by Marc Cameron
“There appears to be a side entrance,” Miyagi said. “I suggest Jacques and I approach from there, while you make your more direct approach.”
“Where do I go?” Pete Quinn asked.
“You’re with me, Dad,” Jericho said. “Soledad, thank you.”
“I will be here when you come out,” she said.
A sign above the entrance in bold red and black lettering said FERNANDO RICHTER SHIPPING CO.
“We’re at the right place,” Jericho said under his breath. “Makes things easier.”
“Okay, son,” Pete Quinn said. “This is new to me. When you say knock on the front door, you mean—”
Jericho flung open the metal door and shot the two men with guns on the inside, twice each, center mass.
“Knock, knock,” he said. “Just like that.”
Pete Quinn raised his eyebrows and gave his son a nod. “That’s kinda what I envisioned.” He scooped up one of the dead men’s SMGs.
“You know how to use that?” Jericho asked.
“I do,” the elder Quinn said.
Three more of Richter’s thugs came down a long hallway, firing as they approached. Quinn took out the leader with two shots from the Beretta and chased another back around the corner, winging him, but failing to deliver a killing shot.
Pete sent half the thirty-round magazine from his SMG downrange with one pull of the trigger. Fortunately, some of the rounds dropped one of Richter’s men.
“Take it easy with that, Dad,” Jericho said. “Short bursts.”
The second shooter poked his head out again down the hall. Pete dropped him, but spent the last fifteen rounds of his magazine doing it.
“Short bursts,” he said. “Got it.”
Bullets snapped off the wall behind them sending both men jumping for cover. Quinn brought up the Beretta in time to see Violeta slump forward, Miyagi’s blade in and then out of her dark brown throat.
“Goats,” Miyagi said, slipping back into the shadows.
“Why does she say that?” Pete asked.
“Long story,” Jericho said.
Thibodaux’s hushed voice came from the same alcove where Miyagi had disappeared. “It’s me, Chair Force. Don’t shoot.”
“We’re good,” Quinn said.
“Richter’s through there,” the Cajun said. He held up three fingers, his good eye and the Taurus trained down the hall. “Three more goats, but Emiko and I got ’em. You take care of Richter.”
Jericho was already moving toward the office. Quinn flung open the door and handed it to his dad, cutting the pie until the man inside came into view. As he suspected, one more of Richter’s men stood inside guarding the boss. This one was a bald thug wearing a black muscle-mapping shirt. Quinn got off the last round from his Beretta, rushing the shot and catching the big man in the shoulder, missing his vitals. Surprised at being hit, the man lowered his SMG and took a step back. Richter stood in the middle of the office, both hands flat on top of a wooden desk as he rose from his chair.
Pete sprang past Jericho, throwing himself at the bald thug, plowing into him and pummeling him with his fists. Jericho had seen the aftermath of a few of his dad’s fights. The bald guy didn’t stand a chance.
On his feet now, Richter reached for a metal box. His pistol empty, Quinn drew the long gaucho blade from the sheath on his belt and pegged the man’s hand to the top of the wooden desk, the razor-sharp edge facing outward.
Richter squealed in pain, the metal from his many rings clicking against the wooden desktop. He grabbed the wrist of his injured hand and stared down at the blade.
Quinn heard a roar behind him and turned to see his father punch Richter square on the chin. The force of his blow sent the man flying backward, slicing his hand down the centerline and leaving the blade behind, still impaled in the wood.
“Where’s my son?” Pete Quinn said, the bald man’s SMG in his hand now as he loomed over the screaming drug lord. Richter pointed upward, at the ceiling.
“Behind you, Quinn-san,” Miyagi said. She surveyed the wounded Richter and the unconscious bald man. “I’ll take care of them,” she said.
“Jacques?” Jericho asked.
“Out back,” Miyagi said. “Tending to two other goats.”
Jericho took the pistol from the box on Richter’s desk, press-checked it to make sure it was loaded, and then motioned upstairs with the muzzle.
“Let’s go get Bo.”
They cleared the stairs to the second floor in four steps, taking up positions on either side of the door.
“They’ve heard us coming,” the elder Quinn said.
