by Marc Cameron
Lourdes Lopez was a different story. Her name popped up in government databases almost as often as Zamora’s. Though she hadn’t been with him in Florida, the two appeared to be a team. Miyagi saw to it that she was taken alive — barely.
Her first two shots had taken out the sullen woman’s knees. Two follow-up bursts destroyed each elbow.
“We are in America!” Lourdes screeched writhing on her back in a pool of blood. “You cannot just let me die.”
Miyagi stood over her for a long moment, her smooth face emotionless. At length, she knelt to apply four windless-style tourniquets, one over each bicep and another above each knee.
Thibodaux gathered a trembling Marie and her baby in his big arms, attempting to shield them from all the bloodshed. The sight of little Simon made him think of his own boys.
Marie pushed him away so she could see.
“I need a hospital,” Lourdes moaned, looking fearfully at the tourniquets. “If you leave these on me without attention I will lose my limbs. I will be helpless!”
Miyagi nodded, a tender smile on her lips.
“As a matter of fact, you will,” she said. “But in this life one must often depend on the kindness of strangers.”
Marie reached up to touch Thibodaux’s arm.
“Matt?” she asked.
The Cajun shook his head. “We’re still looking for him. I need you to think hard and tell us anything you might have heard that could help us find your husband and the men who have him.”
Marie nodded toward the hallway. “We talked on the computer every day until… a few days ago. I’m not sure how many. They all run together.”
“You’re one smart lady,” Ronnie said. She cleared the chamber of Pete’s pistol before slipping it in her waistband. “The photo you texted to your cell phone gave us the GPS coordinates that led us here.”
Marie brightened. “So Matt figured it out.” She kissed Simon on top of his head, tears flowing in earnest now. “Daddy figured it out,” she said. “Did you hear that, buddy? Daddy saved us.”
“Your pathetic husband,” Lourdes coughed. Her low groan carried across the room like a bad smell. “He was not the kind man you thought him to be… ” she gasped, vindictive even in defeat.
Miyagi grabbed the hateful woman by her collar and propped her roughly against the wall. Her useless arms flopped to her side, starting a fresh flow of blood and bringing a bloodcurdling wail.
“How’s that cruelty thing working out for you now?” Thibodaux shook his head in disdain. “Karma’s only a bitch when you are one your own self.”
CHAPTER 69
Talara, Peru
Landing gear squawked on the tarmac an hour and ten minutes from the moment the little green jet jumped from the dense Bolivian jungle.
As small as Aleksandra was, her hips dug into Quinn, cutting off his circulation and jamming him against the Spartan cockpit. Thankfully his legs had fallen asleep halfway into the flight.
Fuentes flipped open the cover during the back-taxi, allowing in a warm but welcome ocean breeze. A squad of six crewmen in green coveralls swarmed the aircraft as the screaming engines wound down.
On the tarmac, Quinn checked his phone and found he had six missed calls from Palmer. Kanatova took out her own phone, but Quinn shook his head.
“I’m not sure it would be a good idea for you to call your people on this,” he said, bracing himself for the onslaught of nails and knees he’d received at Zamora’s party.
“The battery is dead.” She shrugged, handing the phone to him. “Take it if you wish, but you needn’t worry.”
Quinn believed her sincerity, but took the phone anyway. He checked the battery, then gave it back to her.
She took it, smiling. “All we have been through and still you do not trust me.”
Quinn shrugged. “You would do the same if this was unfolding in Russia.”
There were dozens of spy apps available to turn almost any smartphone into a bug. But it was much easier than that. Turning on the auto-answer, then deactivating the ringer and vibrate functions transformed an ordinary cell phone into an inconspicuous listening device. Any operative would know better.
Aleksandra slipped the useless phone in her pocket and sighed. “I would never call my people on this. They would take a week to get a plan together and another to receive the levels of approval needed to implement the plan — and that’s if they wished to become involved.”
Quinn gave her an understanding smile and pressed the speed dial for Win Palmer.
