“First of all, the cuitlacoche that’s grown on the reservation is consumed there. And the Comanche have built up a natural resistance to its deadly effects, after making it a staple of their diet for so many centuries. Secondly, I’ve determined that the deadly strain of the fungus is limited to a relatively small patch of wild-growing corn in a remote corner of the reservation. I figure that’s because the water feeding that area leaches out of a truly ancient aquifer, with just the right acid and alkaline balance to turn that particular strain of fungus deadly.”
Al-Aziz leaned back, scratched at his freshly trimmed beard, and then crossed his arms. “And how many, here and elsewhere, could we kill with the amount of this fungus you can harvest off the Comanche land, before the authorities and this Texas Ranger catch on?”
“Not enough. But the fungus isn’t the real weapon here; the water that produces it, the way it interacts with cuitlacoche, is,” Cross told him, thinking of the still pond he’d found inside a cave just off the reservation. “With that water, I can figure out how to synthesize as much of the weapon as you need, a potentially unlimited supply.”
Daniel Cross cast his gaze beyond al-Aziz, toward the now jam-packed crowd. Barely any foot of space on the former overpass was unoccupied for more than a second. Kids dragged their parents toward the rides, which spun in elegantly graceful motion, in stark contrast to the way the world really worked. Nearby, water splashed into the air from the mini flume ride, where cackling children rode faux motorized logs about a sweeping course. Cars clanked past them on the roller coaster that wound its way over the entire length of the carnival.
“It would take time, but I could do it,” Cross heard himself tell al-Aziz, hating all the smiles more than anything else.
Smiles that disappeared when the first gunshots rang out.
101
KLYDE WARREN PARK, DALLAS, TEXAS
Except it wasn’t gunfire at all but fireworks Caitlin had purchased at a nearby stand, which was already selling them in anticipation of the coming Fourth of July.
FIREWORKS! TWO FOR ONE SALE! read the banner she’d spotted.
She’d lit four packs aflame within seconds of each other, tossing them in that many different directions in the immediate area of the picnic table where the ISIS commander was seated with Daniel Cross and the kid’s homegrown handlers. At first, all she could feel was a collective ripple in the crowd, as the press of startled carnival patrons reacted instinctively, before almost settling back down, once the truth became clear.
And then the ISIS fighters appeared, bursting out from everywhere at once, it seemed.
The crowd packed along the midway saw the gunmen first, the assault rifles sweeping about behind hateful, determined glares, fingers ready on triggers, waiting for their targets to appear, initially believing the firecrackers had been real gunfire. The chronology tightened, unfolding in still shots instead of video, starting with the recognition that it had been merely fireworks that had drawn them out, not gunshots.
The gunmen froze, eyes shifting but holding.
The carnival patrons froze, too, for the length of a breath, maybe two. Then they began to run, scattering in all directions at once, a swarm quickly filling what little space remained between the rides that swept and soared about the landscape, packed with children and families.
Leaving the ISIS fighters alone, holding their ground.
Exposed for Guillermo Paz’s men to fire upon.
*
Al-Aziz had his own pistol out by then, aimed across the table at Zurif and Saflin, who had already lurched to their feet, backing off.
“You betrayed me…”
“No!”
“And now you pay the price for your treachery before Him!”
With that, al-Aziz shot them both in the face as Daniel Cross watched, realizing only then that he’d risen to his feet, too, and that urine was running down his leg. Al-Aziz swung toward him, pistol leading.
“We will kill them,” the ISIS commander sneered hatefully. “We will kill all of them! Allahu a’lam … Allah knows best!”
Al-Aziz grabbed Cross by the arm and dragged him into the panicked throngs, as actual gunfire burst from everywhere at once.
*
The familiar scent of gun smoke filled the air as Caitlin shoved her way against the grain of the crowd, in al-Aziz’s and Daniel Cross’s wake. Every time she drew reasonably close, another surge from the crowd forced her back. The jostling was uneven, unpredictable, thrown to the whims of the gunfight that had erupted between Paz’s troops and the ISIS gunmen.