by Marc Cameron
“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
Quinn 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, señor,” 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 caffè latte complexion—a fact not lost on Quinn.
“Sorry it took me so long,” he said, taking in the lay of the land as he sat down.
Nearly every table was taken both on the patio and, from the looks of things through the double picture windows, inside the restaurant as well. An older couple chatted at the table to Quinn’s left, closest to the door. Both looked like academics with sensible, stand-around shoes and ratty cotton dress shirts frayed at the collars and cuffs. The slender man spoke to his enraptured female companion in hushed tones about past sailing trips to Havana and how much trouble they would be in if anyone in the U.S. government found out. Just beyond the conspirators, three tables had been pushed together for a birthday party. The blue-haired matron had the seat of honor, surrounded by her large Cuban family.
“Looks like a nice place.” Quinn stuffed his Held kangaroo hide gloves inside the Arai. He hung the leather jacket, with Yawaraka-Te inside, over the adjacent chair.
Garcia reached to touch the helmet, running her finger over the crossed war axes dripping candy-apple blood. “Interesting art,” she said. “I like.”
“Frank Frazetta.”
“Ahhh.” Garcia’s full lips drew back in an easy, plum-colored smile. “The Death Dealer ...”
“Amazing.” Jericho chuckled. “I knew I liked you.”
Garcia leaned across the table, folding her hands in front of her breasts as they pressed against the edge. “My father was a toe-the-party-line Russian in Fidel’s Cuba. He was supposed to be anti-American in all things—but get this... .” She looked to her left and right as if to make sure no one was listening in on her secret. “He taught me to be a closet Molly Hatchet fan. His favorite albums were that one with the Death Dealer... . And what was it? There was a guy with a red beard and a bloody axe... .”
“Flirtin’ with Disaster.” Quinn shook his head in disbelief. She was dangerous and had good taste in music.
Garcia’s eyes played up and down, studying him. “I’ll bet you were the kind of kid who had Meat Loaf posters all over your walls. I mean, since you ride and all.”
“Would have, but my mom didn’t care for the blood-dripping warriors. She drew the line at half-naked women on motorcycles.” Quinn sat back in his chair, taking a deep, slow breath.
“I can’t imagine someone like you coming from a demure sort of mother,” Garcia said, still eying him intently.
“Oh, my mom’s an Alaska girl through and through,” Quinn said. “She could fillet a halibut, field dress a moose, and birth a baby all the same day—but she’s awfully tenderhearted. I supposed that sort of thing skips a generation.
Garcia still leaned forward, pressing against the table. “Mr. Palmer said you were a boxer at the Air Force Academy.”
“I dabbled.” Quinn shrugged. He would have to talk to Palmer about the depth of information he disclosed
. “I did okay.”
Garcia wagged her tan finger. “Okay? I hear you won the Cadet Wing Open your senior year and came in second the year before.”
Jericho pressed an index finger to his nose, showing the lack of cartilage that went along with repeated blows to the face. “Those statistics are true, but as my kid brother is so fond of pointing out, if you come in second in a boxing tournament, it means you got your ass kicked at least once.”
Suddenly uncomfortable with so much personal talk, Quinn cleared his throat and picked up a menu. “So, what’s good here? You mentioned something called moros and ...”
“Moros and cristianos—spiced black beans and rice.” Garcia picked up her sunglasses from the table and began to toy with them. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Moors and Christians. You know, like black people and white people ...”
“I’m so hungry a big bowl of that sounds good.”
“It’s a side dish.”
He shut his menu and pushed back from the table. “I need to hit the head. Surprise me. Something spicy sounds good for the main course.”
Garcia’s full lips parted as if to speak, but in the end she only smiled broadly, keeping her thoughts to herself.