The national security advisor began talking the instant he picked up. “The photo you sent came through a half hour ago. Quantico’s already got a hit through facial recognition. Tamir Mukhtar, a soldier they believe is attached to al-Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula under Yazid Nazif.”
“Nazif,” Quinn mused. “That makes sense.”
“And here’s the most interesting part,” Palmer said. “Nazif has a cousin who drives a cab in Houston.”
“I’m assuming FBI has eyes on that cousin?”
“In the next hour Houston, Texas, will have more feds than oilmen,” Palmer said.
“Targets?” Quinn asked, then mouthed, Houston, Texas, to Aleksandra in an effort to mend fences from his earlier showing of mistrust.
“The Martin Luther King Jr. parade is less than four days out,” Palmer said. “It’s on par with the Rose Bowl parade in size — a juicy target. Listen, a Bone left Abilene two hours ago. I spoke to the pilot personally and told him to put a boot in his bird’s ass. Expect him on the ground in…” He paused, doing the math. “Less than ninety minutes. I want you and the Russian in Houston helping out on the search as soon as possible.”
“Roger that,” Quinn said. “We’ll be ready.”
Officially known as the Lancer, the B-1, or B-One, was often called the Bone. Officially, it could reach speeds of Mach 1.25—over nine hundred miles an hour. At that rate they would make the trip from northern Peru to Houston in three hours and change.
“Call me back when you’re in the air,” Palmer said and ended the call without another word.
Quinn turned to Aleksandra, who tapped her toe on the tarmac beside Fuentes, the A37 pilot.
“May I offer you a place to wash up and something to eat?” Fuentes looked back and forth between the two of them. “We have excellent facilities here on base.”
“That would be welcome.” Quinn nodded. “I wouldn’t mind a glass of water that didn’t come out of a length of bamboo.”
Aleksandra smiled, her freckled nose crinkling in a way that belied her ruthlessness. “I could use a quick shower, even if I have to put these dirty clothes back on.”
“I am sure we can find something for both of you,” Fuentes said.
Quinn glanced at the Aquaracer on his wrist. “Lead the way, sir,” he said. “But we’ll have to hurry. Our ride will be here before we know it.”
CHAPTER 70
Texas
Noon
Yazid Nazif, his surviving two men, and Matthew Pollard poked their heads out of a two-mile tunnel under the Rio Grande River and into the outskirts of Laredo at approximately the same time the United States attempted to slam the door on the border. Luckily for Nazif, the United States had miles of border to patrol and only so many resources. The problem was they seemed to have brought all of these resources to bear at once. Green and white patrol vehicles threw clouds of dust on every back road. Military jets streaked overhead as if an air show was in town. Helicopters and specialized Predator drones with sophisticated camera pods loitered along a corridor formed by the river and an imaginary line thirty-five miles to the north.
Diego Borregos had remained in Mexico, reasoning that the U.S. Marshals held several warrants for him and his presence would only add to the likelihood of their capture. He sent his nephew, Carlos, to negotiate the crossing. Though Carlos was only in his twenties, Borregos assured Nazif that the young man was extremely loyal and could be trusted above anyone else to
always “do the right thing.”
A Suburban with a Halliburton oil company logo was waiting outside the self-storage unit where the tunnel emerged to carry them and the bomb north, along the Interstate 35 frontage road toward San Antonio. Twenty-seven miles northeast of Laredo, the Suburban slowed and turned off the pavement, bouncing down a dirt track. Pump jacks rose and fell on either side of the road like giant, bigheaded ants.
“There is a CBP check station two miles up the Interstate,” Carlos said, punching a number into his cell phone.
Border Patrol aircraft still roared back and forth overhead.
“And you have a plan to get us around it?” Nazif asked, his voice tight in his throat.
“Of course.” The boy put the cell phone to his ear. “It is time,” he said. “Very well. ’Sta bueno.” Ending the call, he turned to look back, smiling broadly.
