by Marc Cameron
“Seriously? Bach’s Chaconne?” A freakishly tall woman in stiletto heels that made her tower above Quinn twisted her face into a lipstick and mascara question mark. She was first-chair violin in the Anchorage Symphony—and not at all amused that some arriviste six-year-old was on the cusp of upstaging her. She patted Kim’s arm. “Of course you know what’s best for her, my dear,” the woman said in a husky voice that matched her height. “But the Chaconne is an awfully difficult piece, even for an adult.” She gave a condescending shake of her long neck before moving on to work the crowd.
Kim shot Quinn an exasperated look. She tugged at the arm of his leather jacket, chastising through gritted teeth. “Stop staring at everyone. You’re giving them the look.”
“What look? Don’t be mad at me because she-man is jealous of our kid.”
His back to the brick wall, Jericho’s eyes played across the faces of hundreds of milling patrons. People of all shapes and sizes lined the stairs, coffees in hand, crowding all three floors of the lobby. Watching for threats was like trying to play multilevel chess.
From the corner of his eye, he caught an olive-skinned man peering at him from the railing of the floor above. The dark face pulled back as Quinn met his gaze.
“Stop it!” Kim punched him in the arm. “I mean it. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You are the only one here who looks like a terrorist.
Indeed, the bronze complexion of his Apache grandmother and his father’s heavy beard that grew in by noon gave Quinn a Mediterranean look. A single glare from his whiskey-brown eyes had a tendency to part the crowds inside the Performing Arts Center like the Red Sea.
Kim told him he was paranoid, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to go very wrong. Worried as he was, he gave his look to virtually everyone who met his gaze.
The Chinese called it zhijue or straight sense. To the Japanese it was haragei—the art of the belly. Whatever he called it, in Quinn’s experience the feeling was something to heed, real as the sense of sight or smell. With Kim on the warpath, he decided to keep his wits about him and his worries to himself. He tried to affect a smile but was sure it came across, at best, like a wolf with indigestion.
Apart from her dark hair, little Mattie Quinn was a miniature version of Jericho’s ex-wife, complete with accusing blue eyes. His heart caught hard in his chest every time he looked at her. Shimmering ebony curls spilled happily over a velvet dress of midnight blue. White tights, black pumps, and a robin’s-egg sash with a cockeyed bow she’d insisted on tying herself completed the outfit.
The packed confines of the Performing Arts Center—the PAC to Anchorage locals—only added to Quinn’s anxiety. He had to admit the patrons were mostly harmless. Bo called them the Subarus-and-comfortable-shoes crowd. All were eager to hear the six-year-old prodigy.
Kim had been first-chair violin for years and had only just hung up her bow to try her hand at composing a symphony of her own. Everyone supposed Mattie’s amazing talent had come from her. Quinn had never said so, but he believed his daughter’s gift might have had some link to his uncanny ability with languages. He was fluent in four other than English and semi-conversant in a half dozen more. What was music if not another language?
For Mattie’s part, her debut in front of eight hundred fans seemed the furthest thing from her mind.
Miss Suzette, Mattie’s gregarious music coach, stood beside the backstage door holding a small violin case. Even as a prodigy, six-year-old Mattie couldn’t handle a full-size instrument. The half-size nineteenth-century Paul Bailly fit her little hands perfectly. It was horribly expensive, costing more than Quinn’s brand-new BMW—but Mattie was that good. She’d named the little violin Babette, after a favorite teacher.
Case in hand, Miss Suzette rolled up the cuff of her matching blue velvet dress to check her watch every two minutes. Mattie ignored her, hanging on her Uncle Bo’s muscular forearm with both hands as she swayed back and forth.
Bo had traded his customary T-shirt and leather vest for a freshly pressed white button-down. Even in Alaska semiformal called for men to wear a tie. Bo could only go so far—even for his only niece. The Quinn brothers had agreed early in life that wearing a tie was like being strangled to death by a very weak man. Only Bo was brave enough to go against Kim’s orders and show up with an open collar. He’d not only forgone the tie, but rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal the last few inches of the black DENIZENS octopus tattooed on his forearm. He tucked the heavy Vanson jacket under his elbow while he let Mattie do pull-ups on his outstretched wrist.