Jericho nodded, the pistol at high ready. “No doubt.”
A scream came from inside the room that made Quinn’s bones ache. There was no doubt it was Bo.
Jericho looked at his father.
“You ready?”
Pete Quinn answered by putting his foot to the door, hooking around the threshold with the short barreled SMG as if he’d grown up kicking doors. Jericho followed him in, bringing the interior of the room into view over the top of his front sight. A gap-toothed thug stood to the right of three badly beaten prisoners—two women and one man—a pistol in his hand. Quinn dropped him with two shots, wheeling immediately to the left. Bo lay on the floor, chained to a metal ring by one hand, while a small man, not much larger than a boy, stood over him with what looked like a cattle prod.
Pete Quinn emptied the magazine of his SMG into The Flea’s chest, causing him to jump and twitch in place, dancing like a marionette.
“Short bursts,” Pete Quinn said, dropping the empty gun and running to his boy.
Bo raised his head, staring dumbfounded.
“Dad?”
Pete fell beside his son, cradling his head in his lap.
Jericho watched the door until Thibodaux appeared there a few moments later. “We’re clear,” the Cajun said.
“This one has the keys,” a young man who had to be Steven Grey said, pointing toward the dead gap-toothed thug.
The blond woman beside him closed her eyes, fighting back tears. The taller one with auburn hair didn’t even fight it.
Quinn unchained Steven, then gave him the key so he could release the rest while he went to check on Bo.
“What the hell, Dad?” Bo said, wincing as he sat up on one elbow. His right front tooth was nothing but a jagged shard and had to be terribly painful.
“How bad are you hurt?” Pete Quinn asked.
“Honestly, it would probably take me less time to tell you what’s not hurt.”
Pete closed his eyes and shook his head. “I have to call your mother and tell her you’re all right.”
“I say again, Dad. What the hell?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Bo groaned. “What are you doing here?”
“You sent an SOS. What did you expect me to do?”
Bo shook his head, looking incredulous. “I don’t know. Call Jericho . . .”
“Well.” Jericho sighed. “I for one am glad he came along, baby brother. Turns out our old man’s pretty good at taking care of meatheads.”
Epilogue
Leaving Paraguay without a visa and entry stamp after a prolonged gun battle would have been much more difficult had it not been for Riley Grey’s anonymous donation of ten brand-new Chevrolet Suburbans. Had immigration officials known that the vehicles were from Grey, they might have held out for twenty.
Soledad said goodbye at the base of the aircraft, vowing to visit the US again one day soon to see her old friend Veronica. She kissed everyone including Miyagi goodbye, catching the Japanese woman off guard.
On board, Doctor Patrick started Bo on fluids and he was asleep by the time the pilots began their takeoff roll. Steven and Eva held hands across the aisle. Alma Cortez sat facing Bo, watching Dr. Patrick take care of him. She’d asked permission to accompany him back to the States, to make sure he was settled.
“He saved our lives on this trip,” she
said. “Many times when we did not even know he was doing it.”
Dr. Patrick brought a cellphone back from the galley and handed it to Eva Turcott. Eva punched in a number, then put the call on speaker so Steven could hear.
“. . . United States Drug Enforcement Administration,” the female voice said. “Office of the Director.” A moment later a male voice came on the line. “Director Turcott.”
Eva grinned. “Daddy?”
“Eva?”
“I know it’s been a long time, Dad.” She sniffed. “But I have someone here who wants to talk to you . . .”
* * *
Pete Quinn leaned back in his seat
“We best not tell your mother about what went on here,” he said.
“No doubt,” Jericho chuckled. “You got some moves, old man.”
“An aching back and two delinquent sons is what I got,” Pete said. He took a deep breath and looked at Jericho with a jaundiced eye.
“Tell me again what it is you do for a living.”
Keep reading for a special preview!
NATIONAL SECURITY
A Jericho Quinn Thriller
by
Marc Cameron
Warning: The next terrorist attack on American soil is coming . . . sooner than you think.
