Field of Fire

by Marc Cameron

  Quinn laughed. Even after knowing him for three years, he was still amazed at how quickly his friend’s mind could change directions. “You think?”

  “Damn right, I think. It’s what womenfolk do. Ain’t you learned nothin’ from me?” He turned his head so he could peer at Quinn with his good eye. “You gonna wait until later tonight before you pop the question to Ronnie?”

  “Na,” Quinn said. “I left the ring in my old man’s gun safe. I’m gonna hold off on the marriage thing for a while. Don’t think I could stand two failures.”

  “Wise,” Thibodaux mused. “I guess . . . if it makes you feel lighter.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’ll happen,” Quinn said. “Just a couple of issues to work through first.”

  “Roger that,” the big Cajun said, thankfully prying no deeper. “Just remember, none of ’em’s perfect . . . except for my Camille.” He patted Quinn on the back. “Thanks for arranging this meetin’ so I can get reacquainted with Khaki. She’s a good girl, for a Texan. I especially like that badass scar you gave her.”

  Quinn stopped in his tracks. “I didn’t give her the scar.”

  Thibodaux sighed. “Look around you, Jericho,” he said. “My eye, Kim’s leg, Beaudine’s face . . . hell, even Garcia’s heart. We’re all this way on account of you.”

  Quinn stood, dumbfounded. “I—”

  “You’re readin’ me wrong, brother,” Thibodaux smiled, throwing a huge arm around Quinn’s shoulder and drawing him in for a crushing, sideways hug. “If it wasn’t for you, every last one of us would be stone dead. We only have these scars ’cause we’re alive. But I gotta tell you, I am beat. Maybe it’s time we all just step back and take some time to heal.”

  Quinn worked his neck back and forth, counting the bones, muscles, and joints that hurt . . . and realizing it was easier to count the ones that didn’t. “Ronnie would like that,” he said. “And I’d be happy to spend a little more time with Mattie, that’s for sure.”

  “I think the free world could get by if we rode into the sunset for a month or two . . .”

  “You think?” Quinn said, pulling open the door to Marx Brothers. The smell of fresh bread hit him in the face. His heart nearly stopped when he caught a glimpse of Garcia.

  “Pretty sure, Chair Force,” Thibodaux said. “And if it can’t, they know where to find us.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am especially grateful to Brian Krosschell for engineering my first visit to the Kobuk River region of Alaska. I fell in love with the land and the people from the start. And thanks to him and his wife, Lila, for help with the Yup’ik and Inupiaq languages and culture. The village of Ambler is real, as is the surrounding terrain. Needle is fictional, but is a representation of many of the villages up and down the river.

  As always, many thanks to Ty Cunningham, my brother-in-arms and jujitsu sensei for walking through the fight dynamics with me. My friend, Special Agent Michele Lakey endured several lunch meetings while I peppered her with questions about what it was like to be a female agent in the FBI. Sonny Caudill, Steve Arlow, Steve Szymanski, and Dan Cooper always provide valuable insight into the world of aviation, boats, and motorcycles. Brandon Spanos made sure I got the Russian language right. Daniel O and his buds at the Anchorage Police Department helped with the ins and outs of how APD might deal with a terrorist attack. I’m grateful to Ben O and the men and women of the OSI detachments in Yokota, Japan, and Anchorage, Alaska, for their friendship and assistance. My old friend and fellow deputy U.S. Marshal, Troy Meeks, put up with all sorts of questions about tactical medicine under austere conditions. Thanks, bud. I have to give credit to my friend Tyson Bundy for coming up with the idea to use a spent rifle casing to fix a broken oil line. Don and Nancy Finck and Justin at Anchorage Arctic Cat helped me out with questions about the effects of gunfire on an ATV—and even talked me into buying a new Arctic Cat so I could do further “research.” Jim Hyde, Dusty Wessels, and the rest of the gang at Raw-Hyde have been an incredible resource as I attempt to hone my riding skills so I can write with some authority on Jericho Quinn’s abilities with a motorcycle. Many thanks to Amanda Sundvor at ICON for answering my questions about Quinn’s Truant motorcycle boots. She was nice and informative enough to make me want to buy a pair of my own. Readers often ask if I’m doing some sort of product placement in these books. The truth is, I always enjoyed it when Ian Fleming told us the brand of watch Bond wore, lighter he used, or car he drove. I put Quinn on a BMW because I ride a BMW. He wears a TAG because I’ve worn a TAG for thirty years. He uses a Cardo Bluetooth intercom because I do. He carries a Riot sheath knife and a ZT folder because those are the blades I depend on.