“Sick tattoo, Uncle Boaz.” Mattie swung easily, as if the performance wasn’t minutes away.
Fearless, Jericho thought. That’s my little girl.
“Thanks, Sweet Pea.” Bo flexed his arm, hoisting her high off the floor and bringing a giddy squeal. His eyes shifted to Kim, who frowned like a brooding raincloud next to Jericho. “But I don’t think your mama approves. I do believe she’s afraid if you hang around with guys like me you’ll end up with a ring in your nose and a hand grenade tattooed on your back.”
Miss Suzette held up her wrist so all could see her watch. “We should get our young star backstage and make sure Babette is tuned before the performance.”
Kim nodded. “She does need to warm up.”
“Okaaaaay.” Mattie let go of her uncle and grabbed Jericho’s hand. “But it’s still a half hour... .”
“We’ll be right out front,” Quinn said. He dreaded the thought of letting her walk through the door and out of his sight, even for a moment.
Mattie leaned against her father’s outstretched hand, swaying and batting her wide eyes. “Can I please ride home with you on your bike? Uncle Boaz has an extra helmet that fits me... .”
Quinn’s eyes shifted to Kim. “Let’s see what your mom says about that.”
“Great,” Kim groaned. “Put it off on the mean old mom. A hand grenade tattoo. That’s my little girl... .”
Quinn kissed his daughter on top of the head, drinking in the smell before shooing her toward Miss Suzette. “You’re my besty,” he whispered. Every ounce of his being told him to go with her, but Kim was on the verge of stealing one of his guns and shooting him with it, so he let her go without a fight. He had, after all, virtually abandoned them both to fight terrorism. How much more out of his sight could she get?
Quinn found the packed concert hall inside the PAC suffocating. “There’s not enough air in here for all of us,” he said as they made their way to their seats.
The front two rows were roped off. Kim worked her way to the center when they reached the third row back from the stage. Quinn followed, knowing he should insist on an aisle seat with a better tactical advantage, but saying nothing.
Kim gave an exasperated sigh, reading his mind as she so often did. “Sorry we can’t get your back to the wall, honey. All the gunfighter seats are up in the balcony if you prefer to sit back there.”
She took the seat on his left. Bo sat to his right, beside an attractive Alaska Native woman in a long green dress. Bo struck up a conversation easily, leaving Jericho with the nagging in his gut and a disgruntled ex-wife’s elbow digging into his ribs.
The Atwood Concert Hall’s cushioned green seats were filled to capacity, even up to the nosebleed section. The curtain opened to thunderous applause. Anchorage had plenty of musically talented youth, but six-year-old prodigies were very rare indeed. Alaska’s social elite—Quinn called them the NPR crowd—wanted to witness such an event firsthand.
A full youth orchestra sat on risers behind a single chair out front in the middle of the stage. The youngest members were over twice Mattie’s age. Most were in their late teens. Miss Suzette sat at a baby grand piano a few feet from the chair, stage left.
Babette cradled in her tiny hand, Mattie Quinn walked onto the stage with all the poise of a woman five times her age. She curtsied toward the audience, saluted the conductor and Miss Suzette with her bow, and daintily took
her seat.
A hush fell over the hall and Mattie began the hauntingly perfect notes of Bach’s Chaconne... .
Quinn closed his eyes, listening to the music. He knew something was wrong before he opened them.
The first man appeared from the flowing shadows of the side curtains left of the piano. He was tall, with close-cropped black hair and the wispy beginnings of a black goatee. White socks stood out against an ill-fitting brown suit and ratty dress shoes. A youthful face glistened with sweat under the harsh glare of stage lights. He stood motionless for a long moment, as if frozen by stage fright—half on, half off. His right hand was hidden in the dark folds of the heavy curtains.
The conductor, a heavyset man in his fifties with a sweating bald head, attempted to wave the intruder off with white-gloved hands.
Music continued to pour from Mattie’s bow as she played on, sticking her tongue out in rapt concentration, unaware of the scene unfolding behind her.
Quinn’s blood ran cold as the man broke from his trance to stride haltingly toward Mattie. The curved blade of a scimitar hung from his right hand, glinting in the lights.
