A tiny smile returned to Jessie’s face. “You’re pretty remarkable, you know that?”
Surprised, Mark stepped back. “What makes you say that? I’m shaking in my boots here.”
“No, not about that. I think we’re all wound pretty tight right now. I mean that you not only are working with Jim, but you’re even praising him.”
Mark opened his mouth, but closed it without saying anything. What could he say? That holding a grudge would be pointless at the moment? Maybe later, when everyone was safe, he could resurrect the anger, but not now. Not when so many depended on their cooperation. He stuck his hands in his pockets and kicked at a pebble, sending it skittering across the street. The crowd roared, and he turned towards the field. “It’s almost time.”
Jessie nodded. “Yeah, I have to get back to my post.” Without a glance to see who was looking, she stood on her toes and kissed him. “Be careful.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jim returned along with four other agents. All wore varying types of Cub’s apparel, and he knew that each agent had a small arsenal on his body. It eased Mark’s mind somewhat. The game had progressed to the top of the ninth and the first out by the Milwaukee Brewers brought a huge cheer from the stands along with a trickle of fans exiting. With the Cub’s in the lead, Mark noted most of the fans leaving were Brewer fans. A thunderous cheer rose, and along with it, Mark’s heart rate. Two outs. Just one more to go and the game would be over. He glanced at his watch. Ten-fifteen. The sound of the crowd increased, and he could picture the fans all standing to ‘help’ the pitcher get the final out.
“You ready?” Jim put his phone in his pocket. “Better switch on your mic.”
“I guess so.” Mark found the button hidden in his collar and clicked it. Adrenaline flooded him, heightening his senses and he was sure that his heart thumped loud enough that the agents on the other end of the audio could hear it.
The trickle of fans became a steady stream, making it harder to pick out a man and small boy. He moved closer to the gate, aware of Jim trailing a short distance behind him. Not only was Mark trying to find the father and son, he was scanning for the terrorists as well. Without the luxury of closing his eyes to pull up their image in his head, he tried to concentrate just on the men in the age range of the father and the terrorist. He headed towards the west end of the gate, taking up one of the positions a terrorist had in his dream. If they weren’t there already, they soon would be.
He leaned against the edge of the exit, trying to look like he was waiting for someone. Jim mingled in the crowd, just a few feet away, his gait uneven as he pretended to be inebriated. He had a wide grin on his face and every few seconds, let out a whoop, as though celebrating the Cub’s win. With so many people, Mark lost track of the other four agents. He hoped they hadn’t gone far. Along the street, officers from the Chicago P.D. stood guard. The gate was really two gates separated by a brick column. Large white double doors secured the gates when closed, but now both sets were open wide.
A burst of people passed, and Mark strained to see back into the crowded concourse for the man and boy while darting looks near the gate for the gunman who would wave. A group of rowdy teens crossed in front of him and he almost missed the father and son. Just as the group jostled past, he saw the boy grin and wave at someone. He followed the child’s gaze and saw a man wearing a dark blue Cub’s hoodie standing a few feet outside the gate. The man wiggled his fingers and broke into a smile. Mark shivered at the gleam in the man’s eye and he forgot about the microphone in his collar. His sharp intake of breath must have registered with the agent on the other end because a voice in his ear asked him if he had something. He kept his eyes glued to the man. “Yeah. I have one. He’s just a few feet away.”
“Hold your position and keep him in sight. We have help coming your way.”
Jim was beside Mark in seconds. “Which one?”
Mark pointed with his chin. “The guy with the hoodie moving towards the far opening there.”
As though feeling eyes upon him, the man scanned the crowd, and zeroed in on Mark and Jim.
For the space of one breath, Mark froze, unable to look away. An instant later, all hell broke loose.
The suspect reached beneath his sweatshirt, Jim bolted towards him. Light glinted off metal. Shouts went up and bodies rushed past Mark as two agents, and a Chicago police officer joined Jim in swarming the man.
The suspect shouted in another language as he tried to break free. A voice from the left side of the gate yelled back in the same language. Mark followed the sound. “Shit. There’s the other guy!”
The second man was standing behind the other door at Mark’s gate. He’d already pulled out his weapon. The images from his dream mingled with real time, giving the moment a surreal quality. Shoving people aside, Mark cut through the people, his eyes never leaving the gun.
“Taylor, get back!”
The shout blasted through his ear-piece and he staggered, clutching his ear. He yanked the device out and flung it away. People had already noticed the commotion and added to it with screams and shouts. Mark hesitated, unsure what to do. The distance was short, but the crowd cutting between made trying to cover the distance akin to fording a fast moving river.
He elbowed people aside and shouted, “I need some help on the far side of gate K!”
Without the ear-piece, he had no way of knowing if anyone had heard him. A thick swarm of fans emerged, and Mark tripped on a stroller, his hand scraping on the ground as he fought to keep his balance. Only a few people remained between him and the gunman. The man glanced at Mark, and leveled his gun. Instead of aiming into the stadium, or even at Mark, he swept it towards the left, where his fellow terrorist wrestled with Jim and the other agents. The image of Jim in the photo flashed through Mark’s mind.
A portly woman stepped in front of Mark just before he reached the gunman, and with a curse, Mark snagged her by the shoulder and flung her forward. With a leap, he launched himself at the terrorist. He tried to grab the barrel of the rifle, but the impact sent them both crashing into the brick column. Dazed at the impact, Mark blinked a few times to clear his vision. The suspect had landed flat on his back and must have been stunned too, but only momentarily. In an instant, he was rolling to his side. Mark ignored the darkness cutting off his peripheral vision and lunged to straddle the terrorist. The gunman twisted in an attempt to get away and reach his rifle. His eyes shone with hatred and he spat some words at Mark as he struggled.
Mark reached for the gun, fighting for control of it, grunting when an elbow connected with his cheek. The other man held the barrel and levered the butt at Mark, catching him on the left temple. Mark sagged as stars exploded in his head and his vision wavered. His grip on the barrel loosened, but he blinked and fended off the darkness. The suspect tried to hammer him with the butt again, but Mark blocked it and shoved the barrel away. Using his leverage and the other man’s momentum, he drove the barrel into the cement where it scraped a white line in an arc on the pavement.
The gun ripped through Mark’s hands and he lunged in a desperate attempt to get it back before he realized it was Jim who had taken it. His frozen moment of surprise was broken as a sharp pain burned across his left bicep. Mark gasped as his attention snapped back to the terrorist. The man clutched a knife as he shifted for another attempt.
What the hell? Where had that come from? There had been no damn knife in his dream. Mark threw his body to the right. With Jim controlling the gun, he just wanted to get out of the way. Hand clamped to his arm, Mark staggered to his feet and stumbled a short distance into the stadium, just outside the men’s room.
Turning back, he saw Jim and three other agents wrestle the gunman into submission. The whole fight lasted less than a minute. It was over. Relief that the gunmen were caught mixed with anxiety of the outcome at the other gates. He scanned the faces of those exiting, looking for signs of panic.
The crowd churned through the concourse, hardly pausing to take in the scene. He supposed that most thought it was just a drunken fight. A slew of Chicago police flooded the area and the gun was nowhere to be seen. That was probably a good thing.
As the adrenaline ebbed, the pain in his arm and head skyrocketed. He groaned and bent at the waist. Blood welled through his fingers and dripped onto the pavement.
A hand was on his back. “Can you sit?”
It sounded like Jim, but feeling dizzy and light-headed, Mark didn’t dare look up, but closed his eyes instead.
