by Marc Cameron
Jericho checked to make sure the magazine was full, then tucked the pistol in his waistband. He bent to rummage through the duffel bag again, coming up with a small pair of pruning shears and a roll of white first-aid tape.
“Bo.” Jericho looked up at his brother, who towered like a sullen statue over the slumped younger Arab. “You mind waiting out here with him?” Jericho needed someone strong enough to keep the guy in line if he decided to make a fuss. But more than that, he didn’t want his kid brother to be a witness to what he was about to do. Killing the enemy in the heat of battle was one thing. Enhanced interrogation methods required an awfully cold heart. He wasn’t entirely sure how Thibodaux was going to handle it.
“Jacques,” he said, using the pruning shears to point at a standing lamp to the left of the front door. “Rip the power cord out of that.” He flipped the hall light switch on and off to make sure he had electricity. “Bring it with you to the back room. We’re going to need it.”
Behind the rifle, Mahoney shuddered.
CHAPTER 46
Megan ached to plug her ears, but she could feel the young Arab watching her.
The interrogations had started off quickly, with a muffled scream drifting down the dark hallway almost as soon as Jericho had shut the door behind him. She could hear Jericho’s voice speaking in gentle, clipped Arabic phrases, but she had no idea what he was saying. The seconds seemed to ooze by and Mahoney found herself pressing her eye against the rim of the rifle scope so hard she was sure she’d formed a pink ring in her skin.
The bare lightbulb in the dining room dimmed slightly, followed by another long, agonizing moan from the back room. Jericho’s voice popped down the hall again throwing out more rapid-fire questions in Arabic. Twice more the light over her head flickered, then went out altogether. A moment later Thibodaux opened the door and stepped into the hall. His face was drawn tight as a stone. He motioned Bo toward him. “Go out to the garage and flip the breaker back on.”
The sour smell of urine and fear wafted up the hallway.
“Will do,” Bo said. He looked down at the stricken younger prisoner, who was now slumped forward, staring between his own splayed feet. “Watch him for a minute.”
Thibodaux stayed at the door. “I got him. Go get the breaker.”
Bo ran for the garage.
Mahoney leaned into the rifle until her fingers turned white, struggling inside to come to terms with the situation. Her emotional brain told her the things going on down the hall were immoral. Civilized beings didn’t lower themselves just because the people they fought were uncivilized. Civilized people didn’t harm others but for the most dire of circumstances. She was a doctor and the physician’s prime directive was: First, do no harm.
But her forebrain, the part of her that let her look at things rationally, reminded her she harmed living things virtually every day. She’d always consoled herself that her particular brand of pain was absolutely necessary. She wasn’t experimenting on defenseless bunnies to invent some new brand of women’s eyeliner. She was trying to rid the world of the most deadly plagues known to man. The things transpiring in the back room were just as necessary, no matter how distasteful. They’d moved far beyond research. If an enemy had to be tortured in order to save thousands, wasn’t that okay? It was all for the greater good. It was exactly what she told herself each time she injected an innocent monkey with some horrific virus, then cut out its brain to study the effects. Cause untold suffering in a few, all for that greater good-to save humankind. No matter how awful Jericho Quinn’s actions, Mahoney couldn’t bring herself to blame him. The lab animals she tortured were completely without guile. The men Quinn worked on wanted every American dead. She slumped against the rifle as her eyes filled with tears-not for the man sobbing in the back room, but for Jericho Quinn.
“You sneaky son of a bitch!” Bo’s voice yanked Mahoney out of her moral wrestling match and back into the real world.
Somehow, the young Arab had freed his hands and came up with a thin box cutter Cujo must have missed in his sock. He’d lashed out at Bo, catching him with the razor blade just below the knee.
Bo kicked out, connecting with the Arab’s ribs. His legs still taped, the man rolled away, but came up again with the blade. Blood pouring from a long gash in his jeans, Bo whipped the pistol from his waistband at the same instant Megan realized she had a rifle in her hands. She spun in her chair, bringing the weapon around in a flash. Her finger tightened on the trigger.
