by Marc Cameron
Jericho nodded back. Too much attention could instigate a fight, but ignoring the guy completely would have been seen as a sign of disrespect.
One eye on the gangbangers, Quinn watched a rusty blue minivan pull in from the service road. It creaked to a stop beside the coiled air hose off the wooden privacy fence at the edge of the parking lot. It continued to idle. The driver, a heavyset man with dark, thinning hair and a wad of tobacco the size of a golf ball in his jaw, got out and kicked the back tire. Another man came around from behind the van, stopping for a moment to talk to the driver, who’d bent down as if to study the tire. The second man was bigger than the driver, with a close-cropped head of bleach-blond hair and aviator Ray-Bans. Both men wore loose-fitting western shirts-the sort that made it easier to hide a pistol.
Quinn recognized the vehicle as the same van the elderly couple had cut off in their little red Hyundai. His mind began to work through the possible scenarios, none of them good. They must have circled back from the next exit. He watched the men for a few moments, alternating his attention between them and the tattooed gangbangers to his right.
As he replaced the filler cap he noticed his windscreen was filthy with bug guts. Thibodaux was taking his own sweet time inside, so he decided to give it a once-over before they got back on the highway.
He reached around the concrete post next to the gas pump for the squeegee as the passenger from the minivan began walking toward him.
People with ill intent had a look about them that was impossible to hide. Quinn’s eyes flicked to the gangbangers at the nearby island. They were dangerous men, each with at least one gun and probably an assortment of blades. But their mouths gaped half-open as they went about the business pumping gas and wiping down their little car. On the other hand, the bald man with the Ray-Bans had set his jaw like he was biting on a stick. He stared at the ground as he walked, conspicuously ignoring Quinn to peer up every few steps to maintain target acquisition.
The potbellied driver got back in the minivan. Brake lights reflected off the wood fence and there was a loud clunk as the transmission slid into gear.
Quinn reasoned that the guy in the sunglasses wasn’t going to try and kill him. He could have done that from the window of the van. No, this would be a classic snatch and grab. There would be a couple more in the van, ready to fling open the door so Ray-Ban could shove him inside. Quinn had used virtually the same technique many times to pick up high-value targets from danger areas in Iraq.
He bent on the opposite side of his motorcycle as if checking the oil. Ten feet out, Ray-Ban’s right hand darted behind his back, coming back up with the unmistakable yellow and black of a X26 Taser.
Quinn stayed low, behind the bike, pretending to be oblivious to the oncoming attack. Ray-Ban moved closer, obviously hoping to dart Quinn while he was still kneeling. The minivan crunched across the gravel, moving in for the grab. The side door slid open with a loud, metallic thunk.
Quinn rose to his full height as the van pulled alongside the pump, crowding the surprised gangbangers. A man in a black ski mask leaned out the open door as the van rolled, one hand hanging on to a seat belt, intent on grabbing Quinn when he went down. A second man, also wearing a mask, stood next to the other holding a black assault rifle attached to a nylon sling across his chest.
Quinn swung the squeegee like a war hammer as Ray-Ban raised the Taser. The cover man inside the van panicked, bringing up his weapon to unleash a deafening string of machine gun fire. Bullets smacked the pavement, zinging into the air. The grab man in the van screamed something unintelligible and shoved his gun-wielding partner sideways.
Quinn’s squeegee hit a home run and Ray-Ban’s jaw gave way with a satisfying crack. He crumpled, never feeling the rounds from his partner’s machine gun that struck him low in the spine. As he pitched forward, the twin darts from his Taser buried themselves into the lead gangbanger’s pudgy belly. Both men hit the ground at roughly the same time, Ray-Ban dead from friendly fire, the gangster writhing in pain as fifty thousand volts coursed through his body.
Quinn rolled, keeping his BMW between himself and the oncoming van. He came up again in a low crouch, firing his Kimber at the open door. He squeezed off four snap shots. At least one of them hit the gunman, who let the rifle fall against its sling. The wounded man slouched, pounding on the driver’s headrest, and screamed: “Go, go, go!”
