duffel bag.”
The Tower of Terror is north. George must've changed his mind when he saw the crowd of cops converging on that ride, realized the elevator wasn't going up to the top anymore.
Ceepak scans the horizon. I follow his eye line. The Tower of Terror pokes up against the cloudless blue sky to the north. We swing to the south. I see the Ferris wheel and the Paul Bunyan-size statue of a Muffler Man someone repainted to look like a giant pirate holding a treasure chest. In front of us is the Atlantic Ocean. Behind us the shops-the mile-long row of arcades, food joints, tattoo parlors, T-shirt places.
“There!” Ceepak does his three-finger point to the south and east. The Mad Mouse roller coaster. “That'd be my fallback position.”
I see what Ceepak sees. The Mad Mouse is the second-tallest steel structure on the beach. The twisting track is at the end of a short pier that juts out across the beach and over the ocean. The turns on the track are tight, sharp. The track itself, narrow. It's steep in places, but you could run up it like you were running up a ladder leaning against the side of your house, no need to wait for a seat like back at the Tower of Terror. You could hop the line, knock over the kid taking tickets, scamper up the track, and be at your sniper post in no time.
There's jagged, light-bulb letters up top spelling out the words “MAD MOUSE.” Each of the Ms is at least six feet tall. Weese could slip behind one, prop his rifle in the giant Ms V-shaped crotch and start picking off targets down below.
“Excuse me. Pardon me. Coming through.”
We play Ceepak's hunch, work our way through the mob and head south, over to the Mad Mouse.
I see Ceepak touch his pistol. He doesn't unsnap the holster, doesn't want to start shooting, not when we're surrounded by this tight a pack of innocent bystanders. But he wants to make sure it's still there in case he needs it.
“This is Four. We've got him.” Another one of our foot soldiers has spotted Weese.
“Go, Four.” It's Baines. He's in his car somewhere, coordinating.
“Suspect … south …”
Unit Four's broadcast breaks up, but we catch the gist.
“Middle of crowd … now east … Swirl Cone.”
Ceepak stops in his tracks. Tries to get his bearings.
“All units,” Baines voice comes over the radio. “Move south. Surround suspect.”
“This a drug bust?” This chubby guy in a Speedo blocks our path. He licks an orange-and-white ice cream cone, stands with one hand nestled against the belly roll where his hip should be.
“Sir, where did you purchase that?” Ceepak asks him.
“Why? Is something wrong with it?”
“No, sir. Where did you purchase your cone?” Ceepak sounds like he really, really wants softserve ice cream.
“Over there.” The guy gestures with his cone and it drips down his pudgy fist.
“Danny?”
“Sand Castle Swirl Cones. I know it.”
“Is it near the Mad Mouse?”
“Yeah. Top of the pier. Fifty feet from the roller coaster.”
Swirl Cones. We heard the words in Unit Four's call. Ceepak's hunch was right. We need to hustle.
“There,” I say, pointing to the glowing orange-and-white swirl cone turrets poking out from Sand Castle's roof. We weave our way down the boardwalk, reach the top of the pier.
There's a commotion by the Mad Mouse ticket booth. A wave ripples through the line like somebody is pushing and shoving everybody else.
“Watch it, asshole!” Someone screams. Whoever she is, she has a mouth on her. “Fucking asshole is cutting the line!”
“There.” Ceepak points to a silhouette of a skinny man lugging a duffel bag. He is climbing over coaster cars and scrambling up the track. He's only a silhouette against the bright morning sky, but I recognize the loping gait. It's definitely Wheezer.
Now what?
Ceepak punches his radio's shoulder mic.
“This is Ceepak. Suspect is scaling Mad Mouse.”
“All units, this is Baines. Move in. Move in. Mad Mouse. Mad Mouse! Move!”
Ceepak stays calm.
“Suspect appears to be carrying his weapon concealed in a duffel bag,” he says into the radio. “Repeat. His weapon is still cased, he is not currently armed.”
“All units, all units. Move in on the Mad Mouse. Take him down!”
The screams at the base of the ride grow louder. The people don't yet sound scared, just mad.
“Get off the track, asshole!”
The ride they've been standing in line for has all of a sudden been shut down because some idiot with a suitcase is climbing up the tracks.
“We've been waiting!” One of them shouts. “It's our turn!”
So far no one suspects anything worse than a jerk with a gym bag.
Weese stumbles on the steepest hill of the track. Slips. Almost drops the duffel bag. He pulls himself back up, holds on to the guardrails like he's climbing a gangplank, checks his grip on the bag, and continues toward the top. He's heading for those blinking Ms.
Ceepak stops. Looks left. Right. Assesses our options.
“Backtrack,” he says. I have no idea why. He pivots and heads west. So instead of running toward the Mad Mouse we're heading back up the pier toward the boardwalk shops and lemonade stands and …
… Paintball Blasters. The booth is right in front of us.
Ceepak dashes up to the counter like he wants to take a quick break and pop off a few shots at that cardboard Saddam.
He grabs a rifle, yanks it hard.
“Hey!” It's the old guy in the sleeveless T-shirt. Guess he's running things this morning.
“Is this weapon loaded and charged, sir?”
“Yeah, but you can't-”
Ceepak doesn't listen. He rips the gun off its anchor chain, pulls up a chunk of plywood and a screw.
“You break it, you buy it! You hear me?”
Ceepak twists around, lifts the rifle to his eye, squints, lines up the nose notch, squeezes the trigger.
Pop.
A paint ball smacks Weese's wrist. He drops the duffel but quickly lurches forward to grab it before it falls through the track.
Pop.
The second ball bops him in the right butt cheek, knocking him off balance. The duffel falls through the space between track ties, bounces off braces and crossbeams, tumbles down to the pier below.
Pop. Pop.
Paintballs three and four splatter Weese's shins. Left then right. He spins sideways, pants wet with paint, his feet slip out from under him, he flops onto the track, slides and wobbles down the hill like one of those battery- operated Penguin roller coasters.
The Mad Mouse crowd cheers when Weese comes tumbling down.
“Line jumper!” One guy yells. “That'll show you!”
Cops swarm the ride. Two guys crouch in the little mouse cars, use the ears up front to steady their pistols and take aim at Weese.
Santucci crawls under the girders to retrieve the duffel. Another one of our guys storms up the track, weapon drawn. Weese sits on his butt, his paint-slickened hands held high over his head.
It's over. We got him.
I turn to Ceepak. Check out the paintball weapon he tore off the counter.
“Rifle number three?”
