by Marc Cameron
“You’re right about that,” Quinn yelled. He tried to edge sideways, cutting the pie for a better shot. The Venezuelan forced him back with another volley of gunfire. “Listen to me, Valentine,” he yelled above the ringing in his ears. “Once that thing is armed, it’ll go off right away.”
Aleksandra leaned in, the side of her forehead touching Quinn’s. “Do you see the row of small silver tubes?” She nodded at the bomb.
“I do.”
“Shoot them,” she said, keeping her own gun trained on the section of pipe where Zamora hid.
Quinn’s head snapped around to look at her.
Pollard’s arm moved as he entered the fourth digit of the PAL.
“Shoot them now!”
Quinn let the front sight of his borrowed Glock float over the array of metallic tubes near the center of the bomb. Bracing for an immediate explosion—though he knew it was pointless—he fired three shots.
The rounds slapped into the soft metal, destroying a section about the size of a pack of cards—but nothing happened.
Quinn stared at Aleksandra, but said nothing.
“Trust me,” she said.
“Matt,” Quinn shouted. “Marie and Simon are fine. My friends got them out without a scratch.”
“Lourdes?” Zamora shrieked.
“I hear she’s not doing too well,” Quinn yelled. “Now come out. I told you, it’s over.”
Pollard stepped into the open and let his fingers slide along the damage caused by Quinn’s shooting.
“I can’t believe I even considered killing thousands to save my family. . . .” His hand hovered over the numbered wheel.
“Matt,” Quinn shouted. “Come on out.”
“I don’t think so,” Pollard said. “I’ve done a lot of thinking about this. Valentine, you’re messed up. But I’m little better than you. Some people are just too evil to be allowed to live.”
“Matthew!” Zamora shrieked.
“Tell Marie I love her,” Pollard yelled to Quinn, keeping his eyes on a cowering Zamora. His voice went quiet, barely audible. “You cruel bastard. Didn’t figure on this, did you?”
Pollard’s finger fell on the button as the Venezuelan fired. Baba Yaga gave an audible click. Quinn felt a tremendous pressure wave slam into his chest. Unable to breathe, he was vaguely aware of heat and screaming metal and the smell of singed hair . . . then blackness.
CHAPTER 74
Quinn woke to Aleksandra touching his face. He’d never seen her do anything so gently. Coughing, he rose up on one elbow, testing each limb and joint for broken bones. A persistent whine assaulted his ears, providing background music to the drumbeat of pain in the front of his head.
The door to the boiler room hung half off its hinges. A layer of greasy smoke curled through the room.
“I don’t know what we’ve been worried about all these years.” He coughed again, nodding at the door. “Looks to me like you Russians build some pretty poor nuclear bombs.”
Tears dripped from the tip of Aleksandra’s freckled nose as she looked down at him. “I thought . . .”
“So did I.” Quinn touched a large knot on his forehead, wincing. “Seriously, why aren’t we a speck of ash in crater right now?”
“Both our countries build weak links into such devices—a row of capacitors or something similar that will fail and render the bomb useless in the event of a fire or unintended plane crash.”
Quinn nodded. “And that’s what you had me shoot.”
“Correct. The initial explosive went off but was not able to trigger a nuclear detonation.” She sniffed. “The blast was localized to the boiler room . . . and your forehead. We will need to be decontaminated since some of the nuclear material was surely released—like a dirty bomb—but everyone upstairs is safe.”
“You know, we’ve been through a lot over the last couple of weeks,” Quinn moaned, falling back on the floor with his eyes shut. “And this is only the second time I’ve seen you cry.”
Aleksandra gently smoothed his hair. “I have only ever had two friends.”
EPILOGUE
United States Air Force Academy
Colorado Springs
Two weeks after what was reported as a horrific boiler explosion that shut down the Frank Erwin Center for extensive cleanup, Jericho Quinn stood holding a shining saber with five other Air Force officers on the steps to the Academy chapel. He had the honor of standing to the right of the bride at the front of the line, nearest the audience.
Mattie waved at him from the bottom of the steps. But for her dark hair, she was a miniature Kim in a robin’s-egg dress with a yellow bow. Gary Lavin stood farther back in the arch. To Quinn’s surprise, he had no urge to hack the man to death like he’d thought he might. Kim waited for him below, mouth tight as if she was sucking on a lemon drop.
Thibodaux stood in Marine mess dress blues with Camille tucked in tight beside him. Their youngest looked tiny sleeping across his huge arm. Each of his other six boys wore a black eye patch with their suits in support of the new addition to their dad’s uniform.