The minivan careened out of the parking lot, bald tires spewing a plume of angry gray smoke. Thibodaux exited the store at a run, dropping protein bars and water bottles as he took in the sight of the ambush.
“You all right, l’ami?” the Cajun said, his own pistol now in his hand. He eyed the gangbangers, who were helping their wobbly leader to his feet.
“I’m fine.” Quinn knelt beside the dead Ray-Ban. “I’m not sure what that was all about, but they wanted to get me in the back of that van.”
“You recognize him?” Thibodaux toed the dead man’s face with his heavy riding boot.
Quinn shook his head. When he stood up he had the man’s wallet in his hand. It contained a Virginia driver’s license. “Walter Schmidt,” he read. “Mean anything to you?”
“Can’t say that it does,” Thibodaux mused. “But, he’s got a face only his mama could love. Bet he’s got a record for all sorts of evil doin’s.”
Quinn tucked the wallet inside his jacket and zipped it up. “I’m not too keen on waiting around for the coppers on this one,” he said, imagining all the time it would take to explain things. Since going to work for Palmer, both men had taken a more liberal view of what and what not to report to the local constabulary. “Palmer wants meet us right away. You okay if we don’t wait?”
Thibodaux rolled his eyes. “I’d prefer it if we didn’t.”
“Good enough, then,” Quinn said. “Give me a sec.”
He walked over to where the gangbangers huddled around their pallid leader, who was now propped up at the door of the Dodge Neon. He spoke with them quickly in hushed tones. The fat one nodded and they shook hands like old friends. Quinn turned to walk back toward the store.
“Where you goin’?” Thibodaux yelled. He gave his GS an impatient twist of the throttle. “I thought you said we were outta here, brother.”
“We are.” Quinn grinned, hooking a thumb toward the wobbly gangbanger. “I just gotta grab the surveillance tape and get some cash from the ATM. I promised Hector I’d pay him three hundred bucks if he’d dump the body for me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Quinn briefed Palmer as they rode, letting Thibodaux watch his back, in case the blue minivan had a partner. The Cajun was linked in to the call via the Chatterbox.
“We’ll do some checking into your guy,” Palmer said. His voice was oddly distant for someone who’d just learned one of his men had been ambushed. “How far out are you?”
“Not far at all,” Thibodaux came back. “Be there in fifteen if we don’t get hassled by the Man.”
“I’ll clear the way for you with the state police. Just get here as soon as you can. Don’t know if it’s connected to your recent adventure, but we’ve got two more bags.” Palmer ended the call.
Quinn dropped the bike into fifth gear and began to work his way in and out of traffic. The towering GS flicked easily for something that was a two-story building of the motorcycle world. Still riding on the adrenaline of the attack, Quinn had to force himself to stay off the throttle. He opened his face shield a crack and let the cool air wash around him-calming and exciting at the same time.
When someone asked him why he rode, he often told them, “The same reason a dog sticks its head out the window of a moving car.”
“Two more dead guys?” Thibodaux shook his square head in disbelief. He straddled his bike as he peeled off his gloves. Every rider had a system of order to remove their gear. Jericho was helmet, and then Held Phantom kangaroo-skin gloves. Thibodaux was gloves, then helmet. Towering over six-four, the Marine could straddle the BMW GS Adventure and still
flat-foot the ground with both feet. Broad shoulders and a back that resembled a pool table strained at the leather jacket, dwarfing the tall motorcycle. His hair was cut high and tight with just enough in front to call it a flattop.
“Palmer says two,” Quinn grunted, still thinking about the dead man who’d tried to shove him in the moving van. He’d seen months of action working outside the wire in Iraq, but an ambush was a difficult thing to shake off-particularly after the recent attempt on his family. There was no way they were connected. Walter Schmidt and Farooq were worlds apart when it came to causes. Still, Quinn didn’t believe in coincidence.
He pushed away a nagging thought and hung his helmet on a hook below his right handgrip. Airbrushed war axes, their blades dripping in blood, stood out brilliantly in the sun on each side of the gray Arai.