“Holy hell,” Thibodaux’s voice boomed down the hall. “Y’all don’t shoot him!”
Mahoney froze. At this distance, she had to look over the top of the scope to make out her target. Seeing the growing swatch of fresh blood on Bo’s pant leg filled her with the overwhelming urge to blow the Arab’s head off. If he happened to look at her face now, she was pretty sure he wouldn’t be seeing any mercy.
The Cajun was large enough he took up most of the hallway, but he moved with incredible speed. Snapping out with a left foot, he kicked the box cutter from the startled Arab’s hand. He grabbed the man by the back of his belt and the scruff of the neck and hoisted him to chest level before slamming him facedown against the carpet. Any remaining fight the young Arab had left him along with the blood that gushed from his nose.
Mahoney felt her hands begin to shake and eased her finger away from the trigger.
Thibodaux squatted to wind fresh tape around the groaning prisoner’s hands. “We can’t talk to him if you blow him to pieces, you know.” His jaw muscles tensed as he worked.
Jericho suddenly appeared from the bedroom door, making his way solemnly down the hallway toward the stunned prisoner. His eyes shifted to Thibodaux and he shook his head. Over his forehead, running in a dripping arc from his hairline to his right eyebrow was a line of fresh blood. At first Mahoney thought he must have cut himself; then she realized it wasn’t his blood.
Jericho nodded toward the prisoner, asked him something in Arabic. He slouched against the wall without moving. He ignored the question completely and muttered a sullen prayer to himself. Jericho shrugged, and then breathed the sigh of a truly exhausted man. He squatted beside the prisoner, thumping him in the forehead to make certain he had his attention. The Arab’s face stayed pointed toward the floor, but his eyes rolled slowly upward, staring in an unspoken challenge. Jericho stayed where he was, less than a foot from the man who had just tried to kill his brother. He fired off another line in Arabic, softer this time and more deliberate. The younger man’s eyes fell again. His entire body began to shake as if suddenly stricken with a fever.
“That’s the first reaction we’ve had from this yahoo,” Thibodaux said. “What did you say to him?”
Jericho groaned, pushing off the wall to get to his feet. “I told him his friend had talked but we needed to confirm his story. That he bravely endured unmentionable pain, but in the end it had done him no good. Then I told him it was his turn.”
Mahoney stood, holding the rifle to her chest like some sort of security blanket. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tell Jericho that she’d thought it through, that she understood why he had to do what he’d done… what he was about to do. She was sure he’d be able to see it in her eyes, if he’d just look, but he refused to meet her gaze.
“Jacques,” he said softly. “Let’s get this one moved to the back room…”
CHAPTER 47
Bo’s BlackBerry squawked from the holster on his belt, freezing everyone in place and buying the young Arab a moment of reprieve. A gravel voice with a thick Texas accent suddenly broke squelch.
“Bo, this is Ugly,” the voice said. “We got a towel-head in a light blue Pontiac rental car coming up the road. He’s eyeballin’ that gal’s house pretty hard. Looks like he’s your guy. He’s missing a couple of fingers… Wait, I think he’s stopping…”
“Watch yourselves,” Bo warned, clenching the grip of the pistol in his fist.
“Ha
ng on, Bo,” Ugly said. “Watch him, Jim! Shit, he sees us-”
Ugly’s voice stopped abruptly, covered by the staccato sound of gunfire both over the phone as well as outside and up the street.
“Talk to me, Ugly.” Bo rushed toward the door, gun in hand.
Jericho went after him, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Wait!” he said. “Don’t just rush out headlong. We don’t know how many there are out there. Our lives aren’t the important thing here. We have to do this the smart way.”
Bo shrugged away, using the barrel of his gun to push aside the window blinds. “Shit! I can’t see anybody. They must be just over that rise.”
Jericho stood to his left, scanning up and down the road. “Nothing,” he said through clenched teeth as more gunfire erupted outside.
“Ugly! Jim!” Bo snapped. “What the hell’s going on?”