A half a block up the quiet street in the parking spot directly behind Quinn’s motorcycle, a windowless white van sat in the evening shadows cast by the Mi Rancho restaurant. Nona Schmidt slouched behind the wheel and watched as her boyfriend, her brother, and her Uncle Frank walked under the blue awning and through the double glass doors into Cubano’s. She’d abandoned the Nissan around the corner. Her job was to pull up front with the van when she saw the men drag Quinn outside. She never considered the idea that they wouldn’t be able to handle him.
He’d gone in only seconds before. Probably to use the can. The Mexican woman—Scott called her the Spic Chick—still sat at their outside table. She looked like she was his date. Quinn was supposed to be dangerous, but Nona didn’t fret over that. She’d seen her boyfriend fight mixed martial arts in Corbin, Kentucky. He’d whipped the everlovin’ ass of everyone who came into the octagon—actually broke one guy’s arm in four places. He was sure enough capable of beating the crap out of some bike-riding dude who was past his prime.
Nineteen years old, rawboned, and handsome, Scott Brady was tough as they came. And, every bit as important to Nona as his muscles, he had nearly perfect teeth. He’d have no trouble with Jericho Quinn, who, with any luck, would have his pants down when they shot him.
It seemed such a waste to Nona, but after the mess at the gas station, the boys had decided not to bother with a Taser. The plan was for Scott to take out both his knees with a .22 pistol. Scott said if the guy bled to death before they got him back to the compound to interrogate, well, that was his own damn fault.
Nona bit her lip. She hoped it didn’t come to that too awful soon... .
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The overpowering scent of hand soap and toilet deodorizer hung in the men’s room, where Quinn stood along the side wall at the single urinal. The air conditioner blew full force and condensation beaded on the chilled chrome pipes. His mind was occupied with the pleasant image of Veronica Garcia’s purple lipstick. To his right was an empty toilet stall. Behind him and to his left was a double porcelain sink.
The three men filed in one behind the other. They gave off the energy of men in a rush, but had to slow down in the cramped space.
The hair on the back of Quinn’s neck stood on end as soon as they came through the door. The one in the lead, a muscular kid in a white T-shirt, was nearly on top of him by the time the door swung shut behind the last man in line. There was no time to go for a weapon.
Sidestepping away from the urinal, Quinn closed the gap on the first attacker. He trapped the kid’s wrist with both hands and forced his stainless pistol back against his belly. Keeping his hands centered and low, Quinn lunged forward with the full force of his legs, snapping the wrist and causing the kid’s finger to convulse on the trigger. The gunshot was deafening against the steel and tile of the restroom. The kid’s eyes went wide, blinking in disbelief at the blossoming red stain on the belly of his T-shirt.
A half second later the next man in line hit Quinn in the side of the head with a staggering left hook. His fist felt like a blow from a chunk of granite. Quinn shoved the bleeding kid out of the way, lunging for but missing the pistol as it clattered to the tile floor.
He kept his feet, throwing up a quick elbow to fend off another powerful hook. This guy was older but must have had some boxing training. He rained down blows as quickly as Quinn could block them. Dazed, Quinn saw nothing but fists, each coming fast on the heels of the last.
Roaring like an enraged bear, Quinn drove forward, shoving the older attacker backwards.
“Get off me, Uncle Frank!” the kid behind him yelled, smashed between the door and his companion.
Quinn pummeled Uncle Frank’s midsection, keeping him pressed back against the guy behind him, buying time while his mind went into overdrive. All he needed was a moment to get to his own gun. He was in good enough shape; in most fights, the other guy tired out in a matter of seconds.
This wasn’t going to be one of those fights.
Uncle Frank rolled sideways, absorbing Quinn’s punches as if they were mosquito bites. Given the fresh opening, the younger man behind rushed forward, reaching with both hands for a takedown. He wasn’t near the fighter his Uncle Frank was and Quinn met him with a fierce head butt for his trouble. He bellowed, spewing a spray of blood out the newly formed gap where his nose met his brow.
