Act of Terror

by Marc Cameron

  Trays of food and drinks flew from the hands of the staff. Folding chairs, caught in the mini tornado, were tossed around like rag dolls. The aircraft began to work its way even lower, settling between the trees as if to land on the front lawn and crush half the guests. The tremendous force of whirling wind blew open suit jackets, exposing agents’ weapons. The women who wore more skimpy gowns had them literally ripped from their bodies.

  A blinding beam of light burned from the nose of the aircraft, cutting the dusky evening haze to point directly at the bride and groom.

  “Mr. Vice President!” It was Sonny Vindetti’s voice. The Secret Service agent grabbed Bob Hughes’s shoulder and tugged him backward toward the mansion. “Sir! I need you to come with me! Now!”

  “Nancy!” Hughes spun away from his would-be protector, reaching out with both arms in an attempt to shield his wife from unseen dangers.

  President Clark ran amid a tightly packed mob of his agents, bent at the waist, to a waiting armored limousine that had been rolling silently over the grassy lawn, following his every move.

  Hand over her hair against the horrific wind, Nancy turned just in time to see Jimmy Doyle running to intercept Amanda Deatherage. The girl’s ridiculously long jacket had blown up around her face. Her loose dress was pressed to her body by the downdraft, exposing what looked like a bulky life vest underneath.

  Blinded by the tangle of cloth, Deatherage screamed with rage, clawed at her face to clear her vision.

  “BOMB RIGHT! BOMB RIGHT!” Jimmy Doyle screamed above the melee. He hit the girl with the full force of his body, knocking her behind the huge iron cannon.

  A split second later, Nancy Hughes was knocked off her feet. Every molecule of air seemed inexplicably drawn away, vanished. She felt a tremendous heat, then pressure, as if someone had hit her in the chest with a baseball bat. She was vaguely aware that her daughter lay on top of her—and the world was eerily silent.

  Quinn and Thibodaux rode off the back ramp moments after the explosion. Smedley was able to bring the Osprey within five feet off the ground—still a tall order for the sporty Ducati’s suspension.

  The wedding party looked as though a huge bowling ball had come through and knocked everyone to the grass. Quinn knew the Secret Service would be in reactive mode, bent on egress with their charges more than stopping to face an unknown enemy. The countersnipers, on the other hand, would be back to their scopes in no time, scanning from their rooftop perches to stop all signs of threat.

  Two crazy men deploying from a V-22 Osprey, dressed in black on screaming motorcycles, would certainly qualify.

  After an explosion people generally do one of two things—lie still to protect themselves or try and get away. It is a rare hero who moves toward the blast zone while debris is still falling—or someone with something more sinister in mind.

  Quinn saw the waiter in the white waistcoat at the same moment the Ducati gained traction. The sight of him sent a chill of cold recognition coursing through Quinn’s body, renewing the ever-present throbbing pain in his foot.

  Picking his way through the mass of dazed and injured toward where the vice president lay unconscious beside his wife, was the unmistakable bald head and black eyes of Military Interrogator First Sergeant Sean Bundy.

  Quinn planted his right foot and gassed the throttle. A rooster tail of grass and dirt spewed into the air as the little 848’s Testastretta engine spun the back tire. Deafened by the previous blast, Bundy continued on a direct path for the vice president, his right hand behind his thigh as if he carried something.

  Quinn bore down on him, ignoring the shouts of Secret Service agents as he sped past. They threatened to shoot, but the bike was fast and there were too many innocents in the way.

  Bundy’s face snapped up as the Ducati loomed at him, missing by inches. Quinn, oblivious to the pain it would cause him later, bailed off the motorcycle at speed, catching Bundy’s head in the pocket of his chest and shoulder as he flew by.

  Quinn ducked and rolled, relatively protected by his helmet and armored Transit Leathers, taking Bundy with him. He used the other man’s body to break his fall.

  All the pent-up rage from the previous interrogation rushed back into Quinn’s veins. The humiliation, the threats to his wife and daughter, the bone-crushing pain of the amputation—he’d never wanted to kill anyone as badly as he wanted to kill this man.

  The pistol that Bundy had been hiding flew out in front of them as they tumbled, landing three feet from the Echo’s outstretched hand. His left arm was twisted grotesquely backward, making it look as if it had two elbows. Facedown in the dirt, he crawled forward, lunging for the gun with his right hand. Black eyes seethed, intent on violence.

  And violence was just what Quinn gave him.

  Rather than shooting, Quinn drew Yawaraka-Te, the Japanese dirk he wore in a scabbard along his spine. Rolling forward, he planted the chisel tip of the blade square in the back of Bundy’s hand, driving it down with a satisfying crunch through muscle and bone, pinning him to the ground.

