by Marc Cameron
“I hear you.”
“Anyhow,” Thibodaux went on, “my wife and I get along much better when I’m not there underfoot all the time. I honestly believe if I was a mailman or something that kept me home every night she’d wind up shootin’ my ass.”
At their bikes now, Jericho nodded. “Thanks for the words of wisdom.”
“Hell.” Thibodaux smiled. “Even stone-cold killers need to talk now and again. The point is, you shouldn’t hold this kind of shit in. It’s like being mentally constipated. That’s what conflicts us, and that which conflicts us doth get us killed. You may quote me.”
“Thank you, Dr. Daux Boy.”
The men both turned to watch Mahoney step from the double glass doors and into the parking lot.
“Doc Daux Boy says that woman there done gone and got all Matthew 4:19 on you.”
Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Since when did you start to quote the Good Book?”
“My granny was a sure ’nough Bible scholar. Whenever I had some little gal after me, Granny’d say she was Matthew 4:19-fishin’ for menfolk.”
Standing at the rear of his BMW, Quinn opened the aluminum side case to retrieve his padded black gloves and leathers. He took his helmet and fiddled with the GPS display inside the visor as he spoke. “Seriously? You think the good doctor was flirting with you?”
“Not me, dumb-ass,” Thibodaux laughed. “She’s been oo-awing you with her baby blues from the get-go. I saw her fall when she first heard that honey-sweet voice of yours over the com-line from Al-Hofuf.”
Quinn shrugged on his armored jacket and waved off the idea. It was warm so he flipped the switch that flushed the jacket with coolant. Mahoney was still twenty feet away, a wide smile across her face. Her broad, swimmer’s shoulders were thrown back as she walked. Low rays of sun turned her hair into a golden halo-not blond but not red.
“You could do a hell of a lot worse,” Thibodaux whispered.
“She hasn’t said more than ten words to me,” Quinn said, his voice hushed.
“Just because she ain’t thrown her hook in the water don’t mean a thing.” The big Cajun winked. “You mark my words, brother, she’s fishin’.”
Mahoney stopped, shaking her head slowly back and forth when she saw the two men dressed in their sleek Transit Leather jackets beside the tall BMWs. Her eyes were wide with wonder. “Whew,” she gasped. “You run around the world blowing up terrorists and ride big honkin’ motorcycles when you come home. What do guys like you do when you have a midlife crisis?”
Thibodaux gave Quinn an I-told-you-so smirk. “Well, beb, in this kind of work, we’d be damn lucky if we didn’t pass midlife somewhere back in our teens. But, if I do happen to live a little longer, I plan to sire myself a couple more sons.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward Jericho. “I reckon he’ll settle down and marry his ex-wife…”
Thankfully, Quinn’s cell phone saved him from the conversation with a pestering buzz.
It was Palmer.
He listened a moment, then snapped the phone shut, eyes hard on Thibodaux.
“Surveillance cameras on the Postal Museum picked up a match to our number-two martyr, Kalil.”
“The one with the dog-tick mole on his cheek,” Thibodaux said. “Got it.” Helmet in hand, he climbed aboard his GS and let it run through the electronic diagnostics before he started the motor.
Jericho turned to Mahoney. “Palmer has Metro Police watching the guy. Sharpshooters are moving up on the scene now, but he wants us there yesterday.”
“They can’t approach him,” Mahoney warned. “If he deploys the virus everyone around the Museum could be infected.”
Quinn bit his bottom lip. “It’s worse than that,” he said. “The Postal Museum is directly across the street from Union Station. It’s rush hour. I don’t know how many thousands of commuters go through there every day.”
Mahoney ran a hand through her hair, looking across the Potomac into downtown D.C. “Like Palmer said, we have to think containment here. If the virus goes airborne anyone exposed to it will have to be stopped where they are and kept there. That means shutting down the Metro trains coming in and out of Union Station…”
“Being done even as we speak,” Quinn said. “D.C. SWAT and FBI HRT are en route to set up a perimeter to keep folks quarantined until we can mobilize National Guard troops… if it comes to that. No one is being told exactly what they’re dealing with, but they know it’s serious-some sort of flu.”