A minute later and the skies were quiet.
“What happened?” Nazif whispered, craning his head to look out the window.
Carlos snapped his fingers. “The United States government is not the only organization with drone aircraft. You would be surprised at the rapid response when such a thing speeds across the border at low altitude from Mexico. The trip wires and radar alarms near the checkpoint on State Highway 83 ten miles west of us just went crazy. We should have a few minutes of freedom from their increased oversight before they return. If the normal balloons see us, we will just look like oil field workers coming and going about our daily chores.”
Carlos ushered them into a concrete pump house partially hidden by feathery green mesquite trees. Under a piece of greasy plywood on the floor they found a ladder leading down into a second tunnel. The boy waved his hand in a flourish of pride.
“My uncle’s men posed as oil field workers for over a year to dig their way around it.” He smiled. “Our services are well worth any price, no?”
Nazif gave a curt nod. He supposed that being a relative of a drug lord as powerful as Diego Borregos made the boy feel free to act so flippant. He glanced at the Omega on his wrist. It was almost seven. “You will stay with us until we reach my brother?”
“Of course, señor,” Carlos said. “I will accompany you as far as Austin.”
“We won’t be going to Austin,” Yazid said, thinking better of it the moment he did.
Carlos cocked his head to one side. “Perhaps my uncle was mistaken,” he said. “I was told you were going to Austin.”
“Plans change,” Yazid said. “But you will still transport us to San Antonio?”
“We will be there before midnight.” Carlos nodded. “Did not my uncle tell you? I may always be counted on to do the right thing.”
The tunnel, complete with lighting and an electric handcart, emerged inside another well house a mile past the Border Patrol checkpoint. A second Halliburton vehicle, this one a battered white Suburban, idled in the sparse trees. Yazid’s men loaded the footlocker in back and threw a blue tarp over it before piling inside.
Carlos took the front passenger seat.
An F16 fighter screamed overhead, flying west as the dusty Suburban merged into traffic on Interstate 35. A helicopter crossed a quarter mile behind them, skimming the treetops. Two Border Patrol sedans raced south in the oncoming lane, headed for the checkpoint.
“We were lucky,” Nazif whispered, repenting his lack of faith even as he uttered the words. He mouthed a prayer of thanksgiving. “There is no God but Allah… ”
Carlos looked over his shoulder, grinning at all the noise.
He waggled his eyebrows up and down, Groucho Marx style. “My uncle makes his own luck.”
* * *
Yazid’s heart leaped when he saw Ibrahim waiting at the wheel of a rented Penske van beyond a row of idling semi trucks. They were so close now. The event held by Sacred Peace Church would have been a decent target with ten thousand spectators, but the blast would be partially contained. Ibrahim’s research showed the parade in Houston would provide for at least double the immediate casualties and an untold number of those exposed to radiation. If Allah willed it, and Baba Yaga was as powerful as they had been told, the death toll could reach a hundred thousand as paradegoers packed along the route.
Yazid climbed out of the Suburban with a full heart at the blessings that had gotten them this far. He’d only gone a step when he realized something was incredibly wrong. Ibrahim stared straight ahead, unmoving. A hiss from the shadows behind a nearby tractor trailer caused Yazid to turn. His mouth fell open when he saw the two men standing there.
He shot an angry glare at Carlos, who’d hung back to wait beside the Suburban. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I am very sorry, señor.” The boy shrugged. “But as it turns out, the ‘right thing’ was to tell him where you planned to meet.”
CHAPTER 71
Peru
3:50 PM Peruvian time
The B1 Lancer did a turn and burn, stopping only long enough to pick up its two passengers.
Quinn was surprised to find Major Brett Moore in command of the aircraft. Moore had been an assistant physics instructor at the Academy when he was a brand-new captain and Quinn was a cadet. A tall man, dressed in the green flame retardant flight suit pilots called a “bag,” his dark hair was beginning to gray at the temples. He’d been quite a boxer during his days at USAFA and followed Quinn’s success throughout his Academy career.
