Act of Terror jq-2

by Marc Cameron

  “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 the 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.

  Garcia’s Russian father had blessed her with broad shoulders and a strong jaw, but in a roundabout way, he’d also given her the reason she needed to consistently hit the gym. Peter Dombrovski had been attracted to women he described with the Yiddish word zaftig. While Veronica was by no means fat, her Cuban mother had been a round woman, passing on her own ample hips. They were perfectly suited for birthing babies but gave her a tendency toward what Ronnie’s ex-husband referred to as “ghetto booty.” To spite the jerk, she ran twenty miles a week and did a kick-butt kettle-bell workout on the days she didn’t run.

  Garcia blotted at her hair with a second towel and looked down past the hard-earned collection of tomboy scars on bronze knees. She considered her somewhat stubby toes against the puddle of water and shook her head, sighing softly to herself. As a member of the CIA’s uniformed Security Protective Service, she hardly had time for shaving her legs, let alone the niceties of painting her toenails. Her dark complexion made much makeup unnecessary and her busty figure put her at constant risk of not being taken seriously in the law enforcement world.

  Jane Clayton, a svelte marathon runner from Human Resources, stood ten feet away at a bank of stainless-steel sinks. She fluffed her mousy pageboy hairdo with a blow dryer, wearing only a sensible gray skirt and white sports bra. The lunchtime workout crowd had all gone and she was the only other person in the locker room. The two women were acquainted, but not well, and in a place where trust was a seldom-traded commodity, not knowing someone well was tantamount to being total strangers.

  They’d finished their workouts at roughly the same time, but Clayton didn’t have to bother with all the weapons and gear Ronnie was faced with. She finished dressing and stepped into a pair of shiny black Danskos while Ronnie still wrestled to mash her boobs-which were proportionally in perfect harmony with her hips-into the impossible space provided by her female-cut ballistic vest.

  “Time for a coffee?” Ronnie asked, securing the wide straps of her vest under her armpits.

  “Gotta have my double almond latte.” Clayton shrugged smallish shoulders. Her eyes darted to the locker room door, as if she’d said too much already. Overly talkative people didn’t do well at the CIA.

  “Maybe I’ll see you there then.” Ronnie smiled.

  “Maybe.” Clayton picked up her gym bag. She tipped her head toward the pile of gear arranged on the bench next to Ronnie. “My boss needs a staffing report, like, ten minutes ago. You still have a half an hour worth of crap to put on…”

  “I suppose so.” Ronnie’s heart sank as she watched Clayton scuttle out the door. She looked down at the be
nch in front of her. Just putting on her patrol boots would take a couple of minutes. There was a wide gun belt, the heavy leather retention holster for her Glock forty-caliber pistol, two extra magazines of ammunition, handcuffs, a wad of keys, pepper spray, a brick-sized radio, a flashlight, and an X26 Taser. It was no wonder her lower back ached. Even with her tendency toward a ghetto booty, there was hardly enough room around her waist.

  Garcia had set a goal to make at least one friend outside her law enforcement circle. She’d have to hurry if she wanted to share a coffee with Jane Clayton.

  Eight minutes later Ronnie walked quickly past the Manchu Wok and the Sbarro Pizza, weaving in and out of scattered tables of late-lunch diners. Tables of “heritage speakers”-second-generation citizens, each having passed the stringent background requirements of the CIA-sat in small, ethnocentric groups scattered throughout the food court. Ronnie said hello in Spanish to three dark-skinned girls she knew from the Cuban Desk and smiled at a round table of Sudanese women chattering in Arabic under black hijab headscarves. She kept an eye open for Jane Clayton and thought idly about how young everyone was at the CIA. It reminded her more of a college campus than a hard-nosed intelligence agency.

  With no sign of Clayton in the crowd, Ronnie gave up and stopped at the Starbucks to order a tall Americano. When she’d first joined the uniformed ranks of the Agency, it had come as a surprise that Starbucks had found its way into the nation’s clandestine stronghold.

  She smiled at Martha Newman, who worked alone behind the counter.

  Newman was a kindly granny of a woman with a blue-gray sweater to match her hair and a face that held a map of lines as enigmatic as the Kryptos sculpture outside CIA Headquarters. According to Agency legend, Ms. Martha had ridden a motorcycle through South America with her arms wrapped around Che Guevara and had, on more than one occasion, shared a bed with Fidel Castro. When asked, Martha would only smile and utter a few romantic Spanish phrases about her heart.