He swung off his bike and maneuvered it up on the center stand. The drive out front of the modest white brick house was made up of crushed oyster shells, not the best footing for a motorcycle. He and Thibodaux had found a spot of packed clay at the edge of the ratty grass yard to park their bikes. Over three decades of riding had seen him dump more than one bike because of soft parking. The protruding engine heads on the warhorse GS were protected by brushed aluminum covers and if the bike tipped, the crash bars and aluminum luggage boxes would absorb much of the damage if it did fall. Still, the powerful motorcycle had several new additions courtesy of DARPA and he took special precautions to make sure he didn’t walk out to find her lying on the ground.
Once the bike was parked to his satisfaction, he tugged off the reinforced Sidi riding boots and slipped into a more comfortable pair of black Rockport chukkas. He could ride in them if he had to, but running in the heavy Sidis could be a problem.
Both men nodded to Palmer’s limo driver. As the president’s national security advisor, Palmer rated a small Secret Service detail of his own. His driver, a special agent, stood with his head back, soaking up the fall sun beside a black armored limo. Arnold Vasquez was not as tall as Thibodaux, but the muscles and Sig Sauer pistol under his loose suit coat made it clear he had been hired for more than his ability behind the wheel. As fellow Marines, he and Thibodaux had hit it off immediately. Each time they met it was a contest to see who could bark semper fi first and loudest.
“Uuurrrrah!” Vasquez snapped when Thibodaux made his way around the limo. “Hey, Captain Quinn.” The Cajun was a brother in arms; Jericho, as an Air Force officer, was worthy of little more than a polite nod.
“Urrah, Arnie.” Jacques grinned. “How you been gettin’ along, beb?”
“Fine, fine,” Vasquez said. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “The boss is inside with Bodington and Ross.”
Quinn raised an eyebrow at that. “FBI and CIA Bodington and Ross?”
“The very same.” Vasquez nodded.
“Don’t tell my child bride,” the big Cajun mused. “But I always thought Virginia Ross was sorta cute from her photo. Too cute to be the boss of the CIA, that’s for damned sure…”
Agent Vasquez rolled his eyes and leaned in, as if with a secret. “ Mucho jamon por dos juevos, buddy,” he said. “That don’t show up in no press photo…”
Quinn understood the words, but not the colloquialism. “ Mucho jamon?”
“Too much ham for two eggs,” Thibodaux chuckled. “Guess Arnie’s sayin’ the director of the CIA is a little easier to jump over than walk around…”
The kid slouching just inside the half-open front door had an unruly mop of sun-bleached hair and an attitude that made him look like he’d only just graduated from his skateboard to a government job. He lowered mirrored Oakley sunglasses to give both Quinn and Thibodaux the once-over. Black motorcycle leathers and the hard-put gazes of men who had seen more than their share of extreme violence had a way of earning them scrutiny from the authorities.
At first glance it was impossible to tell if the young sentry was FBI or CIA.
“You superheroes looking for someone?” Skater Boy said. He stepped up to block their way, holding up the flat of his hand as if it was a bulletproof shield.
“FBI,” Thibodaux whispered, turning to give Quinn a pained look. “No doubt about it.”
Quinn couldn’t help but smile. “Air Force OSI,” he said. During his freshman “doolie” year at the Air Force Academy he’d learned to deal with overbearing people by picturing a red dot in the center of their foreheads. It was a trick he’d failed to mention during all his psychological interviews. “Special Agents Quinn and Thibodaux here at Mr. Palmer’s request.”
“Let’s see some ID.” Skater Boy snapped his fingers in the overly officious way of one new to the world of badges and guns and a little drunk on the terrible cosmic power.
Quinn sighed, imagining the red dot at the bridge of the kid’s nose. He reached for his creds when a familiar voice cut the silence from a long hallway to his right.
“Let them through, Reagan.” Palmer stepped out of an alcove at the end of the hall. He wore khaki slacks instead of his customary suit. The sleeves of a starched white shirt were rolled up to his elbows.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.” He handed Quinn and Thibodaux each a pair of blue nitrile gloves to match the ones on his own hands, then dismissed Reagan the skater boy with a curt nod.