He was met by nothing but silence. “Dammit!” Bo hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m gonna go check on them.”
“I’ll come with you.” Jericho stepped to the door. “Remember, no matter what else happens, we can’t let Zafir get away.”
A deadly look clouded Bo’s face. “I hadn’t planned on it, brother.”
Ugly’s gritty voice popped across the radio again, broken this time and higher in pitch. “Jim’s down! He took a bullet in the guts… The son of a bitch shot me, too, but I think I got him…”
Jericho’s heart raced. “Bo,” he snapped. “You tell him to watch out! This guy’s not dead until he’s DRT.”
“Okay, boss…” Ugly’s voice came back across the radio before Bo could issue the warning. It was still high-pitched, but slower, calming down. “Yeah, I got the bastard. Looks like he’s dead-”
The pop of small-arms fire peppered the air again, followed almost instantly by the roaring slap, slap, slap of an American motorcycle engine.
“Hey!” It was Ugly’s voice again, screaming, panting as if he was running down the road. He kept the mike keyed as he moved. “Boss! You better get out here! He’s getting away… Hey, get off my bike!”
CHAPTER 48
“I need to borrow your Harley,” Jericho said as he threw his leg across the Night Rod parked in the middle of the living room. “You go check on your guys, I’ll go after Zafir.”
“Take her!” Bo said. “But remember, she’s not a two-story building like your Beemer. You gotta watch the corners.” He kicked open the front door, a pistol in his hand. “Now go! We’ll take care of this end.”
The Night Rod came to life with a deafening roar, straight-shot dual mufflers shaking the walls of the little house. Jericho shot a glance at Mahoney as he kicked the bike into first. She smiled. “Bo’s men are hurt,” he yelled. “See if you can help them. I’ll take care of Zafir.” Quinn tapped the Bluetooth device in his ear. “Jacques, sorry to leave you with the baggage. Give Palmer a call and he’ll send someone to pick them up. I’ll call out my locations on the radio. Get to the car and follow me as soon as you can.”
“We got this, beb,” the big Cajun yelled over the thumping motorcycle engine. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Jericho goosed the throttle, burning the Harley’s fat rear tire through the carpet as he hopped the threshold out the door. He shot off the front porch and landed with a thud in the front yard, planting a boot on the concrete sidewalk to keep from spilling. Bo was right. The bike had very little ground clearance and she was a beast at low speeds. Up the hill, nearly a hundred yards up the street he could see the Pontiac. It was dead and steaming in the middle of the road where Ugly had put several rounds through the radiator. Both bikers were on the ground but looked to be alive and sitting up. A man on a red motorcycle disappeared over the crest going east on Lafayette.
Jericho took the hill four seconds later and caught sight of the fleeing bike, which now had almost a full block of lead. He leaned forward, rolling on the throttle. Slow speed handling could be forgiven in a bike as fast at the Night Rod. It handled remarkably well on the straightaway and Quinn was easily able to able to spur a respectable hundred and ten miles an hour out of the Porsche-designed engine by the time he bounced through the second intersection. On a flat-out race, he wondered how the Night Rod would stack up against his GS. On the twisties of a real-life street pursuit, it wouldn’t have even been a contest. Thankfully, Ugly rode an American bike as well. Even though Zafir had a head start, Quinn began to close the distance.
Less than fifty yards ahead now, the red bike slowed to take the sweeping left turn using all four lanes of Montgomery Street at the bottom of a long hill. A Fort Worth city bus ripped through the intersection, missing the speeding bike by inches. Quinn made the decision to slow down enough that he didn’t make the same mistake. He couldn’t do anyone any good if he was smeared across the front of a bus.
The Arab cut left again, turning off Montgomery to roar east along the wide parking lots of the Fort Worth Stock Show grounds. Quinn had studied a map of the area immediately surrounding Navarro’s house, but at a hundred and twenty miles an hour it didn’t take him long to move into unfamiliar territory. He flew past huge, arena-like livestock barns on his left, each arched building giving way to the next in a long series. Light poles were nothing but a blur. Street signs were unreadable as they zipped by. Seconds later he passed a covered gate on his left, leading into the stockyards. There was a sign large enough he could read it without wrecking Bo’s motorcycle. The irony made him chuckle despite the danger. HARLEY AVENUE GATE.
