“With me, though I wouldn’t say safe and sound, exactly.”
Caitlin was running it all through her mind: how Dylan had been set up; where the Lost Boys fit into the picture; the mixed-up motivations of Ela Nocona, no doubt influenced by her grandfather, who was still fighting the wars of the nineteenth century; ISIS showing up on the Comanche Indian reservation, thanks to Daniel Cross.
“Ranger?”
“I’m here, Cort Wesley.”
“Any thoughts?”
“What time is it?”
“Closing on five o’clock.”
“Rush hour,” Caitlin told him, the words echoing painfully in her head. “That’s when the ISIS fighters will set off these bombs. There’ll be thousands of people down there then, tens of thousands. What about turning the Houston police into the cavalry?”
“Only if you want to guarantee that ISIS sets the bombs off at the first sight of cops supervising a mass evacuation.”
Caitlin tried to do some calculations in her head, but it was like drawing on a blackboard without chalk, so she started for the Chamber of Horrors exit instead, the world gone all wobbly again. “I can round up Jones, Paz, and whoever else I can rope in. Get back to our Black Hawks.”
“Black Hawks or not, there’s no way you can get here in time. Leave this up to me.”
“Against, what, maybe ten ISIS fighters?”
“I’ve got Dylan with me.”
“He’s still just a kid, Cort Wesley.”
Cort Wesley glanced at his oldest son, remembered him looking up from the body of Ela Nocona.
She’s dead, son.
I think I knew that.
“But he’s got this coming to him. And I can hardly hear what you’re saying. Where the hell are you, Ranger?”
Caitlin realized her speech was slurred. “A Chamber of Horrors, at a carnival.”
“No, really.”
105
HOUSTON, TEXAS
The tunnels felt like an airport concourse to Cort Wesley, this section of the Downtown Loop crammed with shops and stores layered amid winding stretches of tiled walls, with lighting perched on either side of the ceilings forming a ribbon of brightness stretching as far ahead as he could see. The pedestrian thoroughfares featured backlit signage tracing the entire sprawling, checkerboard length of the tunnels. Symbols and signs clearly denoted where an observer was standing in relation to where he might want to go. The immediate neighborhood above was highlighted as a yellow outline traced over royal-blue markings. Ideal refuge from the heat, bad weather, and cluttered streets above.
It wasn’t nearly as crowded as Cort Wesley had feared, but rush hour hadn’t officially started yet. That thought made him wonder whether the deadly aroma concentrated down here might leak out to the streets above and claim victims there as well. The mere possibility was too awful to even contemplate.
“Jesus,” Dylan said, scratching at his scalp. “How far did you say this goes?”
“A hundred city blocks, give or take a few, this section maybe the most congested of all.”
“Oh, that makes me feel a lot better.” Now Dylan still had his father’s Smith & Wesson. It was the first time he’d actually carried a gun, and the possibility that he was going to need to use it was suddenly very real. “So here we are. What’s the plan, Dad?”
From his pocket, Cort Wesley took Ela’s bloodstained map that featured ten red Xs designating those choke points along the Downtown Loop handling the spill of pedestrians from Houston’s most congested business area. Soon to be packed with mothers and fathers heading home to their families, having no idea what awaited them. He figured all the bombs would be triggered together. And, given the fluctuating signal strength down here, the ISIS fighters would likely remain close to wherever they’d planted their respective backpacks, right up until the last moment. Dial the triggering number and then dash up the nearest exit stairs before the deadly aroma began to spread. Or hold their positions until the last moments before Zero Hour on the chance plans changed at the last minute.
“So what do we do?” Dylan said, gazing at the map. “Divide them up or something?”
Cort Wesley shook his head. “Sorry, son.”
“About what?”
“Caitlin’s right.”
“About what?”
“I’d like you to sit this one out.”
Dylan’s eyes widened. “You said I had this coming to me. I heard you.”
“I know, and you do. This is just the way it has to be.”
“Because you say so.”
“Because I say so. Wait for me at the food court down that way,” Cort Wesley said, pointing east. “Things go bad, get your ass out of there. And hold your breath.”
106