State of Emergency

by Marc Cameron

  “Did they take any crime scene photos?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, they did,” Palmer said. I can send them to your phone if you can get a signal.”

  Quinn checked with Major Moore and found that though there was no cellular signal, the plane had its own version of satellite Wi-Fi to aid in communications when loitering for hours at a time over targets.

  By the time he’d switched the radio dial back to Palmer, the supersonic bomber had already transited Guatemala and sped over the Gulf of Mexico.

  “Go ahead and send ’em,” he said. “We have a signal.”

  “Already done,” Palmer said. “Listen, while you’re waiting—Thibodaux led the raid on a farmhouse outside Moscow, Idaho. The professor’s wife and baby are safe.”

  “Are the kidnappers giving you anything useful?” Quinn asked, watching his phone for the incoming photos.

  “Only a woman survived,” Palmer said. “And she’s giving us zero. Looks like they killed one of their own and dumped him in a hole they dug for Marie Pollard and her kid. Garcia took care of the only other guy. According to Jacques, it’s lucky they got there when they did. Sounds like Lourdes Lopez was Zamora’s main squeeze and she had just given up hope on him coming back alive.”

  “And Boaz?” Aleksandra asked.

  A twinge of guilt cut Quinn’s heart at the thought of dragging his baby brother into all this.

  “He’s still in intensive care,” Palmer said. “President Clark assigned his personal physician to see to him. He’s not out of the woods, but things look positive. Your mom is already down from Alaska sitting with him night and day.”

  Quinn nodded, smiling to himself. That figured. A woman who’d raised two boys like Jericho and Boaz Quinn had to be tough as a boot, but no matter what they did for a living, they were still her babies.

  His phone lit up with an incoming message.

  The crime scene photos were small but clear until he tried to zoom in. Quinn raised his visor to get a better look, then flipped the switch so he could talk to the cockpit.

  “Major,” he said. “You there?”

  Moore came back at once, voice crackling over the intercom. “Sure hope so.”

  “I need to ask a personal question. . . .”

  “Relief tube is at your feet,” the pilot answered. “Looks like a little horn.”

  “I’m fine that way,” Quinn said. “I’m wondering though, an old codger like you is probably wearing cheaters to read the fine print, right?”

  “Don’t you have anything better to do than pick on your elders?”

  “Seriously, Brett,” Quinn said. “I need something to magnify a photo.”

  “Well, shit,” Moore said. “Why didn’t you tell me my failing eyesight was a matter of national security? Heads up and I’ll toss them back.”

  A moment later a pair of cheap drugstore reading glasses sailed through the small hatch from the cockpit. Quinn played them across the face of his phone like a magnifying glass. What he saw made him catch his breath.

  He looked again to make certain, then passed the phone and glasses to Kanatova.

  “Look at Nazif’s left wrist,” he said, tapping the face of the phone with his index finger.

  “I don’t . . .” Her voice trailed. “I see it!” she exclaimed. “He has a tan line indicating a missing watch, but there are still two gold rings on his hand.”

  “I’m betting he still had money in his pocket,” Quinn said.

  “I’m looking at the police report now,” Palmer said, still on the line. “You’re right. Bexar County said this wasn’t a robbery—more like an assassination. Initial shots to the chest, then a coup de grâce in the back of the head.”

  “And who do we know who assassinates people and takes something from them as a memento of the act?”

  “Julian Monagas,” Aleksandra whispered. “And if he went after the bomb . . .”

  “Then Zamora is still alive.” Quinn finished her thought.

  “But why would Zamora kill the guy he sold the bomb to?” Palmer mused.

  Quinn continued to scroll through the photos. “There are no photos of Matthew Pollard here. His body wasn’t found?”

  “Nope,” Palmer said. “He’s MIA along with the bomb.”

  “Maybe Zamora wanted a different target than Nazif did,” Quinn mused. “Anything else going on in Texas in the next couple of days?”

  He heard the click of computer keys as Palmer searched the Internet.