  I am extremely grateful to my agent, Robin Rue, and her assistant, Beth Miller, at Writers House who have become good friends. My editor, Gary Goldstein, is a gem to work with—a big thanks to him and all the folks at Kensington Publishing.

  And most of all, thank you to my sweet bride, Victoria, my partner in crime, writing, and adventure.

  Keep reading for a special early preview of

  New York Times bestselling author

  Marc Cameron’s next explosive Jericho Quinn

  thriller, an e-book original novella:

  DEAD DROP

  The next attack on American soil hits closer to home than even Jericho Quinn could anticipate. A peaceful summer vacation turns into a nightmarish inferno when terrorists set their deadly sights on the softest of soft targets: a popular theme park outside Washington, DC. What they don’t know is that Jericho Quinn and some of his team are also there that day with their children. And only Jericho Quinn can stop the terrorists from slaughtering thousands of innocents and the lives of those closest to him.

  Coming this summer!

  I have a high art; I hurt with cruelty those

  who would damage me.

  —ARCHILOCUS, 650 B.C.

  Click here to get your copy.

  Prologue

  Virginia

  The line to nineteen-year-old Mukhtar Tahir’s concession stand grew longer with each passing minute, as if someone had leaked an awful rumor that the world was running out of shaved ice. Buccaneer Beach Thrill Park was pirate-themed, and like most of the other buildings, the ice stand was built to look like some part of a wooden ship.

  Handing off two drippy paper cones, Mukhtar used his forearm to push the stupid, black tri-corner hat out of his eyes for the tenth time in as many minutes and caught a glimpse of a pretty twenty-something named Fadila. She must have been on a break because she loitered on the oak-lined path behind the funnel cake shack. Even from a half a block away he could see her long black hair shimmering in what was left of the evening sun as it hung loose around smallish shoulders. Like him, she wore the black uniform polo shirt and khaki shorts of a park employee. She was also from Iraq—Fallujah, the scene of some of the most intense fighting. Mukhtar thought she must have been a very brave girl to make it out of such a place alive. He was sure she was a virtuous girl, despite the fact that she exposed so much of her body with the park uniform. Like Mukhtar, she needed this job. She kept looking over her shoulder, then up the path, as if planning a secret rendezvous. Fadila was assigned to work the smallest roller coaster on the amusement side of the park, always much less busy than the waterpark side. This was lucky, because the roller coaster was a lame ride anyway, with short lines that allowed her frequent breaks and time to loiter.

  Mukhtar barely had time to use the restroom much less attend a clandestine meeting. A shaved ice was included in the cost of each admissions to Buccaneer Beach—and the roughly five thousand patrons who showed up each day seemed determined to get their money’s worth. There were three stands that sold the sickeningly sweet treats, located strategically around the park, but with so many visitors, there was rarely a moment when he wasn’t refilling syrups, ripping open supplies with his box cutter, or shaving ice. It was all Mukhtar and the two girls he worked with could do to keep from getting overrun.

/>   His turn on the machine, Mukhtar held a flimsy paper cone under the ice chute and shoved back his pirate hat again, wishing he could throw the stupid thing into the bushes. His two coworkers, college girls from Virginia, actually looked good in their hats. Even the purple grackle hopping along the pavement with a French fry in its beak mocked his cockeyed pirate hat with a hateful black glare.

  Behind the funnel cake shack, Fadila still loitered, alone. Mukhtar filled paper cones with ice and began to fantasize that she was waiting to see him when he took a break. They’d spoken before, only briefly, but she had seemed nice, if a little intense. They had so much in common, it seemed destined that they would connect sooner or later.

  Mukhtar looked at the endless line and shook his head. He would gladly have paid ten times the cost of a shaved ice not to have to stand with so many people in wet bathing suits. He’d been exposed to more pallid, sweaty flesh over the last two weeks than any nineteen-year-old boy should have to witness in ten lifetimes.

