by Marc Cameron
“I could eat,” he said. “But lose the Agent stuff. Plain old Quinn is just fine-or Jericho.”
“Bueno.” She smiled broadly, showing a mouthful of gorgeous teeth, startlingly white in contrast to her coffee-and-cream complexion. “If you like Cuban, I know a great place in Silver Springs. Best moros y cristianos this side of Havana. It’s not too far from here.”
“I suppose I’m game.” Quinn shrugged, remembering what Kim had told him: We’re divorced. Start acting like it.
Garcia nodded at his BMW. “I assume that’s got a GPS.”
Quinn tapped his helmet with an open palm. “I’ll keep up.”
“Cubano’s. Tucked in just off Georgia Ave.” She gave him the address. “I’ll go ahead and get us a table.” Apparently not one to futz around once a decision was made, Garcia shut her door and tore down the circle drive, leaving a whirlwind of fall leaves in the wake of her tires.
Thibodaux sauntered over to Quinn like an uncle bearing advice. He rested a broad hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “You mind yourself now, bro,” he said as both men gazed down the road after the departing Veronica Garcia. “Take it from me-and I’m an expert on such things-that gal will suck a hickey on your soul before you can say batshit.”
Quinn raised a wary eye. He wanted to change the subject so he reminded the big Marine of the tight rein Mrs. Thibodaux had on his language. “We’re getting near the end of the month, Jacques-Camille only gives you five non-Bible curse words every thirty days. I’m no religious scholar, but I’m pretty sure batshit doesn’t make the cut for the Good Book.”
“You just watch yourself, l’ami.” Thibodaux threw a thick leg across his bike. He turned the key, paused a moment to let the electronics run through their cycle. “I have to go meet Cornmeal at that baby-birthin’ class, but you listen to me. I know a thing or two about bad women. I’m tellin’ you, that sexpot Cuban is one bad jolie fille.”
“Don’t be such a pessimist, Jacques,” Quinn said.
Helmet visor flipped skyward, Thibodaux looked Quinn square in the eye. “Oh, I’m being optimistic, brother. A bad woman can be a mighty good find.” He pressed the start button and the GS growled to life. The opposing cylinders ripped happily as he gunned the throttle with a toothy grin. “I’m just not sure you’re ready for such heady doin’s.”
Four blocks away, Nona Schmidt slouched behind the wheel of a faded maroon Nissan Sentra parked under a row of trees. She watched in disgust as a pompous-looking blond man in a herringbone jacket came down the white concrete side steps of the Norwegian Embassy to let his little fuzz-ball dog take a dump across the sidewalk, next to the street. Bastard. All that sovereign ground of Norway just inside the ivy-covered wall and he had to let his stupid dog tootle over to crap in America. Schmidt thought about getting out and hitting him in the head with the ball-peen hammer on the floorboard but decided against it, reminding herself that she had more important duties across the street. Her blue eyes homed in on the twin gates leading out of the Naval Observatory.
A shiny black Impala made the slow S turns around the concrete exit bollards, then stopped, waiting for traffic. The dark woman whom they’d seen earlier with Quinn was driving. To Nona’s horror, she came straight across Massachusetts Avenue.
The sight of the woman brought on a wave of instant panic. No one had expected they would come out this way. They’d gone into the Observatory grounds on the Georgetown side. That’s the way they were supposed to leave.
Nona picked up the radio from the seat between her legs. She wore extra-short cutoff jeans everyone called Daisy Dukes. Her pale thighs were bare-and now covered in gooseflesh that made the wispy blond hairs on her skin stand on end from worry. She turned the radio speaker-side up but kept it low in her lap and out of sight the way her boyfriend Scott had taught her. He was in the National Guard and knew everything about tactics. Her daddy liked him for that at least.
“I think they may be coming this way,” she hissed, trying to keep her lips as still as she could, looking like a bad ventriloquist. “The spic lady in the Impala just drove by me, going”-she consulted the map in the seat beside her-“north.”
