by Marc Cameron
“You got Badeeb?” Quinn gave an almost imperceptible nod of his helmet.
“Matter of fact I do, beb.” Thibodaux rolled on the gas and tore down the narrow street. Just before he reached Badeeb, he extended his left arm like a jousting knight-directly at the startled doctor.
The cigarette fell from Badeeb’s lips a split second before the armored knuckles of the Cajun’s huge right glove obliterated his nose.
Quinn grabbed a handful of front brake, squeezed until he felt the back end lighten, then pushed forward with his legs to bring the bike onto its front wheel in a sort of reverse wheelie known as a stoppie. Rolling on the front wheel, Quinn used his body weight to throw the back wheel around, executing a snap hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. It was a move he’d practiced with his brother hundreds of times on a slew of different bikes. Bo called it their patented “going-the-other-way maneuver.”
Quinn hit the gas as soon as the little red Ducati’s rear wheel settled back on the pavement. Smoke flew up in a whirring rooster tail while the tire found its grip. As his head whipped around he watched the door to the yellow brick building swing shut behind the dark Elvis.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Mujaheed Beg paused inside the building, sniffing the stale air. He hadn’t lived this long by rushing headlong into things-not even simple jobs like strangling old women. For this, he would use his old friend, the wire garrote. At least that would bring some enjoyment. He’d not been able to employ it on the congressman’s mistress-too much blood. Such a thing wouldn’t matter in the dark, cage-like atmosphere Li Huang called home. Residents were unlikely to notice a dead dog rotting in the hallway of such a place, much less a little blood on the stained wooden floor.
People hacked and coughed behind low walls up and down the narrow corridors as if the place were a tuberculosis ward. The strangled gurgles of a dying woman would draw no attention at all. Under the sullen light of a dusty hallway bulb, any blood that made it under the doorway would be hard to identify until long after Beg was gone. In any case, most, if not all, of the rabbits in this warren of rooms were illegal aliens and were highly unlikely to call the authorities-even to report a murder.
A long stairway gaped upward to the Mervi’s right. The chattering riot of a Chinese game show, sirens from police dramas, and dramatic dialogue of historical romances tumbled down from the black hole above, mixing with the sour smell of human confinement. It was early enough in the evening that most of the inmates-that’s how Beg thought of them-were still out working the sidewalks or stuck in a basement sweatshop sewing the sleeves on clothing for American consumers so they could proudly say they bought products made in the U.S.A.
Halfway down the smoky hall, an old man with wisps of gray hair like moldy cotton candy squatted, backlit by a grimy window leading out to the fire escape. A hotplate of boiling noodles and fish bubbled on the floor beside him. Like the rest of the place, he reeked of day-old alcohol and sweat.
Li Huang’s wooden door was just beyond the old man, under an exposed row of radiator pipes that ran like monkey bars across the stained ceiling.
Beg put a hand inside the pocket of his jacket, feeling for the wooden handles and reassuring coil of sharp wire. He walked past the old man, considering whether he would have to kill him or not on the way out. The old man was bony and frail as a stalk of drought-parched wheat, and such a thing wouldn’t be hard.
Li Huang normally stayed at one of the Badeebs’ much more comfortable homes on Long Island or in Pennsylvania. Out of an abundance of caution-and to get her in a place that he could more easily have her killed with no link to him-the doctor had asked her to hide in this horribly filthy hotel used by Chinese Snake-heads to hide their illegal human cargo until they paid off their debts.
State prison inmates had larger accommodations. Each room was barely six by eight feet, topped with chicken-wire mesh in a halfhearted attempt to discourage thieves. Devoted to terroristic jihad-she called it sheng zhan — Li Huang had readily traded her middle-class home for this wretched place that smelled like a restaurant trash Dumpster-all for the sake of keeping her dear husband’s plans safe.
And now that same husband had sent a very deadly man to kill her.
Beg knocked on the flimsy, hollow-core door, feeling more of a rush than he’d anticipated. Perhaps it was the fact that he had shared tea with this woman dozens of times while he’d discussed plans with her husband.
The door creaked opened a crack to expose one rheumy eye and the glint of charcoal hair.
Knowing that she would surely have a weapon, Beg didn’t wait to be invited in. The door gave easily to his weight and Li Huang fell backward in the tiny room, slamming her head against the edge of the wood two-by-four frame that made up her simple bed.
Li Huang flailed out as she fell, knocking over a rickety bedside table and sending a ceramic reading lamp crashing to the bare wooden floor.
Trembling fingers reached up to touch the knot where her head had struck the bedframe. They came back red with blood. Narrow eyes flitted back and forth around the room looking for a nonexistent escape route as Beg slowly took the wire garrote from his pocket. He grasped the wooden handles in each hand. Li Huang was a proud woman. She would not be a screamer as some were. He could take his time.
