Teeth of the Tiger

There were expended cartridge cases all over the floor — nine-millimeter brass, they both saw. He'd had himself a good old time here, Dominic saw. The mirrors affixed to the building's internal pillars were nearly all shattered by gunfire. To his trained eye, it seemed as though the terrorist had walked in the front, sprayed the first people he'd seen — all women — and then worked his way back and to the left, probably going to wherever he saw the most potential targets. Probably just one guy, Brian's mind told him.

Okay, what are we up against? Dominic wondered. How's he going to react? How does he think?

For Brian it was simpler: Where are you, you motherfucker? For the Marine, he was an armed enemy, and nothing else. Not a person, not a human being, not even a thinking brain, just a target holding a weapon.

* * *

Zuhayr experienced a sudden diminution of excitement. He'd been more excited than at any moment in his life. He'd had only a few women in his life, and surely he'd killed more women here today than he'd ever fucked… but to him, here and now, somehow it felt just the same.

And all that struck him as very satisfying. He hadn't heard the shooting from before, none of it. He'd scarcely heard his own gunfire, so focused was he on his business. And good business it had been. The look on their faces when they saw him and his machine gun…and the look when the bullets struck… that was a pleasing sight. But he was down to his last two magazine pairs now. One was in his gun, and the other in his pocket.

Strange, he thought, that he could hear the relative silence now. There were no live women in his immediate area. Well… no unwounded women. Some of those he'd shot were making noise. Some were even trying to crawl away…

He couldn't have that, Zuhayr knew. He started walking toward one of them, a dark-haired woman wearing whorish red pants.

* * *

Brian whistled to his brother and pointed. There he was, about five-eight, wearing khaki pants and a similarly colored bush jacket, fifty yards away. A playground shot for a rifle, something for a boot at Parris Island to do, but not quite so easy for his Beretta, however good a marksman he was.

Dominic nodded and started heading that way, but swiveling his head in all directions.

* * *

'Too bad, woman,' Zuhayr said in English. 'But do not be afraid, I send you to see Allah. You will serve me in Paradise.' And he tried to fire a single round into her back. But the Ingram doesn't allow that easily. Instead he rippled off three rounds from a range of one meter.

* * *

Brian saw the whole thing, and something just came loose. The Marine stood up and aimed with both hands. 'You motherfucker!' he screamed, and fired as rapidly as accuracy allowed, from a range of perhaps a hundred feet. He fired a total of fourteen shots, almost emptying his weapon. And some of them, remarkably, hit the target.

Three, in fact, one of which got the target right in the belly, and another in center chest.

* * *

The first one hurt. Zuhayr felt the impact as he might have felt a kick in the testicles. It caused his arms to drop as though to cover up and protect from another injury. His weapon was still in his hands, and he fought through the pain to bring it back up as he watched the man approach.

* * *

Brian didn't forget everything. In fact, a lot came flooding back into his consciousness. He had to remember the lessons of Quantico — and Afghanistan — if he wanted to sleep in his own bed that night. And so he took an indirect path forward, dodging around the rectangular goods tables, keeping his eyes on his target and trusting Enzo to look around. But he did that, too. His target didn't have command of his weapon. He was looking straight at the Marine, his face strangely fearful… but smiling? What the hell?

He walked right in now, straight at the bastard.

* * *

For his part, Zuhayr stopped fighting the suddenly massive weight on his weapon, and stood as straight as he could, looking in the eyes of his killer. 'Allahu Ackbar,' he said.

* * *

'That's nice,' Brian replied, and fired right into his forehead. 'I hope you like it in hell.' Then he bent down and picked up the Ingram, slinging it over his back.

'Clear it and leave it, Aldo,' Dominic commanded. Brian did just that.

'Jesus, I hope somebody called 911,' he observed.

'Okay, follow me upstairs,' Dominic said next.

'What — why?'

'What if there's more'n four of 'em?' The reply-question was like a punch in Brian's mouth.

'Okay, I got your six, bro.'

It struck both of them as incredible that the escalator was still working, but they rode it up, both crouching and scanning all around. There were women all over the place — all over meaning as far from the escalator as possible—

'FBI!' Dominic called. 'Is everybody okay here?'

'Yes,' came multiple, separate, and equivocal replies from around the second floor.

Enzo's professional identity came back into full command: 'Okay, we have it under control. The police will be here shortly. Until they get here, just sit tight.'

The twins walked from the top of the 'up' escalator to the top of the 'down' one. It was immediately clear that the shooters hadn't come up here.

The ride down was dreadful beyond words. Again, there were pools of blood on a straight line from perfume to handbags, and now the lucky ones who were merely wounded were crying out for help. And, again, the twins had more important things to do. Dominic led his brother out into the main concourse. He turned left to check the first one he'd shot. This one was dead beyond question. His last ten-millimeter bullet had exploded out through his right eye.

On reflection, that left only one, if he was still alive.

* * *

He was, despite all of his hits. Mustafa was trying to move, but his muscles were drained of blood and oxygen, and were not listening to the commands that came through the central nervous system. He found himself looking up, somewhat dreamily it seemed, even to him.

'You have a name?' one of them asked.

Dominic had only halfway expected an answer. The man was clearly dying, and not slowly, either. He turned to look for his brother — not there. 'Hey, Aldo!' he called, to no immediate response.

* * *

Brian was in Legends, a sporting-goods shop, taking a quick look. His initiative was rewarded, and he took it back to the mall corridor.

Dominic was there, talking to his 'suspect,' but without getting much of a response.

'Hey, raghead,' Brian said, returning. Then he knelt down in the blood beside the dying terrorist. 'I got something for you.'

Mustafa looked up in some puzzlement. He knew that death was close, and while he didn't exactly welcome it, he was content in his own mind that he'd done his duty to his Faith, and to Allah's Law.

Brian grabbed the terrorist's hands and crossed them on his bleeding chest. 'I want you to carry this to hell with you. It's a pigskin, asshole, made from the skin of a real Iowa pig.' And Brian held his hands on the football as he looked into the bastard's eyes.

The eyes went wide with recognition — and horror at the moment's transgression. He willed his arms to move away, but the infidel's hands overpowered his efforts.

'Yeah, that's right. I am Iblis himself, and you're going to my place.' Brian smiled until the eyes went lifeless.