They can strike anytime, anywhere. A public landmark. A suburban shopping mall. And now, the human body itself. Three Middle Eastern terrorists have been injected with a biological weapon, human time bombs unleashed on American soil. They are prepared to die. To spread their disease. To annihilate millions. If America hopes to fight this enemy from within, we need a new kind of weapon. Meet Special Agent Jericho Quinn. Air Force veteran. Champion boxer. Trained assassin. Hand-picked for a new global task force that, officially, does not exist, Quinn answers only to the Director of National Intelligence and the President himself.
Under the radar. Brutal. Without limits.
America’s answer to terrorism.
On sale now.
Chapter 1
2 September, 2100 hours
Fallujah, Iraq
Jericho Quinn gunned the throttle, willing more power from the screaming motorcycle.
“Which one is Ghazan?” He threw the words over his shoulder, into the wind as he rode.
Blowing sand scoured his chapped face. He peered through the dusk, squinting, wishing he had a pair of goggles. Something pinched his nose in the gathering darkness—the telltale odor of wet wool seasoned with the sulfur that oozed up from the desert floor.
The smell of a sheep roasting in the flames of hell.
The scent of Iraq.
“There!” Quinn felt his passenger shudder behind him, his words ripped away by the wind.
“Which one?” Quinn scanned a knot of a half dozen FAMs—fighting-age men—loitering at the corner beneath the crumbling walls of a bombed mosque. In the three days following the horrific bombing of a Colorado shopping mall, any semblance of trust between cultures had evaporated from the streets of Iraq. Natives flinched and dropped their eyes when American patrols rolled past. Few in number from cyclical troop drawdown, U.S. forces stood on the edge of a full-blown assault at every encounter. Soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen boiled with righteous anger that over three thousand Americans—most of them women and children—had lost their lives in the blasts.
The worst act of terrorism on American soil since 9/11, the media had dubbed it the Fifth Sunday Bombing—but it was impossible to put a title on something so horrible. Most just spoke in whispered reverence about Colorado. Hunting down those responsible was priority one for men like Jericho Quinn.
Ghazan al Ghazi was the HVT—the high-value target—of the moment. Quinn felt a familiar sensation in the back of his neck—the tingle that told him violence was close at hand—and wondered if he was enjoying this too much. He had no idea what he’d do if peace suddenly broke out in the world. Not much chance of that.
“Which one?” he asked again, leaning back to be certain Sadiq heard him.
“The large one . . . he wears aviator sunglasses. He is tall . . . there on the end with the neck of a bull.” Sadiq groaned, hiding his head against Quinn’s back as he spoke. “A blue shirt . . . open down the front. Please . . . you should drive on. . . .”
In the street, horns honked and beeped, churning up whirling clouds of yellow dust. Thick, angry voices rose into the dusk on ribbons of heat as the snarl of evening traffic came to a standstill. Stopped almost directly in front of their target, Sadiq began to twitch, so much so Quinn was sure it looked as though he was having some kind of fit.
“Hold on,” Quinn yelled in colloquial Arabic as he tried to go around the jam. He nearly spilled avoiding the twisted hulk of a bombed Nissan pickup planted squarely in the road. Giving the bike enough throttle to keep it upright, he ducked down a side street away from the din of cars and military and NGO convoys. Slowing, he made a left turn on a quieter side street.
The motorcycle was a Kaweseki, a Chinese knockoff. Little more than a scooter, it had the look of a Japanese sport bike and the suspension of a skateboard. It was sure to rust or fall to pieces just when he needed it most, but it was what the locals rode. It was all they could afford. As an agent with Air Force Office of Special Investigations or OSI, Quinn had an impressive array of weapons and technology at his disposal. But for the moment he rode a piece-of-junk motorcycle and wore an ankle-length cotton dishdasha, called a man dress by American soldiers. His life, and more important, his mission, depended on the ability to blend in with the locals.
He leaned over the handlebars, twisting the last ounce of horsepower from the protesting Chinese motor. The back tire shimmied, throwing up a shower of gravel as he ducked behind an abandoned café. Behind him, Sadiq clawed at his waist in an effort to hang on.
Despite the fact that he was surrounded by men who would be happy to saw off his head with a dull pocketknife if they discovered who he was, Quinn found the orange-blue dusk oddly soothing. Above the rubble of bombed buildings and rusted vehicle hulks, a neat row of Medjool date palms lined the road, their straight trunks silhouetted against the evening sky. They were reminders of another Iraq, untouched by decades of war.