  Bundy screamed in agony as he flopped and thrashed like a trapped fish. The more he moved, the more he injured his trapped hand on Yawaraka-Te’s gleaming blade.

  Panting, Quinn raised both hands high over his head. He prayed that would be enough to stop the approaching Secret Service agents from shooting him in the back.

  Thibodaux rode up with Palmer on the rear seat of his BMW about the time the agents got Quinn into a full prone position. The national security advisor shooed the agents back and told them to see to the screaming bald man with the Japanese sword pegged through his hand.

  “You okay, l’ami?” Thibodaux said, whistling under his breath as he helped Quinn to his feet. “I ain’t gonna be the one to tell Mrs. Miyagi about her bike... .” He leaned in closer. “Let me pass you some advice. I don’t know if you know this, but you can’t fly.”

  Quinn rubbed his shoulder where it had struck Bundy’s head. “This is the guy who cut my toe off,” he said. “He must be one of the moles. He would have been helping that idiot Fargo in order to sow hate and discontent among the country. When Fargo happened to go after me with his personal vendetta and I was just returning from Central Asia, Bundy really did have some questions he wanted me to answer for Badeeb.” He looked up at Palmer. “What about the president?”

  Palmer shook his head. “Your stunt with the Osprey worked. Jimmy Doyle identified the girl with the suicide vest a half second before she detonated. He was able to push her back behind the cannon before she blew.”

  Quinn breathed sharply. “Did he make it?”

  “Poor son of a bitch saved dozens of lives ... including mine,” Palmer said. “A handful of guests on the other side of the cannon were injured by shrapnel, but young Agent Doyle and the girl were the only ones killed. Bride and groom are shaken up, but still capable of a honeymoon once the shock wears off.”

  Palmer sighed, his eyes drifting over the aftermath of the explosion. The entire area was already a sea of flashing blue and red emergency lights. “I wonder how many more are out there.”

  “Well, sir,” Quinn said, glaring at the heaving form of Sean Bundy. “Put me in a room with this guy for a few hours. I feel confident he has a story to tell... .”

  EPILOGUE

  Washington

  Ten days later

  Late October brought sapphire skies and the crisp days of an Indian summer that reminded Quinn of Alaska. Evening joggers and bicyclists ran and rode under the last few tenacious leaves that clung to oaks and sycamores along the wide paths of the Mall.

  Quinn pulled the new gunmetal-gray BMW Adventure into a curbside spot on the park side of Third Street, just down from Madison. The lighted specter of the Capitol dome rose up through the shadows to the east, beyond the Grant Memorial.

  He was happy for the warmth of his Transit Leathers and happier still that Ronnie Garcia felt well enough to go for a motorcycle ride. She sat behind him, taller on the raised pillion seat
of the GS, long arms wrapped around his waist, chest pressed tight against his back.

  His right foot still ached from Bundy’s crude torture, but periodic acupuncture treatments from Mrs. Miyagi helped him deal with the pain. And, if Quinn was anything, he was a fast healer.

  Kim and Mattie had returned to Alaska after Win Palmer saw to it that Navy SEALs removed the threat against them by storming Sheikh Husseini al Farooq’s mountain redoubt in eastern Afghanistan. Even with the sheikh dead and the danger gone, the wall Kim had thrown up remained as impenetrable as ever. She may have given up on Quinn as a husband, but he’d convinced her to give Mattie her own cell phone. As least he could have some semblance of a relationship with his little girl.

  Camille Thibodaux had been released from the hospital but ordered on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. Jacques was all too happy to take the time off and spend it keeping his boys out of her hair.

  Investigations subsequent to the Governors Island blast had revealed five more moles who had been patients of Dr. Badeeb in their youth. Among them was a precinct captain with the NYPD and the Air Force major responsible for approving Tara Doyle’s load of ordinance for her F-22.

  American Special Forces had fought October blizzards to accompany CIA paramilitary officer Karen Hunt back to the Pari School, high in the Wakhan Corridor of Eastern Afghanistan. Along with a stash of Vietnam-era U.S. Army uniforms, they found the charred remains of nine adult men and seven boys ranging in age from five to fourteen. All the boys had been shot multiple times before they burned in an apparent explosion within the mountain. Karen found the body of Sam, the boy who had befriended her, in an ice cave a half mile from the school. He, along with eleven other children, had been strangled and left to rot, presumably because they were too softhearted to carry out the doctor’s planned jihad against the United States.

  Quinn felt Ronnie shift behind him, taking off her helmet. Her long hair tickled the back of his neck as she shook it free.

  “So,” she said, “after all that, the queen of West Texas bitches was only the backup plan?”