“Good thinking,” Thibodaux threw over his shoulder. “Any kind of flu sounds better than bleeding-outta-your-eyes Ebola.”
Quinn looked at his watch. “Listen, Doc, I hate to drag you into harm’s way, but you’re our resident expert. I’m gonna need you to meet us over there.”
Mahoney turned toward her Toyota, then back again. She nodded toward the 395 bridge that would take them across the Potomac River and into D.C. proper. An endless procession of cars inched along, brake lights flashing. Construction on the lanes going north into the city squeezed inbound traffic into a single chute, making it crawl as slowly as the clogged outbound lanes.
“It’ll take me an hour to get there in the 4Runner,” she said. “You’ll be able to cut lanes on the motorcycles, but I’m dead in the water.”
Jericho popped open an aluminum case and handed her a helmet. “This is my ex-wife’s. She’s sort of big headed so it might be a little loose.”
Mahoney put up both hands. “Oh, no, I… are you sure?”
“Come on, Dr. Mahoney, I’m a safe driver.” He grinned. “According to the CDC, we’re only about six times more likely to die in an accident on a bike than a car.”
“Your really know how to convince a girl,” she said. “I guess we’re all dead anyway if that virus gets out. I may as well come along for the ride.” She blushed, holding the helmet in front of her like a shield. “If I’m going to be clinging to your waist, I wish you’d call me Megan.”
“Okay, Megan, I’m Jericho.” He patted the bike’s rear seat with his black glove. “This is easier if you get on first.”
He couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he didn’t hope-just a little-that what Thibodaux said about her fishing was true. He took her hand, helping her swing a leg over the tall bike, catching the scent of her perfume as she moved. White Shoulders-Kim wore White Shoulders… He swallowed, pushing away the thought.
“There’s a cord coming out of the left side of your helmet,” he said, once she was situated. “I need to plug it in to this socket….” He pushed the small jack into the connection a half inch below her left thigh. “You and I will be able to talk to each other. I can talk to Thibodaux by radio, but your commo is only hardwired to me.”
“Got it,” Mahoney said, sounding much more capable than he thought she would.
“Hey, Boudreaux,” Jacques’s voice crackled across the intercom in Jericho’s helmet. “I’m thinking we might not even make it across on the bikes in time. That traffic’s murder, beb.”
“The GS is just an oversized dirt bike,” Quinn said, settling himself aboard, hands on throttle and clutch. “You feel comfortable doing a little off-road?”
“Not really,” Mahoney said from behind him. She sounded a little queasy at the thought.
“You know me, brother!” Thibodaux flipped his visor shut and gunned the BMW’s boxer engine. “ Laissez les bon temps rouler!”
CHAPTER 33
Quinn eased his GS out of the parking lot and into traffic along the Old Jeff Davis Highway, giving Mahoney a quick moment to get her riding legs under her.
“Rule number one,” he said, thankful they had the intercom. “When I’m going less than fifteen miles an hour, you sit still. No shifting around or you could interfere with what I’m doing. Faster than that and feel free to stand on the seat if you want.”
“Okay,” she stammered. “Just don’t forget I’m back here when you go ripping off the pavement.”
She clung to his waist as if she might fly away
. Her right arm rested just above the butt of the pistol under his Transit Leather jacket.
“You with me, Jacques?”
“With you, beb.”
“Okay, the Mount Vernon bike path runs along the river. We’ll jump the curb here and take that to the Arlington Memorial Bridge, then across toward the Lincoln Memorial about a mile up. The sidewalk’s pretty wide.” Mahoney tensed, tugging him closer. Even through the armored jacket, he could feel the weight of her against his spine. He shook his head to chase away a fleeting memory of riding with Kim. It was too easy to get nostalgic with the feeling of a good woman behind him on the bike…
Loose gravel and red dirt spun from his rear tire as Quinn jumped the curb and crossed an open patch of ground before cutting north on the smooth pavement of the Mount Vernon Trail. He punched a button on his right handle bar. While he waited for the dial tone, he explained what he was doing to Mahoney. “I’m going to give Palmer a quick call.”
He could feel the doctor nod her head behind him, but she said nothing.
The phone rang once before the DNI answered.