  “Son of a bitch,” the national security officer gasped. “The governor of Texas will attend an interfaith youth choir concert in the Frank Erwin Center at the University of Texas. Press release says the event will consist of children representing all faiths from around the world. It will be televised live before a sold-out crowd of over sixteen thousand. . . .”

  “And Zamora was kicked out of the University of Texas on suspicion of rape,” Quinn said. “The events drove a real wedge between him and his father. From what I’ve seen of Valentine, he’s the type to carry a grudge.”

  “Think you can get the Bureau to send a couple of guys to talk to the people putting on this show? Maybe have them postpone it?”

  “Everyone is so invested in the target being Houston, it will take me hours to get ahead of the investigative inertia. It’s too late for that anyway,” Palmer said. “Curtain goes up in less than three hours.”

  “Hang on, sir.” Quinn flipped the radio and spoke briefly to Moore before switching back to Palmer. “I’m just informed we can be there in two.”

  CHAPTER 72

  Austin

  Valentine Zamora limped slightly from the bullet wound to his thigh. Nothing vital had been hit and some antibiotic under a few wraps of tape had made him as good as new. The wound had given him the perfect opportunity to slip away—and he would have stayed away but for the fickle Yazid Nazif. If he’d only kept with their original plan, he and his brother would still be alive to carry on with their jihad. But they hadn’t, so there they were, dead on the grimy asphalt, along with their dreams.

  Pastor Mike Olson stood grinning like a fool at the delivery entrance on the south end of the huge, drum-shaped building. He vouched for them with the overweight security guard at the loading dock.

  “You have already given us so much, Mr. Valentine,” the pastor said, shaking his head in disbelief. “May I ask what is in the box? It looks heavy.”

  Monagas wheeled the green footlocker containing Baba Yaga up the ramp, a forced smile on his crooked lips. Pollard slumped along behind, looking as if he’d been whipped.

  “Merely some little gifts for the children,” Zamora said, flipping his hand.

  “That is a large case,” Olson said. “But there are over three hundred in the chorus. Not to seem ungrateful, but I’d hate for any child to be left out.”

  “Not to worry, my friend.” Zamora put up his hand. “College savings bonds take up very little space. There will be plenty for everyone.”

  “I need to check it.” The security man walked toward them. Monagas’s hand drifted toward the pistol under the tail of his sport coat. Zamora gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

  “And you, Officer ... ?” Zamora looked at him sweetly.

  “Potts,” the security guard said.

  “How about you, Officer Potts? Do you have children?”

  The man shook his head. “I got a nephew.”

  “Is he in the choir?”

  “No.”

  “No matter.” Zamora gave a flip of his hand. “I’m sure a thousand-dollar savings bond would come in handy. Stop by and pick one up for him after the performance.”

  The corners of the man’s mouth perked with a hint of guile. “Well, okay,” he said. “I’ll see you after the show.” He walked away whistling to himself, no doubt already making plans on how to spend the new windfall.

  “My goodness,” Pastor Olson sighed after Potts had gone. “I don’t understand you, Mr. Valentine. What have we all done to
deserve this kindness?”

  Zamora pointed to a series of thick concrete columns under the auditorium, motioning for Monagas to put the case there. He shot a glance at Pollard, who stared back with glassy eyes. “In my experience, Pastor”—Zamora clasped his hands together and held them to his lips—“at some point, we all get exactly what we deserve.”

  CHAPTER 73

  6:15 PM

  Austin-Bergstrom International Airport’s tower gave Major Moore clearance for an unscheduled landing after received a direct order from FAA brass. A maroon Ford Crown Victoria bristling with antennas waited on the tarmac, just off the taxiway.

  Quinn thanked the pilots for the ride and climbed out of the bomber with Aleksandra to a Texas winter evening. The western horizon still glowed with a faint orange line and a crisp twilight had settled in.

  A tall man in a tan golf jacket and a gray felt Stetson stood beside the sedan. Razor-sharp creases ran up the front of heavily starched blue jeans.

  “Detective Lonnie Fulton, Austin PD.” He shook Quinn’s, then Kanatova’s hand in turn. “I’m assigned to the regional intelligence unit. We just got the call an hour ago that you were coming in.” Fulton spoke with a thick Texas accent, friendly and earnest.