A murmuring buzz coursed through the packed auditorium as patrons worked to puzzle out the scene before them.
Quinn jumped to his feet. He’d allowed himself to go against his instincts, and now he was hemmed in. There was no way to get to his daughter before the attacker reached her with the flashing sword.
Kim choked out a scream when she realized what was happening.
If properly trained, the brain is capable of processing an amazing amount of simultaneous information under pressure. However, the body, unable to truly multitask, resorts to gross motor skills. Even as Quinn’s right hand swept the tail of his leather jacket he knew his shot would have to be perfect. The twenty-yard distance wouldn’t be the greatest problem. Lead bullets had a tendency to keep going after punching a hole in a human body. With a backdrop of fear-paralyzed teenage musicians, his rounds not only had to stop Mattie’s attacker, they had to stop in him.
Quinn squeezed off two quick shots as the Kimber’s front sight came to eye level. The hundred-and-eighty-grain slugs slammed into the man’s pelvis, shattering dense sections of bone into jagged shrapnel, tearing flesh and ripping through major arteries. He fell like a sack of wet sand.
“See one, think two,” Quinn whispered his mantra, scanning both sides of the stage.
“Watch Kim,” he snapped, passing the ten-millimeter to his brother. He still had the baby Glock.
“I’ve got her.” Bo grabbed the pistol and as he too scanned the stage.
Kim screamed again and Quinn shot a glance over his shoulder just in time to see the silver flash of another blade in the row behind them. He sprang backward, throwing himself between this new danger and Kim. He felt a sickening thud as something heavy struck his shoulder. Thankful for the armored leather of his Transit jacket, he pressed toward the attack, bellowing like a bull as he grabbed a fistful of hair. He used the chair back as a fulcrum and yanked the attacker over the seats.
The glint of a blade flashed across the sleeve of Quinn’s jacket. He lunged, trapping the wrist, twisting, turning the blade and the hand that held it back against itself. Tiny bones snapped as the full weight of the man fell, writhing and screaming across Kim’s lap just as the house lights came up.
Quinn freed the blade and drew it straight up the attacker’s throat in a fluid arc, killing him and splitting his chin and then his nose up the center like a butterfly.
Kim’s chest heaved in disgust and fear. She tried to push away, but the man’s weight and the closeness of the seats penned her in. A crimson spray dripped from her pallid cheeks. Her blouse was drenched in the dead man’s blood.
She screamed at Quinn, reaching for Mattie. “Go get her!”
Jericho vaulted the seats in time to see Miss Suzette throw herself in front of a third attacker. A bewildered Mattie now stood frozen in front of her chair, bow and violin clutched to her chest.
Quinn recognized the sunken eyes and narrow face of the third man at once. Ratib Jabiri, right hand of Sheikh Husseini al Farooq, the Saudi mastermind behind the terrorist plot to smuggle weaponized Ebola into the United States. He would have succeeded had it not been for Quinn.
CHAPTER THREE
Jabiri shot Miss Suzette in the stomach and shoved her cruelly out of the way. The brave woman lashed out with a foot as she went down, connecting with the terrorist’s legs. The pistol flew from his hand as he tried to break his fall.
The Saudi’s knees hit the wooden floor with a sickening crack. He cried out, but scrambled to his feet in an instant. Scooping up a startled Mattie as he ran, he hoisted her tiny body in front of him as a shield.
Quinn moved up the aisle with the superhuman speed of a terrified father, arms pumping as he shoved his way through the paralyzed crowd.
Mattie in tow, Jabiri dove behind black side curtains and disappeared into the shadows.
Quinn vaulted up onto the stage, using the hollow thud of the Saudi’s footsteps and his daughter’s muffled screams to guide him. Just yards ahead, past a series of heavy ropes and counterweights, Quinn caught a glimpse of black hair as Jabiri ducked down a narrow flight of stairs that led beneath the stage.
The Saudi was high enough up on the sheikh’s food chain that he was used to a life of pampered leisure. Running was something done by servants. Quinn caught him at the entrance to the men’s dressing room in the under-stage catacombs of music stands and prop tables.