“Palmer.”
“Sir,” Quinn said. “We’re doing a bit of creative navigation to reach our target. I’d appreciate it if you’d let D.C. Metro and the U.S. Park Police know not to get in our way.”
“Consider it done,” Palmer said. “Last report has Kalil walking along Massachusetts Avenue in front of Union Station. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, khaki slacks, and brand-new white tennis shoes. There’s a Metro cop on horseback across from the taxi stand by the flagpoles. He’s got eyes-on but has orders not to approach.”
“Roger that-”
Quinn leaned hard to the left, narrowly evading a pack of angry in-line skaters who scattered like quail before the roaring motorcycles. “Gotta go, sir.”
Both Quinn and Thibodaux made liberal use of their horns. That, along with the sound-muffling qualities of their helmets, protected them from the steady torrent of cursing that followed them down the path from each bicyclist and jogger who had to leap out of their way and into the thick foliage. Three spandex-clad cyclists on graphite racing bikes rode straight into the river in front of the Navy-Marine Memorial.
Ducking and dodging, Quinn flew up the path, paralleling the stalled traffic on the George Washington Parkway. He felt Mahoney tense, heard her catch her breath as he darted across the access road, weaving in and out of the creeping traffic below the gray stone breastwork of Arlington Memorial Bridge. He accelerated to climb the grass embankment to the sidewalk that would carry under the Eagle arches and across the bridge. The inbound traffic to D.C. was indeed lighter, but Quinn kept to the wide walk. He leaned over the handlebars, throwing his weight forward to keep the front wheel down as the powerful motorcycle cleared the bridge in a matter of seconds. He cut left at the Lincoln roundabout, then took to the dirt beside the Reflecting Pool. Thibodaux stayed tight on his tail, hollering like a joyful schoolboy at each twist and turn.
Quinn was sure he’d have to have to peel Mahoney off his back when they stopped.
At least a hundred middle school students in crimson T-shirts parted like the Red Sea when they looked up from loitering at the base of the Washington Monument. Girls and a couple of the boys screamed at the top of their lungs.
“Damned little mouth breathers,” Thibodaux grumbled as his bike threw up a cloud of red dust, narrowly avoiding a pack of kids who walked toward him with their heads down listening to music. “That’ll teach ’em to take out the earbuds.”
Two minutes later saw the riders shoot past the Smithsonian Museums, then up Louisiana Avenue toward Union Station. Two blocks away they took to the street, falling in with evening traffic to keep from arousing suspicion on their approach.
“Got him,” Thibodaux’s voice came across the speaker in Quinn’s helmet. “He’s leaning up against a construction barricade along First Avenue. Gray T-shirt and khakis. I can see his big ol’ mole face from here… dammit! I thought Palmer said the locals were going to stay out of this…”
Quinn found himself stuck behind a produce truck without a clear visual on the target. “What do you mean?”
“Looks like the D.C. mountie has decided to ride on over and chat up Mole Face.”
Quinn downshifted into third and cut between the curb and the delivery truck, gunning the throttle to zip quickly out of the driver’s blind spot. He wasn’t so worried about making the trucker mad, but he wanted to be seen.
He made it around just in time to see the mounted officer tumble from his horse. A gunshot cracked above the din of traffic as a second uniformed D.C. officer approached Kalil on foot. The other officer went down as well, grabbing an injured thigh with one hand while he clawed for his weapon with the other.
“Where the hell are those shots coming from?” Thibodaux screamed into his mike.
“Kalil has backup,” Quinn snapped. He scanned the flowing melee of commuters and tourists among the road construction barriers. Most of them hadn’t heard the shots or even noticed the downed officers. Mahoney, to the credit of her scientific brain, looked high. She was the first to see the shooter.
“There,” she said. “Behind some scaffolding to the right, above the construction at two o’clock. There’s a man with a rifle.”
Quinn maneuvered his BMW around a parked taxi to stop behind the relative cover of the engine block. “I see him,” he said. “Jacques, we got a gunman on a cherry picker about a half a block in front of the Securities and Exchange Commission…”
Kalil’s head snapped up. He spun on his new tennis shoes and sprinted toward the row of shadowed pillars at the entrance of Union Station. If he made it inside, he could disappear-or worse, deploy the virus in the crowded terminal.