  One eye on Fadila, he shaved up another cone of ice and handed it to a little girl in a dripping green swimming suit, giving her his best smile. He always took the time to smile at the customers. A few smiled back, some looked as if he had just threatened to hijack their airplane, but most ignored him completely.

  An older woman, tan as a mud brick and wrinkled as a raisin stomped and cursed when she got bubble gum instead of cotton candy flavoring on her shaved ice. Mukhtar forced another smile and tried to explain that the flavors were the same, only the colors differed. The woman screamed as if she’d just lost an appendage, demanding blue syrup as well as a full refund of the shaved ice portion of her admission ticket. Mukhtar gritted his teeth and gave her a blue ice, hoping it gave her a particularly bad brain freezing headache.

  He peeled off the clear plastic gloves and pitched them in an empty box at his feet. “I have to use the restroom,” he said. The two college girls rolled their eyes but didn’t say anything. Each of them had already been to the bathroom three times this shift.

  Mukhtar left his hat below the counter and made his way through the milling tourists toward the restrooms—by way of the path behind the funnel cake shop.

  The sun sank rapidly toward the top of the oak trees along the western wall, beyond the wave pools, looping roller coasters, and the towering, twenty-one story waterslide that drew tourists like flies through the fortress gates of the two-hundred-acre park just over an hour from Washington, DC.

  Mukhtar was still fifty feet from Fadila when he saw the other boy approaching her through the crowd. It was Saleem, the new guy. His cheeks were hollow and pale and sweat beaded across his high forehead. It was hot, but Saleem didn’t look hot. He looked ill. Dressed in the same black shirt and khaki shorts as every other park employee, Saleem got to wear the tool vest of someone assigned to maintenance and repair. It was certainly more of a manly job than shaving ice. No wonder Fadila had chosen to meet him.

  Mukhtar ducked his head, pushing the aching thoughts of this stupid girl out of his mind, and headed for the restroom. Committed with the flow of the crowd, his neck burned with shame that he’d ever considered the thought that this beautiful creature would want to talk with him. He had to pass within yards of the clandestine couple who now chatted intensely in hushed Arabic under the shade of a broad-hipped oak. Mukhtar slowed a half step when he heard the first snippet of their words.

  “. . . if I fail?” Saleem said. “What if I hesitate when the moment arrives?”

  “. . . hinges on you . . . we depend on you,” Fadila said, “. . . infidels . . . death . . . fi sabilillah . . .”

  Mukhtar saw a series of bulges around Saleem’s waist as he walked by. They were partially hidden under the vest, but he recognized them at once for what they were. He hadn’t been able to hear much, but what he did hear was enough to fill him with a sinking dread. He broke into a sprint to find his supervisor as soon as he rounded the corner and made it out of Fadila’s sight. “Infidels,” “death”—he’d heard such talk in Iraq, but it was the mysterious belt under Saleem’s vest combined with Fadila’s last phrase that made him double his pace: “fi sabilillah.”

  “To fight in the cause of Allah.”

  Chapter 1

  Come now and follow me, and no hurt shall happen

  to you from the lions.

  —JOHN BUNYAN, The Pilgrim’s Progress

  Fifteen minutes earlier

  Jericho Quinn put the Impala in park and took a deep breath, reminding himself that everywhere on earth was not a war zone—despite his experiences to the contrary. Still, a nagging sense that something was wrong gnawed at his gut—the Japanese called it haragei—art of the belly—and Quinn had learned not to ignore it.

  Even under the best of circumstances, he was not the sort of man to leave his guns in the car, but this evening he had, in fact, gone against every ounce of his better judgment and left his Kimber 10mm, the “baby” Glock 27, and his Japanese killing dagger locked in the safe back at his apartment in Alexandria. The usual complement of weapons that had driven his ex-wife to divorce him had been reduced to a small pocketknife tucked discreetly into the inside pocket of his swimsuit. The huge summer crowds at Buccaneer Beach Thrill Park and the fact that he was with his daughter only added to his helpless angst of being unarmed.