  “How far to the Erwin Center?” Quinn asked.

  “Eight or ten miles,” Fulton said. “You wanta tell me what’s going on?”

  Quinn nodded toward the sedan. “You drive. I’ll explain on the way.”

  Detective Fulton was wide-eyed and quiet by the time he turned off I-35 frontage road and into the University of Texas campus. On Quinn’s direction, he drove past the event center, watching and getting a lay of the land. Crowds of people milled around the entrances, chatting like good Southern folk as they worked their way in. The governor’s motorcade had been delayed with a call from Palmer but had not been given a reason why.

  “He’s in there,” Aleksandra said from the backseat. “I can feel it.”

  Quinn wondered if she meant Zamora or Monagas.

  “Let’s park in there.” He pointed toward a secluded lot across Red River Street, behind the nursing school. He looked at his watch—6:45.

  A white Crown Vic pulled in next to them, followed by two marked sedans and two more motor officers on BMW RTs. A muscular man in a tight black T-shirt and 511 Tactical khaki slacks got out of the white unmarked and stood beside the door, arms crossed and sneering at the new arrivals. Quinn had seen the type before and was amazed the man wasn’t already pissing at each corner of his vehicle to mark the territory.

  Detective Fulton leaned in as they approached from their parking spot fifty feet away. Every other officer present had gathered around the frowning man as if the white sedan was a mother ship.

  “That’s Tony Hawker, lieutenant over SWAT. He’s sort of an asshole, but his heart’s in the right place.”

  “We’ll see,” Quinn said. He looked at Fulton’s shirt pocket. “Is that a Sharpie?”

  “Yep. I was marking case files when your boss called.” The detective took out the permanent marker and handed it to Quinn.

  “Listen, Detective,” Quinn said when they were twenty feet out. “Good or bad, this is going to go fast.” He took out his phone and punched Palmer’s number as he walked.

  He looked at his watch again—6:47, and wondered if he’d feel the wind from the blast before it turned him to ash.

  Palmer answered immediately. “Are you in place?”

  “I have someone I need you to convince,” Quinn said, handing the phone to Lieutenant Hawker. The man took it and stepped away, clenching his square jaw as he listened. Palmer wasn’t above putting the president on the line.

  “Okay, gentlemen.” Quinn took charge immediately, gesturing with an open hand toward the Erwin Center. “Who’s ever been below decks in there?”

  A blond motor officer who reminded Quinn of a short-haired Bo raised his hand, looking sheepishly at his cohorts. “I’ve answered a couple of prowler calls,” he said.

  Quinn handed him the permanent marker and nodded at the trunk of Hawker’s white sedan. “I need you to draw me a diagram.”

  The motor officer looked from the permanent marker to the lieutenant, then back again. His face went as pale as the clean white trunk. “I don’t know. . . .”

  Quinn pointed again to the car. “I need you to show me where you’d put a nuclear bomb if you were a terrorist.” He looked at his watch again—6:48. “And I need you to do it right now.”

  “A nuclear bomb?” The motor officer bent over the trunk and began to draw.

  “Listen up,” Hawker said, handing the phone to Quinn. “As far as I know, this guy’s full of shit and his friend called me pretending to be the president.” He looked at Quinn, jaw muscles tensing; veins—which made inviting targets—pulsed on the side of his beefy neck.

  “I thought you might say that.” Quinn shrugged. “Your phone will ring again in a second or two.”

  Hawker’s mouth fell open when he saw the black lines on the trunk of his otherwise spotless sedan. “What the hell, Reinhart?”

  “He said there is a bomb, LT.”

  “Give me that!” He snatched the marker and threw it against the curb, turning to point his finger at Quinn. “I don’t know who you think you are—”

  “If you touch him I will cut off your balls,” Aleksandra hissed, her voice thickly Russian.

  Quinn shrugged again praying the phone would ring soon. “Frankly, I’m surprised she hasn’t already clawed your eyes out.”

  “I’m hauling you both to jail,” Hawker said. “We can sort this out there.” He reached to handcuff Quinn, but his phone rang. “Watch him,” he snapped at Fulton, taking the call.

