Silent Sabotage. Susan Sleeman
A mobile food cart selling corn dogs, pretzels and soda sat in the middle of the space next to worn picnic tables. Big fans whirred overhead, stirring the unusually steamy July air, but it was still thick and muggy. Nothing out of the ordinary for this small town in the foothills of Mount Hood, except the heat wave.
Emily lifted her hair from her sweaty neck, her heart rate starting to return to normal. She looked at Birdie, her face red and blotchy from the heat. In one of her Alzheimer’s fogs, she’d insisted on wearing jeans and her favorite long-sleeved flannel shirt.
Pop, pop, pop. Gunfire rang out from the parking lot.
Birdie grabbed Emily’s arm. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes.” Emily spun toward the door, fear spearing her heart.
“A shooter!” a man yelled as he came running in the front door. “He’s gone postal in the parking lot. He’s headed this way.”
“I told you so,” Birdie said matter-of-factly as if being right was more important than the fact that a crazy gunman was coming into the building.
A burly guy stepped through the door with a big black rifle in his hands and green duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He wore a baseball cap pulled down low and surveyed the space. His jaw firmed in determination, and he looked up. Dark, cold eyes swept across the room.
“It’s Delmar,” Emily whispered, trying to stem her fear when she recognized the former member of Oregon Free, a local environmental group where she was a member.
Was he here for her?
He’d been kicked out of Oregon Free for committing violent acts to further environmental causes. Acts such as planning to blow up a bridge to stop tankers from carrying oil. Not that he was able to carry it out. He’d shared his plot with her to try to impress her so she’d go out with him, and she’d turned him in so the police could intercede before he caused unspeakable harm.
A sheriff’s tactical team stormed the bridge, but Delmar’s sister had already convinced him to hold a peaceful protest instead. When the authorities arrived, his anger surged, and he marched toward them. His sister tried to stop him before an officer shot him, but she caught her foot in a pothole and fell, hitting her head on the curb and dying on the spot.
An accident. A horrible accident. But Delmar blamed Emily for the death. Hated her. And now he was here with a gun. Likely for her.
Alarm bells rang in her head, and she started backing away, tugging Birdie with her.
“It’s showtime, people,” he shouted, lifting his weapon and staring at a young man holding a corn dog.
Delmar spoke to the man, and he replied as he backed away. Emily couldn’t hear their conversation, but Delmar frowned, then lowered his eye to the sight and popped off a shot, cutting the man down.
Emily gasped and panic grabbed at her throat, making it hard to breathe.
Delmar swung his weapon up higher, his finger stretched out on the side. He ran the barrel over the crowd as if searching for someone specific. Back and forth he went, swinging in wide arcs until he stopped with the sight leveled in Emily’s direction.
“We have to take cover,” she whispered to Birdie and took her aunt’s hand to slip quietly out of the aisle before he spotted her.
His steely eyes glared over the sight. He adjusted his cap, spit on the ground, then stepped into the food court. Up went the gun again. Down went his finger. He talked to two additional men, the result the same.
Stomp, stomp, stomp, he advanced on them. Heading her way.
Terror gripped Emily’s body. They had to flee. Now! If he spotted her, he’d...
No. Not going there.
She turned to the nearest booth owner and whispered, “Is there a back door?”
“Yes, but you’ll have to cross the courtyard to get there. He’ll see you for sure.” The owner melted into the corner of his space and ducked under a small table.
No room for Emily and Birdie to hide under there with him, but she couldn’t keep moving and risk drawing Delmar’s attention. She directed her aunt into the man’s shop and behind a rack of soaps and lotions. Emily peeked around the rack to get a look at the food court.
Delmar came closer. Step by step. Bearing down on them.
Emily drew them deeper into the shadows and prayed. For herself. For Birdie. For everyone in the building. God was the only thing standing between them and a bullet.
Delmar stepped up to the booth and she confirmed his identity. His eyes were glazed and his focus jumpy. He’d had some run-ins with the law in violent protests, but he’d grown even more radical over the past few months. After his sister died, he’d also become bitter and angry. Now he was unhinged.
She waited. Watched him. His face. His expressions. The cold hate and fury emanating from his body. This wasn’t the quiet and unassuming man she’d once sat beside in meetings. That she’d planned peaceful events with to save the environment.
This man, the one standing here, was filled with rage. His gaze connected with hers. Sharpened for a second, then narrowed into snakelike slits.
Emily’s heart stuttered and nearly stopped beating.
“Emily Graves,” he said, cocking his rifle, a sick smile sliding across his mouth. “Imagine finding you here...”
* * *
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Gunshots sounded from inside the mall as Deputy Archer Reed sneaked up on the main entrance. He might be alone, but as the first officer on scene, he had to take action, as it would be quite some time until reinforcements arrived. Twenty or so minutes outside the Portland metro area, deputies were spread thin. Even a rapid response team like his team wouldn’t get there quickly enough. If he hadn’t been driving back to Portland from doing a community outreach event when the active shooter call came over his radio, he wouldn’t be here either. No law enforcement officer would be.
But he was here and it was up to him and him alone to stop the shooter.
He muted his radio so it didn’t alert the shooter to his presence, then grabbed his rifle from the trunk of the squad car. Thankfully he’d come off patrol to go straight to the event so he was armed and ready to roll.
Strapping on his vest and grabbing extra ammo, he raced for the door, offering a prayer for the injured, the potential victims inside and for his ability to apprehend the shooter without loss of life.
He paused at the doorway to evaluate. The shooting had stopped, people had taken cover and it felt like a desert in the middle of summer. Jet engine–sized fans blew from above, stirring the muggy air. Loud and whiny, they would cover any sound he might make as he eased inside.
Muffled sounds, perhaps voices, came from a booth on the far side of the space. Archer raised his rifle and moved on the balls of his feet. Silently. Stealthily forward. Keeping to the edge of the booths.
Nearing the backside of the building, he saw movement in a shop with all-natural products made in Oregon.
A large man shot across the opening. Archer made him at five-ten, 180 pounds. Dark, ugly eyes. Holding a high-powered semiautomatic rifle in his hands and attired in a combat vest, the pockets holding fresh ammo clips.
Odd. Most active shooters wanted to die, but the vest, especially one with steel plates like the body armor he’d put on, said something else.
This guy was here to inflict damage—serious damage—and would not be easily taken out.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Good. Backup was almost there.
“I said do it. Now!” the shooter suddenly shouted. “Before the cops arrive.”
Archer heard a woman respond. He couldn’t make out her words, but she pled with the gunman as if he was holding