Jabiri turned like a cornered animal, panting through bared teeth, his back pressed against the dressing room door. A thin shaft of light from the orchestra pit cut across the harsh angles of his face, adding to the menace of his sneer. A cheap black suit bunched at narrow shoulders. His white shirt was rumpled and loose at his heaving waist. A thin arm snaked around Mattie, pulling her close to his chest. The other hand gripped her face like a claw, pinching her cheeks between bony fingers. Her little legs, still in the frilly white tights, hung loosely in front of him. One of her patent leather shoes had fallen off during the run.
Quinn slid to a stop—just out of reach, heart pounding in his throat. He raised both hands to show he had no weapon. Mattie’s lips quivered, but she didn’t cry. Her blue-gray eyes focused hard as if trying to send a message.
“Stay back!” the Saudi hissed. “I will break her neck if you come one step closer... .”
“It’s me he wants, Jabiri. You know that.” Quinn’s eyes flicked methodically, taking in the scene, deciding his next move. “Let the girl go.”
The Saudi laughed maniacally. His eyes narrowed to black slits.
“So ...” His lip pulled back into a snarl. “You know who sent me? Impressive.”
“Whatever you say. Just put down the girl.”
“I think not, Mr. Jericho Quinn.” The muscles in Jabiri’s face twitched as he spoke. “I am ordered to make you suffer defeat, even as the sheikh has suffered—”
“Okay.” Quinn nodded. “I will suffer. Do to me what you will. Just put the girl down.” He swallowed back the panic rising in his chest. He’d seen too many children die horrible deaths in the mean streets of Iraq. None of them deserved it, but the guiltless often died in far greater numbers than the guilty. Mattie didn’t deserve the violence. Quinn’s life had brought it crashing down around her. Deserving had nothing to do with it.
“Oh, brave Mr. Quinn. You are an intelligent man.” Jabiri’s words dripped like poison from twisted lips. “How do you believe this will end? You want so badly to kill me. I see it in your eyes.” He cocked his head to one side, as if teaching an important point. “The question, Mr. Quinn, is not if I will die, but how you will live after you watch me take a life of one so precious to you... .”
Mattie’s eyes suddenly brightened as if jolted with electricity. She began to pedal her legs as fast as she could, her heels slamming into Jabiri’s unprotected groin. That same instant, she turned just enough to sink her teeth into th
e base of his thumb.
The Saudi threw his head back, screaming at the sudden onslaught of pain. He shoved the girl away as if she was on fire, twisting his hips to protect his groin.
Quinn grabbed Mattie’s hand and pulled, passing her back behind him. In the same fluid movement, he drew Yawaraka-Te from the scabbard along his back. Rushing forward, he drove the length of the Japanese blade into the startled Saudi’s throat, nailing him to the dressing room door.
“You’re right, Jabiri,” Quinn whispered, leaning against the hilt as the Saudi struggled and gasped. “There was never any question that you would die.”
Jabiri’s hands fluttered momentarily at the blade, then fell to his side like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Quinn turned and dropped to his knees beside his daughter. The ruffles on her blue dress fluttered like a frightened bird. Gently, he turned her head away from the dead man.
Bo came sliding up behind them, gun in hand.
Quinn looked up, still holding Mattie. “Kim?”
“She’s okay. Anchorage cops have her.”
A sob caught in Mattie’s throat as she gazed up at Quinn with doe eyes. “They killed Miss Suzette.” She buried her face against his neck. “They didn’t even know her. Who would do that?” She pushed back to look at him again, crying with abandon now. “What about Babette? I dropped her on the ground... .”
Quinn patted her head, smoothing her mussed curls. Sirens blared in the background. Hollow shouts echoed beneath the stage. All this had happened because of him. He’d gone away to fight a war—and now he’d brought it home.
CHAPTER FOUR
CIA Headquarters
1324 hours Eastern Time
Veronica “Ronnie” Garcia stood naked and flushed outside the shower stall, scrunching wet toes on the rubber mat. Dripping tresses of coal-black hair mopped the coffee-and-cream skin of her muscular shoulders. She grabbed her towel from the hook along the wall, enjoying the coarseness of the cloth after the rigors of her workout.