Standing at attention, Quinn shifted his eyes to see Veronica Garcia standing next to the big Marine. Sensing his gaze, she smiled brightly, the sunshine yellow of her cap-sleeved dress accenting the richness of her skin—and bringing to mind the swimsuit she’d worn in Miami.
The Bruns appeared at the top of the stairs. Connie had never looked so beautiful. Colorado’s Front Range weather had cooperated for the wedding, giving her the perfect bluebird day.
On command, Jericho and the five other officers raised their sabers, edges to the sky so they formed an arched tunnel. The bride and groom walked ceremoniously under the blades until they got to Quinn and Major Moore, who lowered their sabers to block them and ordered them to kiss.
“You can do better than that,” Moore chided, forcing them to kiss again.
At that point, the sabers were slowly raised until the bride passed. By tradition, Quinn reached out to swat Connie on the bottom with the flat of his blade.
“Welcome to the Air Force, ma’am,” he said, grinning.
Ronnie Garcia kept to the side at the end of the ceremony. She knew few of the guests but was perfectly content to watch Jericho chat with his friends in the bright sunshine. He was as happy as she’d ever seen him, grinning and cracking jokes that actually made people laugh. Who knew Jericho Quinn had such a great sense of humor?
Kim came up beside her, breathing heavily as if something was on her mind. She was a head shorter than Garcia, more finely boned, but fit and certainly very beautiful.
“I like your date,” Ronnie said, to break the ice and obliquely point out that Quinn wasn’t the only one to show up with someone on his arm.
Kim brushed the comment aside, focused on Jericho. “You should know,” she said through clenched teeth. “I intend to fight you for him.”
Garcia sighed, shaking her head slowly.
“I am sad for you,” she said, as Quinn turned to grin at her. “All those years and you just figured out he’s worth fighting for. I knew from the moment I met him.”
Across Academy Drive, a thousand meters to the west, in the shadowed stands of pine and cedar, a lone figure pressed a dark eye to a powerful Leupold scope, playing mil-spec crosshairs from guest to guest. Killing Jericho Quinn would end things much too quickly. No, she would take one of his friends. That would draw things out, make the game more enjoyable, test the temper of his metal.
Too disciplined to laugh out loud and disturb her sight picture, the sniper’s lips perked into the slightest of smiles.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I owe a tremendous debt to those who assisted me with this story.
First things first: Many thanks to my agent, Robin Rue—what a patient lady to stick with me—and Gary Goldstein at Kensington—an editor and a friend.
Thanks to my pilot and motorcycle buds who’ve let me pick their brains: Sonny Caudill, Scott Ireton, Steve Arlow, and others who
want to remain anonymous.
My friend Rod Robinson provided valuable color commentary on living in Bolivia and driving the Death Road as a young missionary.
Jujitsu master and dear friend Professor Ty Cunningham continues to provide invaluable instruction on the way of strategy and the philosophy of violent conflict.
Ray and Ryan Thibault of Northern Knives in Anchorage talk to me for hours about all things bladed and allowed me to field-test their Severance design in all kinds of ways—though none quite as interesting as what Jericho did.
Talking to Professor Matt Wappett via Facebook was entertaining and enlightening, but I wish I could travel to Idaho and attend one of his ethics classes in person. It would be great fun to discuss evil. Thank you, sir, for allowing me a peek into your curriculum.
I’ve never run the Dakar, but sometimes I pretend when I’m riding my GS on the back roads of Alaska. The timing of the race is perfect to get a motorcycle fix during our long winters. Third only to the Olympics and the World Cup, the Dakar is followed by millions of fans around the globe, but most Americans have never heard of it. ADVrider.com has numerous threads on the event, with a particularly great one that gushes like a fire hose giving minute-by-minute updates contemporaneous to each stage. A special thanks to Ted Johnson for sharing an advance copy of his wonderful book, Tales from the Bivouac, that is just chock full of great photos and details of his experience on a Dakar team.
To my gun-toting friends: many, many thanks for all the lessons—about tactics and life in general. You will, I hope, find little bits and pieces of yourselves within these pages. To quote Robert Louis Stevenson: “Of what shall a man be proud, if he is not proud of his friends?” You give me much to be proud of.
And finally, for my wife, Victoria—an icon of patience—thank you for helping me plot and plan and connive.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 Marc Cameron
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-3180-1
First electronic edition: May 2013
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3181-8
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3181-6