  “Yes and no,” Quinn said. “According to Bundy/ Shadan, Amanda Deatherage was the one with the primary mission to blow herself up at the wedding. Badeeb thought Doyle would be shot down too quickly if she started with Governors Island. But with all the military overwatch tied up there, she’d have a virtual free rein with her F-22 over downtown Manhattan. The plan was for her to drop half her bombs on Times Square, then finish up over the panicked crowds at the wedding after Deatherage blew herself to pieces. Dr. Badeeb was a man who liked to control every detail. Shadan could see to it Deatherage followed through, but once Tara Doyle was in the air, they would have no tether to her. She would become a loose cannon.”

  “An attack over Times Square ...” Ronnie whispered. “She would have killed hundreds. And if the president and vice president had both died at the wedding. . .”

  “That would leave the speaker of the House next in line.”

  “So,” she said turning to look at the Capitol dome. “You think he’s in there?”

  Quinn nodded. “I do. As the new speaker, he’s moved from his basement office to a ritzy suite off the rotunda.”

  “Did Shadan give you anything you could use on him?”

  The media had reported that Sean Bundy had been among those killed in the suicide blast at Governors Island. In actuality, he was being held off American soil in a secret facility outside Parham Town in the British Virgin Islands.

  Quinn shook his head, still gazing at the lighted Capitol dome. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure Bundy knew he was involved. Badeeb was awfully good at keeping his operations compartmentalized.” He shot a glance over his shoulder to look Garcia in the eye. “But Drake’s a mole. There is zero doubt in my mind. I pulled a copy of his wife’s autopsy. Cause of death was drowning, but she had bruising and scraping consistent with being kicked in the face.”

  “You think Drake killed her?”

  “I do.” Quinn nodded. “The sympathy from her death gives him a load of public support. If Deatherage had been able to follow through and kill both the VP and the president, Drake would have waltzed right into the Oval Office. As POTUS, he could do untold damage to the stock markets, our national defense, homeland security ... you name it.”

  “So, there he sits,” Ronnie sighed. “A terrorist, two heartbeats from the presidency.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m working on that,” Quinn mused.

  “I’ll bet you are,” Ronnie chuckled, rubbing her cheek softly against Quinn’s shoulder. “You know, I’m not sure I ever really thanked you for saving my life.”

  Quinn turned to catch another glimpse of her face. The subtle odor of jasmine wafted toward him. “We’re even then. I was just returning the favor,” he said. “Speaking of you saving my life, I wonder if they’ll let us back in Cubano’s after I tore up their men’s room. Something spicy and ethnic sounds pretty good about now.”

  “It does, does it?” Ronnie nestled herself even tighter against his back, thighs warm along his hips. The buzz of her breath in his ear made him heady. “You know what I wonder? I wonder what the elevation is in Washington, D.C.”

  Quinn shrugged, holding back a grin. “Not much above sea level, I guess. Why?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking how you told me once you weren’t likely to have much resolve against my advances at elevations below ten thousand feet... .”

  “Resolve ...” Quinn nodded his head slowly as he thought, lost in the enveloping warmth of this supremely beautiful and capable woman. “That’s an interesting ques—”

  The phone at his belt began to buzz. He picked it up, sighing when he saw the caller ID. It was Kim.

  Ronnie patted his belly and gave him a playful squeeze. “Who is it?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Quinn said, more resolved than he had ever been in his life. “Let’s talk some more about these advances of yours.”

  He returned the phone to his belt and let it ring.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A book like this would not be possible without the assistance of many people so much smarter than me.

  First, I need to thank my bride, Victoria, for listening and plotting and critiquing ... and pestering me to sit down and get to work.

  My editor, Gary Goldstein, and agent, Robin Rue, are two of the easiest people to work with that I’ve ever even heard of in the business.

  Though I own and ride a BMW GS, I often turn to riding buddies when I have a question about such things as the physics and techniques of stoppies, wheelies, and flat track racing. The folks at ADVrider.com provide a great resource to keep Jericho well mounted on interesting bikes in interesting locales. Sonny Caudill, Scott Ireton, and Gary Picoult have proven to have a wealth of knowledge when it comes to all things motorized on two wheels.

  On occasion, I’ve had the opportunity to work alongside agents from Air Force OSI and the U.S. Secret Service. Due to the nature of their work, none of them want to be thanked by name. So: You know who you are—and I am in your debt.

  My martial-arts sensei, Jujitsu Master Ty Cunningham, was an invaluable help in walking me through the nuanced dynamics of real-world unarmed conflict. Thank you, my friend.

  Finally, I really should thank my barber, Linda, for spreading the word about Jericho Quinn. She’s the best public-relations representative a guy could ask for.

  And again—I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. The folks in this line of work are bound to find some tactical errors in these pages. All (I hope) are by design. The last thing I want to do is write a how-to primer for the bad guys.

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

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  Copyright © 2012 Marc Cameron

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quo
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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN: 978-0-7860-3047-7