“Hope the double extra-large are big enough for those shovels you call hands, Jacques,” Palmer said as he turned to walk back down the hall.
Quinn unzipped his leather jacket and took a deep breath. Putting on the gloves flooded his mind with memories of the near miss they’d had with weaponized Ebola less than a month before.
Palmer raised his own gloved hand as he walked, appearing to read Quinn’s mind. “These are more to protect the crime scene than your health.”
Thibodaux groaned. “Since when do you use your hammer teams to go all CSI?” The mountainous Cajun was fine when it came to killing bad guys or bashing heads together, but he was known to have a bit of a weak stomach when too much time had passed from the point of violence.
“Since someone started torturing American spies.” Palmer stopped at the gaping doorway at the end of the shadowed hall. A white refrigerator stood a few feet beyond the door at the edge of the kitchen. It was covered with photos of what looked to be three separate young families. Each bore enough of a resemblance to the other to suggest they were related. The absence of any male influence in the house led Quinn to believe a single woman lived here. The photos on the fridge were likely her siblings, nieces, and nephews. A framed diploma hung in the hall to the right of the doorway proclaiming the graduation of Nadia Arbakova from the United States Secret Service Training Academy in 1998.
Palmer pointed to the doorway with an open hand. “They’re through there.”
A single lightbulb tried feebly to fight away the darkness. Thin tan carpet did little to absorb the sound of their footfalls on the creaky wood. The walls to the stairway were painted glossy white and adorned with a cluttered mix of more family photographs. The broken frames and glass of two lay shattered on the steps, indicating a struggle. The moldy, metallic smell of terror and urine met Quinn on a wall of dank air from below.
“So, the woman who lived here is one of the victims,” Quinn said, half to himself. The air grew moist as they made their way single file down the stairs-it was cooler, but no more comfortable. Even surrounded by people he knew, the heaviness in the house made him grateful for the familiar bulk of a pistol under his jacket.
“Brilliant police work.” Kurt Bodington stepped around a concrete block wall at the bottom of the steps. “I suddenly find myself surrounded by crack investigators.” A sneer dripped from his voice. Quinn had never met the director of the FBI but found it easy to dislike him instantly. The man was, after all, a lawyer.
Palmer stepped closer to a silent Hispanic woman who’d come around the corner behind Bodington. She was tall, with an athletic build that reminded Quinn of a lifeguard. A shimmering dark blue blouse accented the light tan of h
er suit. Sensible shoes, as black as her hair, made Quinn think she might be FBI. The hint of humility in her amber-flecked eyes made him wonder.
“Agent Veronica Garcia with the CIA,” Palmer said. “She’s the one who discovered the bodies this morning.”
“Has an uncanny habit of being at the wrong place at precisely the right moment, if you ask me,” Bodington grumbled.
Garcia shrugged off the insult, but her eyes flashed daggers. She kept her hands clasped behind her back, as if to restrain them from slapping Director Bodington.
“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Garcia.” Quinn raised his blue glove. “I’d shake your hand, but… anyhow, anyone who Director Bodington dislikes is a friend of mine…”
“Let’s get to the yolk of the egg,” Palmer said, jaw muscles clenching as he glared at both men. “You two can duel at high noon after this is over.”
Virginia Ross stepped around the corner of an unfinished Sheetrock wall. Thibodaux gave Quinn a tiny nod, agreeing with Arnie’s earlier assessment. More academic than clandestine operator, Ross wore fancy blue pumps, navy slacks, and a yellow blouse. Smallish shoulders and broad hips made her look like an inverted blueberry ice cream cone.
Operator or not, she was more savvy in the ways of politics than Bodington, and enough of a spy to project a measure of tense civility.
“Officer Garcia was conducting a background check on Agent Arbakova. She stopped by a little after seven this morning and stumbled onto this interrogation site-”
“Interrogation site…” Quinn mused as they rounded the corner into the stark light of the open basement. It was interesting that Palmer had introduced Garcia as an agent, but her boss had called her “officer.”