“Get off at the next corner.” Quinn leaned back as he shouted to the lanky Sunni. The boy spoke passable English, but Quinn kept their conversations in Arabic to pacify any listening ears. “I must hurry and get back to Ghazan before he slips away.”
“You will please pay me—before you go.” The sallow university student’s voice wobbled with a mixture of terror and the disorienting effects of the bumpy ride.
“Get off,” Quinn snapped. “I don’t have time to stop. I’ll pay you later tonight.” Sadiq was a good informant, but he liked to make things more difficult than they needed to be.
“I insist you pay me now.”
Jericho let off the throttle, then gunned it suddenly to spite his rider.
“Must you Americans drive so fast?” Sadiq’s voice was a curdled scream against the wind. “Ghazan is a dangerous man. He may kill you when you speak to him. Where would that leave me?”
One of the countless emaciated stray dogs that roamed the country darted in front of them, eyeing the men like a piece of meat. Quinn horsed the little bike to the right, fearing the flimsy handlebars might snap off in his hands. He took a quick moment to wish for his own motorcycle, a massive BMW 1200 GS Adventure. It was impossible to find a good motorcycle in the desert—at least one that allowed him to look like an Iraqi.
Sadiq yanked to the left to keep his seat, spewing an Arabic oath about Jericho’s family history. Quinn popped the clutch, downshifting to coax just enough power to avoid a spill. The transmission squealed as if it was about to burst into flames.
They shuddered to a stop. Quinn shot a wary glance over his shoulder and ordered Sadiq off the bike in a voice that left no room for argument. He gunned the motor again. Unencumbered by a passenger, the little bike shot forward, back toward the men who would be all t
oo happy to put a bullet in Quinn’s head—or worse. Leaning forward, with the wind in his face, he considered his next move. His Arabic was flawless. Dark skin and a heavy beard helped him blend in with the population.
Very soon, none of that would matter. If all went according to plan, the Iraqi thug in the aviator sunglasses would find out more than he ever wanted to know about Jericho Quinn.
* * *
Ghazan split away from the others a half hour later, walking lazily in front of closed shops, their metal doors rolled to the ground and padlocked to discourage thieves. Quinn followed him a short way on the bike. He had smashed out the headlamp with a shard of brick from the side of the road. A broken headlight in a war-torn country wouldn’t cause a second look and made him more difficult to spot cruising down dark side alleys.
Quinn watched from the shadows as the bull-necked man disappeared into a shabby, three-story concrete apartment building surrounded by heaps of garbage and rubble. He waited until a light on the second-level window flicked on, then took note of its position before stashing the Kaweseki across the street, behind a trash pile almost as high as his head. For a short moment, he considered calling in backup, but in the end settled back on what he’d known from the beginning—some jobs were better done without witnesses. It protected the innocent from having to report his behavior.
Men like Ghazan didn’t worry much about heavy locks on their doors, relying instead on fearsome reputations to keep them safe. It would have been easy to assume the brute was alone, since the light had been off until he arrived. But Quinn knew relying on the probable had gotten a lot of men killed.
So, he would wait alone—and listen.
He crouched in the stifling heat of the concrete stairwell staring at the peeling white paint of Ghazan’s door for what seemed like an eternity. The odor of urine and rotting lemons hung in the stuffy alcove. Feral dogs barked from distant shadows. A tiny hedgehog, no larger than an orange, shuffled by in the darkness. The wail of an ambulance siren cut the night. Here and there, the flat crack of an M4 rifle peppered the air. Quinn’s knees began to ache. It was during just such moments, with sweat soaking the back of his dishdasha, staining the concrete wall behind him, that he took the time to wonder what he was doing. He had a little girl—a five-year-old—whom he hadn’t seen for months. She was with his now ex-wife, back in the cool mountains of Alaska, so far from the grit and gore of this desert and the never-ending war. Missing her, he consoled himself with a quote from Thomas Paine. It was a favorite of his father’s. “If there must be trouble, let it be in my day, that my child may have peace.”