She turned to Detillier.
“Can you just call someone? Anyone? There’s got to be news about Preacher. I need to know. I can’t make anything out of that mess on the radio.”
Detillier raised his hand, gesturing, Maureen realized, for her to be quiet.
“And there it is,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
“There what is? For fuck’s sake.”
“The response to the first nine-one-one call”—he raised his chin in the direction of the Walmart—“from inside the Walmart. I was right. Those fuckers are in there. Someone fleeing the store called it in.” He shifted the car into drive, rolled them toward the store. “Showtime.”
20
They cruised slowly across the parking lot, giving the Walmart entrance a wide berth.
Maureen watched as the automatic doors opened and one person then another jogged out of the store, glancing over their shoulders as they ran. She could tell they were scared, but nobody was sprinting. Whatever had frightened them wasn’t chasing them, and the danger was away from the front of the store. Maureen knew the Watchmen weren’t coming out. Law enforcement would have to go in after them.
“We’ve got a description coming in over the radio,” Detillier said.
Maureen listened as the NOPD dispatcher described the shooters. One male, one female. Possibly a couple. That could matter, be useful, Maureen thought; if they could be separated, maybe they could be used against each other. The dispatcher said the man was white, with a medium to solid build, about six feet, short black hair. The woman was also white, thin, long brown hair, about five-six. The shooters were dressed alike. Camouflage cargo pants, black boots, body armor, fingerless gloves. An invented, secondhand uniform. This was good, Maureen thought. They’d be easier to distinguish from any remaining customers in the store.
Both were heavily armed, carrying automatic rifles, AK-47s or something similar. It should be anticipated, the dispatcher said, that they carried sidearms as well. And while there had not been visual confirmation on these two shooters, the Mid-City shooter, the one who’d shot Preacher, and who had been killed on-site, had been carrying grenades.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Maureen said. “This is unreal.” She looked at Detillier, who watched the front of the store and nodded his head at every detail the dispatcher related. “You ever seen something like this before?”
He went on nodding. “This is how it happened in Vegas. This is how it happened in Memphis. Right down to the fucking Walmart.”
“And how did it end those other times?” Maureen asked.
“Ugly,” Detillier said. They moved closer to the store as Detillier drove in smaller circles. “These things, with people like this, they can’t end any other way. You try to limit the damage.”
Maureen pointed a finger at him, sitting up on one knee in the passenger seat. “You know. You know if Preacher’s dead or if he’s alive and you’re not telling me. Why are you not telling me?”
“I wouldn’t tell you a thing I’d heard,” Detillier said, “even if I had heard something. Because there’s better than a fifty-fifty chance that whatever I’d tell you was wrong. Information in these crazy situations is unreliable. Think about that. I need you to focus, Maureen. I need your full attention on the matter at hand. We’re walking into an active-shooter situation, a potential hostage situation. You gotta be here now. There’s no fucking telling what you’re going to be asked to do. You have to be ready for anything.”
Detillier parked the car.
*
He’d put them off to the far right side of the entrance, away from the front doors, the sedan parked at an angle behind a huge black pickup truck they could use for cover. A trio of scraggly parking-lot trees helped to shield them as well. Maureen understood Detillier’s strategy. From where he’d positioned them, they couldn’t be shot at out the front door. They’d see anyone exiting the store before that person saw them. They’d see anyone who’d slipped out the back of the building and came around the right side of the store. Anyone who slipped out the left side would be more than a hundred yards away from them when they appeared. Detillier had left the Watchmen no direct shots or angles of sneak attack.
“We’re not waiting for backup,” Maureen said. “Are we?”