Cars were spread out along the two-lane road, moving slowly, spaced just enough that Zafir was able to weave in and out of them without too much trouble. Still, he had to reduce speed in order to maneuver. He wasn’t quite the rider Jericho was. Few people were.
Even on the low hog, such weaving twisties were child’s play for Quinn and he leaned from side to side, darting back and forth among the traffic in a sort of zigzagging dance. He added power, accelerating to feel the pavement whir just inches beneath his knees as he leaned the bike into each shallow turn. If not for the fact that he was chasing a man whose blood carried a virus that could wipe out the entire western hemisphere, it would have been fun.
“Jacques, are you with me yet?” Quinn yelled into the Bluetooth, wind whipping his face.
“Five by five, beb.”
“Outstanding,” Quinn yelled, keeping his voice up to be heard over the rush of oncoming wind. On the back of the speeding bike it was like trying to talk during a hurricane. “I’m still behind him… going east on Harley Avenue around the back side of Trinity Park. We’re heading toward University Drive.”
“Half a mile back,” Thibodaux said. “We’re comin’ up on Montgomery and Harley now. I got the doc with me.”
Jericho started to ask about the prisoners but decided he didn’t care. He had his hands full with the Night Rod and miles of flesh-eating pavement.
Focused as he was on the fleeing Zafir, Quinn didn’t see the black pickup screaming up from behind until it was almost on top of him.
Ride like everyone is on crack and trying to kill you. It was a mantra he and his brother had repeated to each other hundreds of times growing up in a motorcycle family. His father had drilled it into both of them as boys. As it turned out, the approaching pickup had exactly that in mind.
Quinn leaned hard to his right, scraping a metal foot peg on asphalt as he took the sharp turn into the tree-lined park. Moving too fast to react, the oncoming truck shot past the intersection. It slammed on the brakes, tires squealing and smoke pouring from the rear of the vehicle as the driver threw it into reverse and tore backward toward the turnoff.
In the vibrating side mirror Quinn saw the pickup pass the intersection, then slide to a stop on the gravel shoulder, only to peel out and turn to fall in behind him again, pouring on the gas.
Quinn gritted his teeth. On the bike, he’d have the advantage of maneuverability and speed, but the truck could make mistakes. If Quinn made one, he’d go down and at these speeds that would spell disast
er.
He cursed himself for not expecting something like this. Kalil had had more than one person backing him up. Zafir would surely have more than the two losers stupid enough to get caught in front of Navarro’s house.
“We have company,” Quinn shouted into his headset as the gleaming silver truck grill loomed larger and larger in his side mirror. “Black Chevy pickup. Newer model.”
“We’re coming up on the park now,” Thibodaux said, worry stitching his voice.
“Don’t fret about me,” Quinn shot back, as the pickup bore down on him. “I lost sight of Zafir about ten seconds ago.” His heart sank as he spoke the words. “He was heading east toward University. You stick with him. I’ll handle this guy.”
Forty feet behind him, the black Chevy closed the gap. In the thick of Trinity Park now, Quinn cut between two trees, leaving the pavement to take a red gravel jogging path to his right. He heard the roar of the big block engine behind him and ducked between a picnic table and a public toilet to avoid getting flattened. Unable to negotiate the narrow pass, the pickup had to go wide, overcorrecting and bouncing across the manicured lawns. Gunfire clattered through the perfect rows of oak trees as the passenger stuck the pug barrel of a submachine gun out the window.
“Don’t worry, Chair Force,” Thibodaux’s voice came across the Bluetooth. “We got Zafir in our sights. He’s going south on University.”
Quinn didn’t have a chance to register the good news. The truck bounced around the stone toilet buildings, coming in at an angle now from the opposite direction. He could see the gun barrel bobbing out the open window as the passenger continued to fire in short, deadly bursts.
