow as she played on, sticking her tongue out in rapt concentration, unaware of the scene unfolding behind her.

Quinn’s blood ran cold as the man broke from his trance to stride haltingly toward Mattie. The curved blade of a scimitar hung from his right hand, glinting in the lights.

A murmuring buzz coursed through the packed auditorium as patrons worked to puzzle out the scene before them.

Quinn jumped to his feet. He’d allowed himself to go against his instincts, and now he was hemmed in. There was no way to get to his daughter before the attacker reached her with the flashing sword.

Kim choked out a scream when she realized what was happening.

If properly trained, the brain is capable of processing an amazing amount of simultaneous information under pressure. However, the body, unable to truly multitask, resorts to gross motor skills. Even as Quinn’s right hand swept the tail of his leather jacket he knew his shot would have to be perfect. The twenty-yard distance wouldn’t be the greatest problem. Lead bullets had a tendency to keep going after punching a hole in a human body. With a backdrop of fear-paralyzed teenage musicians, his rounds not only had to stop Mattie’s attacker, they had to stop in him.

Quinn squeezed off two quick shots as the Kimber’s front sight came to eye level. The hundred-and-eighty-grain slugs slammed into the man’s pelvis, shattering dense sections of bone into jagged shrapnel, tearing flesh and ripping through major arteries. He fell like a sack of wet sand.

“See one, think two,” Quinn whispered his mantra, scanning both sides of the stage.

“Watch Kim,” he snapped, passing the ten-millimeter to his brother. He still had the baby Glock.

“I’ve got her.” Bo grabbed the pistol and as he too scanned the stage.

Kim screamed again and Quinn shot a glance over his shoulder just in time to see the silver flash of another blade in the row behind them. He sprang backward, throwing himself between this new danger and Kim. He felt a sickening thud as something heavy struck his shoulder. Thankful for the armored leather of his Transit jacket, he pressed toward the attack, bellowing like a bull as he grabbed a fistful of hair. He used the chair back as a fulcrum and yanked the attacker over the seats.

The glint of a blade flashed across the sleeve of Quinn’s jacket. He lunged, trapping the wrist, twisting, turning the blade and the hand that held it back against itself. Tiny bones snapped as the full weight of the man fell, writhing and screaming across Kim’s lap just as the house lights came up.

Quinn freed the blade and drew it straight up the attacker’s throat in a fluid arc, killing him and splitting his chin and then his nose up the center like a butterfly.

Kim’s chest heaved in disgust and fear. She tried to push away, but the man’s weight and the closeness of the seats penned her in. A crimson spray dripped from her pallid cheeks. Her blouse was drenched in the dead man’s blood.

She screamed at Quinn, reaching for Mattie. “Go get her!”

Jericho vaulted the seats in time to see Miss Suzette throw herself in front of a third attacker. A bewildered Mattie now stood frozen in front of her chair, bow and violin clutched to her chest.

Quinn recognized the sunken eyes and narrow face of the third man at once. Ratib Jabiri, right hand of Sheikh Husseini al Farooq, the Saudi mastermind behind the terrorist plot to smuggle weaponized Ebola into the United States. He would have succeeded had it not been for Quinn.

Jabiri shot Miss Suzette in the stomach and shoved her cruelly out of the way. The brave woman lashed out with a foot as she went down, connecting with the terrorist’s legs. The pistol flew from his hand as he tried to break his fall.

The Saudi’s knees hit the wooden floor with a sickening crack. He cried out, but scrambled to his feet in an instant. Scooping up a startled Mattie as he ran, he hoisted her tiny body in front of him as a shield.

Quinn moved up the aisle with the superhuman speed of a terrified father, arms pumping as he shoved his way through the paralyzed crowd.

Mattie in tow, Jabiri dove behind black side curtains and disappeared into the shadows.

Quinn vaulted up onto the stage, using the hollow thud of the Saudi’s footsteps and his daughter’s muffled screams to guide him. Just yards ahead, past a series of heavy ropes and counterweights, Quinn caught a glimpse of black hair as Jabiri ducked down a narrow flight of stairs that led beneath the stage.

The Saudi was high enough up on the sheikh’s food chain that he was used to a life of pampered leisure. Running was something done by servants. Quinn caught him at the entrance to the men’s dressing room in the under-stage catacombs of music stands and prop tables.

Jabiri turned like a cornered animal, panting through bared teeth, his back pressed against the dressing room door. A thin shaft of light from the orchestra pit cut across the harsh angles of his face, adding to the menace of his sneer. A cheap black suit bunched at narrow shoulders. His white shirt was rumpled and loose at his heaving waist. A thin arm snaked around Mattie, pulling her close to his chest. The other hand gripped her face like a claw, pinching her cheeks between bony fingers. Her little legs, still in the frilly white tights, hung loosely in front of him. One of her patent leather shoes had fallen off during the run.

Quinn slid to a stop-just out of reach, heart pounding in his throat. He raised both hands to show he had no weapon. Mattie’s lips quivered, but she didn’t cry. Her blue-gray eyes focused hard as if trying to send a message.

“Stay back!” the Saudi hissed. “I will break her neck if you come one step closer…”

“It’s me he wants, Jabiri. You know that.” Quinn’s eyes flicked methodically, taking in the scene, deciding his next move. “Let the girl go.”