Uncle Frank tried a snap kick, but Quinn moved just in time, avoiding a crippling blow to the side of his knee. The kick hit him in the thigh, sending a wave of nausea through his gut. He exhaled hard, blocking a haymaker from Frank, while he kicked out to fend off the snot-blowing kid. It was like shooing away gnats inside a closet. No matter what he did, they kept coming.
Ronnie Garcia watched the three men disappear through the front door. The leader, a young man wearing a white T-shirt and faded jeans, carried a folded newspaper. The other two, similarly dressed but with more hair, followed closely on his heels. None of them looked the type to bring their own reading material into a restaurant. There was something about the way the men held their mouths that told her they were up to no good.
She’d spotted the white panel van about the time Quinn went inside. There was a girl behind the wheel, and though Ronnie couldn’t make out her features, she felt sure she was involved.
To prove her point, Ronnie stood up from the table. Holding her cell phone to her ear, she pretended to be having an animated conversation and pointed directly at the van.
An instant later, the van’s lights came on. Panicked, the girl backed into the car behind her, then sped forward, crashing into Quinn’s motorcycle. Beefy as it was, the BMW GS was no match for the heavy van. Metal groaned and sparks flew as she dragged the bike along the pavement, before turning sharply to speed away in the other direction.
Jericho’s bike was a twisted heap of metal—but if Garcia was right, that would be the least of his problems.
She reached the front door in three quick bounds. She flung it open to run headlong into their waiter. The tray of Diet Cokes crashed to the ground. He apologized profusely with his words, but his dark eyes cursed Garcia’s clumsiness to the last drop of his Latin blood.
She smiled sheepishly, helped him to his feet, and apologized, explaining she had an urgent bathroom emergency. The waiter’s glare softened some as she hopped over the puddle of ice and soda.
Never one to shy away from action, Ronnie bent quickly to draw the tiny Kahr PM nine-millimeter from the sheepskin holster inside her left ankle. She paused briefly in the dim alcove outside the men’s room. Greeted by the heavy thuds of a fight in progress, she tucked the pistol close to her side, and shouldered open the door.
Something heavy hit Quinn in the back of the head just as he popped Uncle Frank in the jaw with an el
bow cross.
Quinn staggered, sickened from the blow, fighting to keep on his feet. He grabbed Frank’s shoulders and drove a knee repeatedly into the man’s groin as a surge of adrenaline chased away his nausea. He spun before the snot blower could hit him again, shoving the older man into his companion.
As if revitalized by some voodoo zombie spell, Frank sprang back into action immediately, soaking up everything Quinn could inflict.
“I’m about sick of this shit,” the kid said, pulling a black pistol from the waistband of his pants. “Get out of the way, Uncle Frank. We don’t need to talk to him th—”
Ronnie Garcia exploded through the bathroom door. She took a split second to survey the situation, and then put two quick rounds in the kid’s chest.
Distracted, Frank’s eyes left Quinn long enough to allow him to draw his Kimber. Cursing under his breath, the older man lunged for the gun on the floor beside his dying nephew as Quinn shot him.
Garcia kicked the pistol away and played her own gun back and forth, assessing the situation.
All three attackers down, Quinn leaned against the sink, panting. The booming gunfire in the close quarters of the tiled restroom had rendered him momentarily deaf.
When he looked up, Garcia’s plum lips made beautiful shapes. He heard no sound but the throbbing whoosh of his own heartbeat.
After a few seconds, he was able to make out partial sentences.
“... hurt, Jeric ... get ... hospital ...”
The disjointed words slowly began to register in his brain.
He grinned stupidly, feeling a little drunk, and took a moment to study this woman who’d just saved his life. Her face was calm, black hair in perfect order, belying the fact that she’d just shot her fourth man in half as many days. Amber eyes locked on him as she canted her head to one side.
“I’m okay,” he said, dabbing at a bloody gash above his brow with the knuckle of the hand that still held his Kimber. He worked his aching jaw back and forth and began to do an assessment to make sure nothing was broken. “I’ve seen worse.” He let go of the sink, felt his knees begin to buckle, and grabbed it again.