“Sit tight and wait for the motorcycles,” her brother, Bobby, came back. He was set up with Scott in the parking lot of the Whole Foods Market on the opposite side of the circle, a half mile away. “If you see them, sing out and we’ll come runnin’. You stick close, but don’t let ’em see you. Remember what those bastards did to Uncle Walt.”
Nona nodded into the radio, then, remembering she had to speak out loud said: “okay… roger…” She was every inch the patriot but this tactical stuff gave her the heebie-jeebies.
Sitting off Embassy Row, where every other building belonged to some country besides America, filled her with righteous indignation. The Embassy of Finland was a half a block to her left. Azerbaijan was behind her. Nona didn’t know if Azerbaijan was the good guys or the bad guys, but it pissed her off that they had their own little piece of sovereign real estate smack in the middle of the U.S.A. Iraq, Iran, Belgium, and even the papist Vatican had little cancerous toeholds. It made her sick.
American to the bone, she even hated driving the Jap car, but Scott had reminded her of the need for operational security. They had to blend in driving around D.C. She thought it an awful thing how in the nation’s capital, you had to drive a foreign job not to stick out. Her brother’s 1981 Ford Bronco, designed and built in the good old U.S.A.-now that was a truck. She drummed both hands on the wheel, wishing she was in the Bronco-
The unmistakable roar of an approaching motorcycle made her wish she was back at the safety of their little compound in Martinsburg. An instant later, she watched a slender man in a black leather suit straddling a silver-gray BMW wind his way through the zigzag exit barricades from the Observatory grounds. The man wore a gunmetal helmet and rode the bike in the easy, self-assured manner that could only belong to Jericho Quinn.
Nona sat transfixed for a moment, eyes marveling at the fluid grace of the menacing bike as it leaned this way and that going around the concrete blocks. It reminded her of a dancing horse she’d seen once at a rodeo.
She’d seen a photograph of Quinn. The man’s gaunt looks and that dark, unshaven face made her go all melty inside. She’d read of IRA women running honey traps-luring young British soldiers into their homes for sex so they could be ambushed and have holes drilled into their knees by other faithful Irishmen. Nona had earned a slap from her daddy at suggesting she might try such a thing with Quinn.
And now he was riding his motorcycle directly toward her.
Her brother beat her to the radio.
“We got the big guy coming out of the gate now on our side. Looks like he’s alone.”
Nona chewed on her bottom lip, twisting and tugging at a curl of honey-colored hair. She knew she would have to follow until the others caught up.
“Qu… the other one just came out this way.” She cussed herself for almost using Quinn’s name over the radio. Scott had warned against that.
“Got it.” Bobby’s voice twanged with excitement.
“We’re on our way. Don’t let that son of a bitch outta your sight.”
Nona sank back in her seat trying her best to look invisible as the bike rumbled past her. When it was almost to the end of the next block, she made a quick, three-point turn like Scott had taught her and fell in behind. It was up to her, and though the thought made her shake so badly she could hardly keep a grip on the wheel, her face flushed with the pride of being a part of something so important. This time wouldn’t turn out like the screwup at the gas station. If they couldn’t capture Jericho Quinn, they would kill him.
Hunky or not, the country could use one less traitor.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Nancy Hughes couldn’t help thinking that the quicker she got Jolene married to Garrett Filson, the quicker the two lovebirds could get around to the business of giving her grandbabies. She often said she was born to be a grandmot
her. Her naturally red hair had gone snow white about the time she turned fifty. And she certainly preferred the honesty of children over the adults in Washington. Jolene had come along late in life as it was, when the Hugheses had been married almost ten years. Then she’d taken a sabbatical from college for a three-year stint in the Peace Corps. At twenty-seven, the girl had waited long enough-and so had Nancy.
Hughes sat in a wicker chair on the long front porch of the vice-presidential residence, sipping her sweet tea and looking over the park-like lawns of the Naval Observatory. The house was nice enough, but it was a bit of a step down from their home back in Dallas.
Nancy Hughes had made a solemn vow to herself that-except for the mandated security detail-Jolene’s wedding would not cost the American taxpayers a dime. Besides, she’d told her daughter, the taxpayer couldn’t afford the kind of wedding she wanted. That had to come from their considerable family war chest.