  “What time do they close?” Mattie said, unbuckling her seat belt and leaning forward to stick her head in between Quinn and his girlfriend, Veronica “Ronnie” Garcia, who sat in the passenger seat. Mattie had the park’s website memorized and Quinn knew full well that the question was not a question at all, but a jab at him for having to work late. Even the fact that he’d been in a meeting with the President of the United States was no excuse for cutting short their promised day at the amusement park.

  “We still have four hours,” he said, eyeing the colossal waterslide that loomed in the dusky evening beyond the park gates like a skyscraper with its looping, twisted guts hanging out. “Looks like we’ll make it in before the sun goes down.”

  “Just barely,” Mattie said, falling backward into her seat. The words came on the heels of an exasperated sigh that reminded Quinn of his ex-wife when she was angry. Mattie had the passive aggressive thing down to level-ten expert. The sight of the waterslide, affectionately known as Dead Drop for its trapdoor beginning, made it impossible for the little girl to stay mad very long. Turning to stare, her voice fell to a reverent whisper, as if she’d just discovered the golden idol in an Indiana Jones movie. “There she is…”

  Ronnie Garcia turned to give Quinn a sultry wink. “You didn’t tell me that freaky, ginormous slide was a she.” Thick black hair cascaded over her broad shoulders and fell across the leather upholstery. She reached out and ran the tip of her index finger across the stubble of his dark beard. He’d shaved for the Oval Office meeting but, as usual, had a five o’clock shadow by noon.

  Quinn shrugged. “It’s news to me.” He threw a glance back at Mattie who was now up on her knees staring out the window. She had his dark hair and copper skin, but thankfully her mother’s oval face.

  Garcia’s head lolled against the seat. Her full lips perked into a smile. “I guess it makes sense,” she said, hints of her Russian and Cuban heritage seeping out in her accent. “Mattie’s been hanging out with the Thibodaux boys over the last couple of weeks. To hear their dad talk, all the scariest things in the world are female.”

  Quinn smiled while he chewed on that for a minute but was too smart to agree out loud.

  Garcia was attached to the same working group—she from the CIA, he from Air Force OSI—falling under the immediate supervision of the President’s national security advisor. She’d been in the Oval Office meeting, and Quinn had known her long enough to be able to tell by the way she hummed softly under her breath that she was busy processing all the new information. Garcia was always more contemplative after intelligence briefings, as if she took terrorist threats personally. Quinn couldn’t blame her, not considering the th
ings she’s been through.

  “Well, we made it here, anyway,” he said, banging the flat of his hand on the top of the Impala’s steering wheel like a judge wielding a gavel. “Now remember, we have to stay together.”

  Garcia smiled at him again. Quinn didn’t like crowds but he couldn’t help but look forward to an evening with his buxom girlfriend and her yellow swimsuit.

  Marine Gunnery Sergeant Jacques Thibodaux, Quinn’s friend and partner, wheeled the massive, black fifteen-passenger van he called the TAV—Thibodaux Assault Vehicle—into the vacant spot beside the Impala. Quinn counted four round faces pressed against the side windows. He knew there were three more somewhere in the van. The Thibodaux boys ranged from twelve to one year—no small feat considering the gunny had spent much of the last eight years deployed to various hot spots around the Middle East.

  Shawn, the oldest, shot a glance at the setting sun and frowned as he jumped out of the van, followed by five of his younger brothers. All of them wore matching white T-shirts and blue board shorts like their dad, but Shawn had taken a pocketknife and cut the sleeves off of his shirt.

  “Marlin Shawn Thibodaux!” his mother bellowed as soon as she saw him. A dark and brooding South Carolinian of Italian heritage, Camille Thibodaux seemed to get pregnant every time Jacques walked by her. Seven energetic sons had made her an expert at bellowing. She wore a black, one-piece swimming suit that showed off her full figure and a sheer white cover-up that hung open to her hips. “That was a brand new shirt, mister!” She gave him one of her patented glares.

  The boy shrugged. “Sun’s out, guns out, Mama.” He grinned, flexing his scrawny biceps. He’d spent much of his life in the northeastern United States, but there was a definite Cajun drawl to his voice. Five minutes around the kid and it was apparent he took after his daddy in physique and irreverent demeanor. He was only twelve, but he was already taller than his mother. Mattie thought it was a secret, but Quinn was well aware that she had a crush on the boy.