Authors: Craig Buckhout
The detective used his handheld radio to advise the shooter was down and to send paramedics.
They stood there for a second before Fran said, “I guess it makes sense for me to check him,” referencing the fact she wasn’t carrying either a carbine or shotgun. You guys cover me.”
The three men kept their weapons trained on the prone shooter while Fran approached at an angle outside their field of fire. She had her pistol out, only holstering it after she kicked the AK aside and visually inspected the wounds, concluding he was either dead or close to dead. She pulled out her handcuffs, took hold of the first hand, and cuffed the wrist. As she was about to cuff the other wrist, another man stepped out of a leather goods shop three doors down, raised an identical AK, and fired three quick rounds. Two missed. One struck her right thigh, breaking the femur bone and fragmenting the bullet, which passed through her leg, a piece of it lodging in her left thigh.
She went down screaming, blood pouring from both legs.
The second man swiveled left and fired several more shots in Max’s direction. But he hurried them, so all but one missed. That bullet hit the detective on the top of his left foot, causing him to go down as well and at the same time, discharge his shotgun, sending buckshot into a nearby store front. Once down, he started rolling from side to side, holding his shin, and yelling, “I’m hit! I’m hit!”
Max and Steve didn’t hear any of the screams, though, and were only peripherally aware the detective was even hurt. They were too busy shooting back, empting their magazines at this new shooter, causing him to duck back inside the store. All this happened in less than two or three seconds.
As the last series of shots ended, Max felt the fear try to kick his legs out from under him. Every instinct screamed for him to get the hell out of there. I’m going to die, he thought, right here, right now. He told himself this while automatically transitioning from his now empty carbine to his pistol, to allow Steve time to re-up his own carbine.
Once Steve had reloaded, Max transitioned back to his carbine, ejected his empty magazine, inserted a new one, and released the slide.
While all this occurred, the second four-person, active shooter team approached from their rear.
Steve dragged the detective by his collar just inside the entrance to a shop, while Max advised the other team via radio where the second shooter was, notified them that there may be others as well, and directed them to pull Fran to safety once he gave them the signal to do so.
The plan Max, Steve, and the wounded detective agreed on, not that the latter had much say in it, was that Max and Steve would use suppression fire to keep the second shooter inside the leather goods store while the other team pulled Fran to safety. At the same time, the detective would make his way to the other team’s position so he too could be evacuated.
With the plan set, Fran still rolling around and yelling for help, the detective making faces as he got up on his one good foot, and Rudd asking for an update over the radio, Max said “Go,” and Steve started by firing one round about every second into the wall at the leather goods’ store entrance. When he was down to his last shot, he shouted, “Out!” prompting Max to start shooting in the same manner. They went through two and a half magazines this way before the wounded officers were safely out of the line of fire, inside Macy’s.
By agreement, over the radio, two of the officers from the second team would care for the wounded cops until rescuers arrived, while the other two joined Max and Steve in trying to neutralize the second shooter, who was occasionally firing in their direction.
Max shouted, “Hey man, give up. You can’t get away. There are cops all over the place.”
“Not trying to get away,” a voice responded.
No accent, Max thought; voice calm, almost relaxed sounding.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Why? Because it’s time. Because God commands it. Because of all my dead brothers and sisters. Because of America’s arrogance. You pick.”
Committed, Max thought. Educated. Confident.
“Is it arrogant of me to say I’m going to kill you? Huh, asshole?” Steve shouted.
The gunman answered by firing two shots that spit floor tile debris up into the air.
The two officers positioned near the Macy’s entrance immediately returned fire.
“Team One, status,” came Rudd’s voice over the radio.
“One suspect dead, another suspect contained on the second deck across from Macy’s. Two of our guys wounded, one seriously. Definitely terrorist types. Gonna need a negotiator in addition to medics. Have them come up using the escalator inside Macy’s.”
“Hostage!” shouted one of the officers near the Macy’s entrance. “He’s coming out!”
Max could see both the officers across from him pointing their weapons at the leather goods store and quickly scrambling backward into Macy’s, looking for better cover.
Max and Steve ducked into the alcove of the shop two doors down, with Steve taking a kneeling position and Max standing over him, both with their carbines up.
He was in his mid-twenties, maybe five foot eight, white, short blond hair, clean shaven, wearing a loose fitting, long-sleeve white shirt out at the waist, and khaki pants; just a normal looking guy. He was holding a thirtyish, white female by the back of her neck, with the barrel of his AK resting on her shoulder and pointed at the base of her skull.
“Not so arrogant now, are you!” he shouted.
He then moved the barrel of the rifle slightly and fired two rounds at the officers in Macy’s. The muzzle blast caused the woman to scream, duck, and put her hand to the gun side of her face. But he held on to her, making her stand back up again. She was crying.
Max didn’t think about it. Into his shoulder mic he said, “Flash-bang on the way,” and then to Steve, “You copy?”
“Do it,” Steve replied.
Max dropped his carbine to the end of its single point sling, yanked a flash-bang grenade from his vest, pulled the pin, and tossed it at the terrorist.