  “Yessir,” Hawker said into the phone, his entire body wilting. “No, I do not, sir. . . . Absolutely. . . . Mine? Right away, sir. . . . I will—” He hung up.

  Fuming, Hawker pulled the Sig Sauer .45 from his holster and passed it to Quinn. “Reinhart, the chief says to give the Russian your sidearm.”

  Quinn thanked him and tucked the weapon in his belt. Identical to OSI’s issue sidearm but for the caliber, the Sig felt at home in his hand.

  “Now,” he said. “I need you to pull everyone back as far as you can get.”

  “How far is that exactly, smartass?” Hawker folded his arms again.

  “Start driving now and keep going until you run out of gas,” Quinn said. “If he’s in there, this guy is apt to arm the bomb any second so he’ll have time to get away.”

  “He does not know it,” Aleksandra chimed in. “But when this device is armed, it will go boom immediately.” She clapped her hands for effect, causing the young motor officer to jump. She leaned in to Hawker, blowing him a little kiss. “Too bad your chief called. You were about to touch my friend and I would have enjoyed keeping my word.”

  Quinn looked at his watch for the last time.

  It was 6:51.

  Quinn used his OSI credentials to get past a pudgy security guard named Potts at the loading dock.

  “Dammit! I knew it was too good to be true,” the guard said when Quinn described Zamora and Monagas. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “They put some sort of box in the boiler room. It’s locked though so you can’t get in.”

  “How’d they get in?” Quinn said, eyeing the fat ring of keys hiding under the guy’s muffin top.

  “Well, shit, I’m sorry,” Potts said, embarrassed. “I can let you in.”

  “Just give me the key,” Quinn said. “Then you get out of here. He’s liable to shoot it out with us.” There was no way Quinn was going to tell this man about a bomb. He’d run upstairs and start a stampede.

  Twenty seconds later Quinn and Aleksandra stood on either side of the metal door of the hall leading to the boiler room. The three hundred kids and at least fifteen thousand guests sat in the stadium only a few yards above them. The sound of thunderous applause echoed through the ventilation system.

  “We need to stay quieter than the boilers,�
� he whispered, pulling Severance’s curved blade from the scabbard under his jacket. “There won’t be a second chance.” He left the pistol in his waistband. Aleksandra covered the door with her sidearm. She took a deep breath and nodded when she was ready.

  Quinn used the tip of his blade to give the door a metallic clank, like someone knocking softly. The hollow sound of footsteps answered the knock almost immediately. A short moment later, the door cracked a hair, paused briefly as if the person on the other side was listening, then began to yawn open.

  Aleksandra gasped when a hand holding a black pistol appeared in the darkness. The fat third finger wrapped around the grip of the gun bore Mikhail Polzin’s double eagle ring.

  Quinn brought Severance down in a lighting fast arc, separating the gun and gun hand from its owner. Monagas staggered forward, arm reaching as if his hand was still attached. Quinn grabbed the startled thug by his collar and yanked him out, throwing him to the floor.

  “The devil take you!” Aleksandra spat and shot him three times in the face.

  Quinn looked up at her, gun in his hand now. “What about us being quiet?”

  He did a quick peek inside the open door and found Matt Pollard standing fifteen feet away, hidden but for his shoulders and one arm. A green footlocker sat before him, its lid opened like a closet door revealing the shining guts of Baba Yaga.

  The top of Zamora’s head was barely visible behind a portion of the boiler. There was not enough of a target to get a shot at either man.

  “Come on out, Valentine,” Quinn shouted above the hum of machinery. “It’s over.”

  Zamora threw two wild rounds toward the door. They clanked harmlessly into the heavy concrete wall.

  “You?” Zamora cried, giggling. “How funny is that? How is Monagas? Well, I hope. He is quite devoted.”

  “He was a serial killer with a sponsor,” Quinn said. “But he’s done.”

  “You can kill me if you wish, Jericho, but Professor Pollard has already entered three of the five numbers for the code. Once the bomb is armed, there is no disarming it. Thousands will die even if you begin an evacuation now.”