Thibodaux roared past, heading for the rifleman. “I got the shooter,” he said. “You bag Kalil.”
“Careful,” Quinn warned. “See one, think two.”
“Always, beb.” Thibodaux hopped the curb to ride a wheelie across the open pavilion under the row of American flags. Bullets thwacked off a full-size replica of the Liberty Bell as he tore by, picking up speed to make for a poorer target.
“Go!” Mahoney yelled, smacking Quinn on the thigh to get his attention. She’d vaulted off the back of the bike and now stood beside him, helmet in her hands. “Get him. I’ll be right behind you.”
Quinn gave her a quick thumbs-up and goosed the engine to speed across the pavilion toward the open doors, standing on the pegs as he hopped the opposite curb.
Evening commuters in D.C. were used to a certain amount of chaos and were only just beginning to understand they were in danger. Some, having lived through the 2002 sniper attacks, zigzagged across the open ground, seeking shelter behind whatever they could find. Others stared up blankly with open mouths, like sheep.
Kalil pumped his arms, running like he was on fire as the big BMW closed the gap behind him. Quinn was able to squeeze his bike through the south doors seconds before they shut, just feet behind his target.
Once inside the cavernous station, Kalil ducked to the left, sprinting with all his might past a long set of low tablelike benches under the vaulted archways and toward the Main Hall. With his speed up to get through the doors, Jericho overshot the turn.
The BMW’s back tire spun on the slick marble, throwing up a thick plume of white smoke. Quinn slammed his foot on the ground, pivoting the bike, making him thankful for his heavy boots.
Kalil tore through the arched portal at the end of the marble corridor, running as if pursued by the devil himself. Sliding on the slick floor, he darted right, entering the Main Hall, shoving startled tourists and commuters as he vanished around the corner.
Jericho gassed the throttle, shifting into third gear by the time he reached the opening and leaned into his turn. His heart sank as he rounded the huge ionic columns to find a man in blue overalls mopping the glistening wet marble. Kalil had slipped as he ran past and knocked over the mop bucket. He was up again and moving fast.
Already leaning well into his turn, Jericho felt the bike begin to slide. He straightened her as best he could, and cranked the handlebars hard right, laying on the power to drift the rear tire sideways at high speed and stay in his turn without spilling. He needed the tire spinning fast when he cleared the water. The roar of the BMW’s boxer twin echoed in the vaulted chamber as Jericho slid around the corner like a flat-track racer. The bike squealed and smoke poured from the rear tire when they hit dry marble, leaving a line of black rubber twenty feet long. Jericho straightened the front wheel, eased off the gas a hair, and took his first breath in five seconds.
Out of nowhere, a burly D.C. Metro cop with a snarling German shepherd trotted directly for him. Weapon drawn, the officer shouted unintelligible orders. The dog barked like it hadn’t been fed in days. Evidently these two hadn’t gotten the order to disregard marauding BMW riders inside the Capitol Beltway.
Ahead, Kalil cut left, sprinting, dwarfed by the towering architecture of Union Station’s Main Hall. He leapt up the wooden stairs of the cozy Center Cafe, an ornate island some twenty feet high in the middle of the teaming station.
Quinn ignored the shouting cop and shot past him, popping the clutch. He gained speed as he approached the staircase, close enough he could almost reach out and touch Kalil. Gassing the bike, he yanked up on the handlebars enough to bring the front tire into a high wheelie as he hit the stairs. It was a rough ride, but he let the BMW have her way and she rumbled up the steps like a willing horse up a rocky slope.
At the top, Kalil shoved aside startled diners, tripping to splay across the first table. He crashed to the floor in pile of minestrone soup and halibut fettuccini. Momentarily stunned, the Arab clamored to his feet, intent on going down the staircase on the opposite side to shake his tail. Jericho shoved a vacant table aside with his knee as he brought the motorcycle to a skidding halt in the middle of the dining area. Crystal glasses and china plates shattered against the plush carpet. Silverware clattered to the floor. Kalil had to weave in and out of a dozen such tables, giving Quinn time to do his job.