The two shook hands and the pilot showed them onboard, anxious to get underway.
“You’ve dropped off the radar, son,” Moore said, helping Quinn and Aleksandra get settled in the two weapons systems officer seats in a compartment the size of a phone booth, six feet behind and slightly above the cockpit.
Quinn smiled. “You warned me how OSI types were. ‘Got their hands in all sort of secretive mojo,’ isn’t that what you said?”
“And here you are proving me right,” Moore scoffed. “This bird burns sixty thousand dollar bills every hour her fans are turning. By my estimation that means I’m giving you two a four-hundred-thousand-dollar taxi ride home from whatever you’ve been doing down here. Not to mention the fact that the president’s national security advisor called me personally and ordered me not to spare the horses. I’d say that qualifies as secretive mojo.”
Moore handed each of them a helmet and headset. He pointed to the array of instrumentation on the console in front of the weapons system officers’ seats. “You can make encrypted calls with this.” He pointed to a touch-screen keypad. “Just put us on mute if you need to discuss your secret-agent shit. But don’t touch anything else.”
A consummate pro, Moore asked no questions about Aleksandra, assuming that whoever she was, it was Quinn’s business. He turned to duck down the center hatch toward the cockpit, then looked back.
“You hear Steve Brun is finally tying the knot?”
“I did,” Quinn said, pushing away thoughts of his last conversation with Kim. “He’s invited me to be in the saber arch if I survive this mission.”
“Roger that,” Moore said, turning to go. “You’ll be there then. I’ve seen you fight. You’re too mean to die.”
* * *
With the wings swept forward, Major Moore had the Bone off the runway in a matter of seconds after he started his takeoff roll. Climbing at nearly six thousand feet a minute pushed Quinn’s stomach down like someone was standing on it. Moore leveled off three miles above sea level and kicked the plane into gear.
Quinn took a deep breath, letting his stomach settle. He shot a glance at Aleksandra. Her face hidden by the shaded face shield of her helmet, she gave him a thumbs-up and settled back in her seat. He was unsure what the gesture meant in Russia—“it’s all good” or “up yours”—but felt he knew Aleksandra well enough now that if it had been the latter she would have followed it up with a knee to his groin.
Taking a long hit on the oxygen, he put the cockpit on mute and dialed his boss.
For all Winfield Palmer knew, Quinn was dangling off a para
chute over the Pacific Ocean, but he started talking the moment he recognized Quinn’s voice. There was, after all, a nuclear device headed toward an unknown target on American soil.
“Bexar County sheriff’s deputies just found Yazid Nazif’s body along with that of his brother Ibrahim and two unidentified males dumped in a Penske moving van outside San Antonio. We’d sent out Nazif’s photograph in a BOLO just two hours before, so they were able to identify him right away.”
Quinn nudged Aleksandra awake, flipping the radio bug so she could hear his conversation as well.
“I’ve got Kanatova on the air with us,” he warned. “We can use all the help we can get here.”
“Very well,” Palmer said, sounding a little annoyed.
“What of Baba Yaga?” she asked.
“Still missing,” Palmer said. “Do you think Borregos double-crossed him?”
Quinn shook his head, though only Aleksandra could see him. “Makes no sense. He didn’t need AQAP to get the device into the U.S. Why drag him all the way across the border just to kill him?”
Quinn thought for a moment. “You said Nazif has a cousin in Houston.”
“The FBI’s swarming every known place associated with him,” Palmer said. “But he’s still at large.”
“How about changing the parade route?” Aleksandra chimed in. “Or canceling it entirely?”
“We’ve discussed that,” Palmer sighed. “But the moment we deviate from a normal schedule, we show our hand — and they pick another target.”
Quinn drummed his fingers on the desktop in front of him, thinking. Something wasn’t right. He thought for a full minute, the time it took the B-1 to travel nearly fifteen miles.
“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.”