She leaned back and put her feet up on a wicker ottoman that matched her chair. This wedding had monopolized so much of her time for so long-and now it was almost on top of her. So, so much to get done, and there was so little time to do it. This wedding was a gift to her daughter-and herself. It was the wedding she’d never gotten.
Ginormous, Garrett called it…
The door opened behind her and she heard the heavy footfalls of her personal secretary, Gail Peterson. Nancy found it amazing that a woman barely five feet tall and the weight of a postage stamp could shake the entire house when she walked.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Gail said in her syrupy East Texas drawl. She waited to go further until given leave to do so.
Apart from her stomping around and overly timid nature, Gail was a fabulous secretary. Frumpy polyester suits and hair dyed a faded shade of blond, she’d worked for the family in one capacity or another for over thirty years.
“Have a seat, Gail,” Nancy said. “I need someone to talk to anyhow.”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” Gail said, a little catch in her throat.
It was then Nancy looked up to see her red eyes. She’d been crying. Nancy moved to the ottoman and patted the seat where she’d been sitting. “Please. I insist.”
Gail complied. “I just talked to her earlier this week…” She broke into a series of ragged sobs, drawing a crumpled tissue from the cuff of her blouse to dab her eyes. “The poor thing’s background clearance just came through and I was just fixin’ to call her in when I heard…”
More sobs.
Nancy bit her tongue. She patted Gail’s knee. “Heard what? Whose background?”
“I’m so sorry.” Gail dabbed at her nose with the tissue. “I saw those agents here and I thought they told you. I thought you knew already…”
Nancy closed her eyes, praying for patience. “Told me what, dear?”
“The assistant… we hired to help with the last… minute… wedding stuff…” Gail began to weep as if a dam had broken inside her. Her words were punctuated by tremulous gasps for air. “Grace Smallwood… got stung by a bee… and now she’s dead…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Quinn was all too familiar with the road between the Naval Observatory and Silver Springs. The Army’s Military Amputee Training Center was located off the same road at Walter Reed Hospital. He’d visited far too many of his friends there during their rehab. Riding down the quiet, park-like streets, he could smell the odors of antiseptic and adhesive tape common to amputee wards.
The night before his first deployment, Kim had rolled over in their bed to face him, tears streaking her face. They’d had dinner with a classmate from the Air Force Special Operations Indoc class. The poor guy had just come back from Iraq with a stump instead of a left hand. In hindsight, the dinner had probably been a mistake, but what do you say? Hey, bud, we can’t go out to eat with you because I’m about to deploy and your hook would scare the crap out of my wife…
Nobody deserved that.
The Bluetooth inside his helmet gave a soft chirp, barely audible over the wind whirring through his half-open face shield. He tapped the side of his helmet.
“Quinn.”
“Daddy…” It was Mattie. Her voice was drawn, tired like a frayed cord.
Quinn suddenly felt dizzy. He let off the throttle and coasted into a parking area along Rock Creek littered with fall leaves.
Two blocks behind Quinn, Nona Schmidt’s chest tightened. She tapped the brakes on the maroon Nissan. “He’s stopping!” she barked into the radio, forgetting to keep it in her lap and out of sight. “I’m almost on top of him. What should I do?”
“Just drive on by and find a place up the road to stop,” her brother said. “Play it cool and pull over at the next parking area. We’re less than three miles back.”
Nona found it impossible to keep her eyes off Quinn as she sped by, faster than she probably should have.
“He’s all by himself at the turnout,” she spoke into the radio.
“Good,” Bobby came back. Nona could hear the engine of their van roaring in the background. “We’ll take him where he sits.”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay, sweetie?” Quinn watched a maroon Sentra drive by with a wild-eyed blonde behind the wheel.
“We’re fine, Daddy. Mama says to tell you hello.”
Quinn closed his eyes and sighed. “I sorta thought she was mad at me.”
“She is.” Mattie giggled. “Way, way mad. But I’m not, so she said I could call you.” Her voice grew softer. “She says you’re not coming home for a while.”