A flash-bang is a baseball-sized, short-fused explosive device that doesn’t project any shrapnel but is extremely loud and bright upon detonation, yet at the same time is nearly smokeless. It’s intended to stun hostage-takers with its concussion, sound, and flash, allowing the cops to rescue their victims unharmed …and kill the hostage-taker.
As soon as Max tossed it, both he and Steve slid to their right and turned away from the blond man and his hostage, so the bright light from the grenade’s explosion wouldn’t blind them, too. The detonation was almost instantaneous, and they felt the concussion. Two beats of a heart later, they heard “Allah Akbar!” followed by a heat so intense it felt as though they had stepped under one of those big propane patio heaters turned up full blast, light so bright it was like staring into the sun, noise so loud it shut down their hearing as if a circuit breaker had been triggered, and then dead, silent, blackness.
CHAPTER TWO
Sound pushed through the fog and registered like whispers in the back of a church. First, it was a siren. Then it was voices. “ETA seven, unconscious, respirations 22, pulse 96, BP 130 over 80, pupils equal and reactive, pulse ox 93%, multiple shrapnel wounds to the left side, slightly diminished breath sounds lift lung. Non-rebreather at 15 liters. Starting IV.” More voices, this time indiscernible, distant. Something familiar there …a radio. Finally, “Ten four.”
Movement — rocking. Something, someone pushing on me, holding my arm, pinning me down.
Pain — hot — searing. Everywhere. Oh the pain. It’s all wrong. Too much. Something new. Something happening to my arm. A pinching sensation.
No, no, he thought. Stop it. It hurts. Everything hurts. Fight. Don’t give up. You’re better than them.
Max’s eyes fluttered, letting in the light. A blurred image of someone leaning over him registered. His breathing increased. His chest rose. He started to struggle, pushing a hand away, but he felt resistance. The hand took hold of his arm, firmer now, pinning it.
He struggled harder, pushing out with his free hand and groaning.
“Hey, hey, take it easy,” a voice said. “Relax, you’re going to be all right …that is as long as you get your hand off my boob. Calm down now or we’ll have to restrain you. Can you hear me? Hey, can you hear me? You’ve been hurt, but you’re going to be okay. You’re safe now. You’re in an ambulance. We’re almost to the ER.”
He felt someone grab the wrist of his free hand and push it down. Safe. Blackness again.
The cold half woke him and only then did he become aware of his thirst. Where am I, he thought? He heard a television; a male voice saying something about thirty-three dead. Did I fall asleep watching TV? And why is it so cold?
Max opened his eyes, closed them, blinked them open again, and squinted into the light. Turning his head to the right and slightly raising it, he saw someone sitting in a chair near the foot of his bed, facing a wall mounted TV with both the picture and volume on.
“The President to address the nation at 6 PM Pacific Standard Time …”
Short, collar-length, dark hair, swept back around the ears, navy blue tee-shirt, dark cargo pants. He raised his head up another inch and thought he saw black six-inch lace-up boots like a cop would wear.
“Locally, the police department has gone to twelve hour shifts and will be providing extra security at schools, shopping centers, and government buildings. …”
His eyes shifted to the open door when he saw someone in light-green, push a cart past. In the distance he heard a phone ring and someone laugh. He was in a hospital. He couldn’t remember what happened to him. He couldn’t remember anything.
Max tried to speak to the figure seated in the chair but found his tongue stuck to the inside of his lips. He worked it around until he had enough saliva to ask, “Who are you? Where am I?”
The figure jumped up and turned around. It was a woman, mid to late twenties, five-foot six or seven, about one hundred twenty-five to one hundred thirty pounds, good looking but not beautiful. Her eyes first centered on Max’s face and then immediately shifted to the monitors near the head of his bed.
“A makeshift memorial with thousands of flowers …”
She moved next to his bed, picked up a plastic cup with a straw in it, and guided the end to his lips. At the same time, with her other hand, she pushed the call-button for the nurse.
When she pulled the cup of water away, he asked, “How’d you know?”
She smiled and said, “Everyone is thirsty after waking up in the hospital. I think it has to do with the air conditioning.”
“What happened to me? And who are you? You’re not a nurse.”
“I’m the paramedic who brought you here. I just …well, ah, I just wanted to check up on you, you know, to see how you’re doing.” And after a short awkward pause and another smile, “Just part of the service.”
Maybe it was something she said, but he suddenly remembered being inside the mall, he remembered shooting someone, he remembered two officers being shot, but he couldn’t remember who was shot or what else happened.
She started to say more but was interrupted by the arrival of the nurse, who, like the paramedic, looked at the monitors but, unlike the paramedic, lifted up the sheet covering him, looked at his side before dropping it back down again, next examining a plastic bag hanging from the side of the bed, before putting it back in place, and finally checking his IV drip. She asked him a series of questions such as his name, if he knew where he was, what day it was, if he knew what happened to him, and finally, if he was in pain. After that, she typed something on a laptop computer mounted on a rolling cart.
“…we go to Ivan Moore at the Oakridge Mall …”
Before leaving, the nurse turned to the paramedic and asked, “Friend of yours?”
“No, had a few minutes so thought I’d just check up on him.”
The nurse gave her a strange look, started to say more, but instead left. As she passed through the door, a uniformed officer took her place. Max didn’t know the officer’s name, but recognized him as a Reserve.
Whenever a police officer was injured in the line of duty and confined to the hospital, an officer was stationed outside his or her door. When there were no full-time sworn officers available, a reserve officer was assigned. I guess the boys are busy, Max thought.
“Stay tuned for our continuing coverage of Memorial Day terror …”
The uniformed officer entered the room and, once again, the paramedic stepped back. His nametag read Cartwright. “How you feeling?” he asked.
“Like someone ran me over with,” his eyes caught the paramedic’s, he smiled, “with an ambulance.”
Cartwright snorted and said, “More like a tank from what I hear.”
The paramedic interrupted, “Hey, I better go. Glad to see you’re awake,” and turned to leave.
“Hey wait, don’t go,” Max said.
“You’re busy, and I’ve got things to do. Maybe I’ll stop by tomorrow.” The way she said the last, he knew she was lying.
“You were going to tell me what happened.”
She nodded at Cartwright and said, “Sounds like he’s got more information than I do. I’ll catch you later.”
“Your name; what’s your name?”
“Myra. Catch you later,” and she was gone.
“She’s been hanging out for, I don’t know, three or four hours at least,” Cartwright said. “A couple times I looked in she was checking the machines, your drip, stuff like that. I thought she was a friend or something.”
“Nah, don’t know her.”
“Humm. …So how much do you remember? You want to hear what happened?”
Another memory came back to Max. “Steve; is Steve okay? He was with me. I remember an explosion.” A terrible thought crossed his mind. Maybe there was something wrong with the flash-bang he threw. Maybe this is my fault.
“No, no, Steve Woods is okay. From what I understand, you somehow ended up on top of him and that kind of protected him. He caught some of the nails in his left arm, but nothing major. He spent the night,” Cartwright nodded at the empty bed. “Home now. So is the detective. The female officer is still here, though. Don’t know her name. She’s pretty messed-up from what I gather. Already had surgery twice.”
“Nails? I don’t understand. What do you mean Steve caught some nails?”
“Man, you really did get your bell rung. They were from the bomb; the suspect was wearing one of those suicide vests. It was packed with roofing nails, that kind of stuff. That’s what got you. They said if you hadn’t dove into that little alcove, you’d be dead; you’d both be dead.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. They called everyone in. Thirty three dead, another twenty or so injured.” He held up a hand and started counting off on his fingers. “Same thing in Miami, L.A., New York, Dallas, Chicago,” he ran out of fingers but continued anyway, “Seattle, and Phoenix, I think.”
It was almost too much for Max to comprehend. “And you said Steve’s okay?”
“Oh yeah. He and his wife stopped by earlier, right before that Myra chick showed. Said he’d be back later.”
“How long have I been here?”
“This is your second day. They did surgery on you the day you got here. You were out of it yesterday and, well, until just now.”
“…we go to our affiliate in Dallas for coverage …”
Max looked down at his feet and was relieved to see two of them there. He wiggled them back and forth; pain, but they worked. “So, what’s wrong with me?”
“From what I hear, nothing much except one of your lungs was punctured and you had a bunch of metal in you. They were more worried about your head. I guess you were wearing a ballistic helmet and that protected you somewhat. So concussion I guess, but don’t quote me on that. You know what, you better ask the nurse. That’s only what I heard.”
“…eyewitness reports that the three gunmen moved methodically through the mall killing anyone …”
Max tried to pull the sheet off the left side of his body, but couldn’t completely manage it. “Help me out here.”
From the waist down, he was black and blue and awash in Betadine. Stitches crisscrossed his thigh. He moved his hand down to his butt and felt more there and then to his ribs. A thought suddenly occurred, and he moved his hand between his legs. It was still there although there was a tube in it. Jesus. Thank God.
He nodded at Cartwright and together they put the sheet back in place.
“…the Superintendent of Dallas Independent School District has just announced all schools will be closed through Friday so security arrangements can be finalized. …”
“What about down at the Department? What’s going on?” Max asked.
“Well, it’s twelve on, twelve off. All the Reserves have been called up. They got teams of twos patrolling areas where people congregate; shopping malls, City Hall, you know, places like that. Word has it Homeland Security is sending in some people to cover federal buildings and a few other places we can’t watch full time. To make matters worse, I guess calls for service have gone up, way up. The gun stores have been swamped and some fights have broken out. Then a bunch of idiots beat up some Sheikh guy at that stop ‘n rob on Keyes, thinking he was a Muslim. And now, because a lot of people are staying close to home, the domestic violence calls have gone up. Everyone’s pretty much just responding to in-progress stuff. Hey, people are afraid. Can’t blame ‘em either. The wife and kids are afraid to go outside. ...You know what, I better get back out there,” Cartwright said, nodding toward the door. “Can’t see anything from in here. Besides, I gotta check in with the boss-lady, if you know what I mean?” he rolled his eyes. “Want the TV on or off?”
“You can leave it on, thanks.”