Quinn had taken fists to the nose that hurt less. For a moment, his throat was too tight to speak. He slumped forward, resting on the handlebars. “Yeah,” he said. “I have some important things to take care of at work…”
“Important like those men who shot Miss Suzette?”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Kind of like that.” She was awfully smart for a six-year-old.
“Okaaaay,” she said, putting on her mosquito-whine. “As long as it’s that kind of important.”
“Can I talk to Mom?”
“She says she’s busy.”
“What’s she doing?”
Mattie giggled again. “She’s busy staring at me.”
“Okay,” Quinn said. “Tell her hi for me.”
“Miss you, Daddy. You’re my besty…”
Quinn ended the call and sat, thinking. In the past when Mattie called, he’d suspected Kim may have put her up to it. Not this time. Watching your daughter snatched off the stage was bad enough. And then having your ex-husband literally butcher someone in your lap, it was enough to make anyone snap.
He’d seen the look in her eyes-a resolve stronger than he’d ever seen before. Maybe their marriage really was over…
Quinn started the bike and pulled back onto the empty road. He tried to press the thoughts of such finality from his mind, thinking instead of Veronica Garcia as he leaned the growling GS into a series of smooth S turns along Rock Creek Park.
Though new to the anti-terrorism business, the Cuban woman understood very well what he was doing. The woman had a look deep in the crystalline amber of her eyes that at once startled and intrigued him. He’d caught a glimpse of it the moment they’d first met at Arbakova’s home, and then saw again during the interview with Jimmy Doyle.
Outwardly, she was cordial enough, knew the right things to say and the right moments to say them. She was intelligent enough to keep up her end of the social contract when it came to niceties-but deep down, in a part of her brain most people don’t like to acknowledge, there was a darkness-a darkness that made her an extremely dangerous human being.
Quinn knew that darkness all too well. He saw it every day when he looked in the mirror.
“He’s moving again,” Nona Schmidt whispered, half relieved that they weren’t taking him on the road.
“Don’t lose him,” Bobby said, agitation buzzing in his voice. “We’re nearly there. We’ll get him when he stops again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Q uinn had never eaten at Cubano’s, but the heads-up display on the GPS inside his helmet visor brought him in like a guided missile. His stomach growled louder than his motorcycle by the time he made the turn off Georgia Avenue. It was a popular place and he had to park the bike halfway down the street in front of another restaurant. He unzipped the Transit jacket and pulled the tail of his black polo shirt over the Kimber ten-millimeter. Resting in the Galco inside-the-pants holster, the pistol would be invisible to all but the most experienced observer. Temperature-regulated or not, eating supper wearing a leather jacket on the warm fall evening was bound to draw more attention than he wanted. As was his habit, he let his elbow graze the butt of his pistol, reassuring himself. It calmed him to know the gun was there.
Garcia had found a table outside on the raised patio out front, separated from the street by a short rock wall and metal fence. She waved him over, virtually bouncing with excitement at showing off her favorite restaurant.
Quinn caught the eye of a waiter with a thin black mustache and a loose white guayabera shirt as he trotted up the steps. “I’m with the lady over there,” he said, pointing at Garcia with his raised motorcycle helmet.
Pungent smells of garlic and peppers mixed with grilling chicken. The sweet odor of plantain frying in butter enveloped him like the warm, fleshy hug of a buxom aunt.
“Of course, senor,” the waiter said, showing him to the table.
Quinn ordered a Diet Coke and pulled out a chair across from Garcia. To her credit, she’d chosen a table against the outside wall-a wall to protect his back. Kim had always known to give him the “gunfighter seat” when they went out to dinner. She made fun of him, but she did it.
The evening was warm and Garcia’s tan suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair beside her. Black hair hung thick and loose around the shoulders of a sleeveless blouse of iridescent blue. Cloth and curls shone like a butterfly wing in the low rays of an evening sun. She’d taken the time to freshen up with a new coat of plum lipstick. The color was perfectly suited to her caffe latte complexion-a fact not lost on Quinn.