Staring up at him, her nostrils flared. Her tongue flicked against her lips, snakelike.
“Why?” she demanded, though the stricken pain in her eyes said she already had her answer.
Beg shrugged. There was no need to explain.
“My husband sent you?” Cold realization flushed across her face.
Beg bounded forward without speaking. He grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her away from the bed. Instead of fighting back, she threw a hand to her throat. Beg couldn’t help but shake his head. Such a weak defense would do precious little good against the unforgiving wire noose. This would be over much more quickly than even he had anticipated. The doctor was right, he thought, as he zipped the razor-sharp wire tight. She did smell like old fruit.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Quinn left the Ducati at the curb and sprinted up the short concrete stoop. He didn’t have to look back, trusting that Thibodaux had already sacked up Dr. Badeeb.
Removing his helmet, he gripped it in his left hand as he pushed open the door. Having the Arai gave him a good cover story if someone stopped him, and it made for a formidable weapon if he had to whack someone in the running lights without killing them.
Once inside the door he entered a dim lobby with chipped tile. The rusted mail cubbies along the wall to his left were covered with old bits of tape displaying the numbers of the rooms-but no names. A long staircase ran up to a dark hallway to his right.
Moving by instinct over intellect, Quinn padded quickly up the stairs, right hand covering the butt of his Kimber. The cry of a squalling baby met him at the top. Cell-like rooms lined the wall to his left; chicken wire covered the dusty windows facing the street on his right. The cloying desperation of the place reminded him of his time in the fake PRONA prisoner-of-war camp in SERE school.
The only other soul in the hallway was an old man squatting beside a boiling pot. Quinn raised an eyebrow in the universal sign for: “I’m here to help if you want it.”
The old man sat back on his haunches, heels flat on the floor as he stirred the steaming soup. He said nothing, but his watery eyes flicked up the dark hall.
A strangled cry two doors down confirmed the dark man’s location. Quinn had heard the sound all too many times before. It was woman-and she was dying.
Bounding past the boiling pot of fish, Quinn shouldered his way through the door to find his target, full Elvis pompadour hanging low across his brow from his exertions with the thrashing old woman in front of him. Li Huang had thrown a boney hand to her neck, but the thin garrote wire had already bitten deeply into the exposed flesh. Blood spilled from the terrifying wound as if from a fountain. The front of her tan cotton blouse glistened dark red.
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The killer looked up with a start. He bared white teeth and tossed his head to get the hair out of his eyes. He gave a sudden yank on the garrote, severing one of the woman’s fingers and giving the deadly wire more access to the vital arteries and windpipe. The finger landed with a sickening thump on the floor next to her trembling leg, its manicured nail clicking against the wood.
Quinn swung his motorcycle helmet like a war club, connecting with evil Elvis’s forehead. The man staggered backward, releasing his grip on the garrote so it slipped off Li Huang’s neck. He sprawled against the low wooden bed with the weapon, glinting with fresh blood, dangling in one hand. Quinn dragged the injured woman toward the door. She slumped against the wall, clutching her neck with both hands in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood.
Elvis bounced back from the bed, regaining his feet in an instant. Pressing forward, he flicked the wooden handle of the garrote at Quinn like a whip. He pushed the fallen lock of black hair out of his face and stood breathing for a long moment, lip twitching into a half sneer. A heartbeat later, he sprang, rushing forward and causing Quinn to regret not shooting him as soon as he’d entered the room.
Both men tumbled backward, out the flimsy door and into the narrow confines of the hall. They crashed into the chicken-wire wall in a writhing heap, pulling the wire away and exposing dusty, distorted glass of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The soup man abandoned his hot plate and scuttled into the dark recesses of the corridor.
Quinn used his opponent’s momentum against him, grabbing a fistful of cloth at both shoulders and hauling him face-first into the glowing red coils of the hot plate. He yowled in pain as the element seared his cheeks, branding him with concentric circles. The pungent odor of scorched flesh and singed hair filled the hall as he rolled away, reversing directions quickly to come after Quinn again. As they crashed together, he stomped on Quinn’s injured foot as if he sensed the weakness.
Riding on waves of nauseating pain, Quinn was barely able to keep from vomiting. Somehow, his hand caught the warm wood of a garrote handle. He flailed with the other, connecting with the opposite handle that the dark Elvis still clutched in his fist. Locked in a clench around the deadly garrote, they stood face-to-face, gasping, close enough Quinn could smell the soapy scent of the oil in his hair.
Quinn cursed himself again for not shooting the man in the first place. He felt himself fading. Exposure to extreme altitude, cold, torture, and lack of sleep piled on in a relentless scrum of crushing fatigue.
Dark Elvis sensed the lapse of strength and reacted with instant fury. He shoved forward with powerful legs, driving Quinn backward toward the hazy light of the fire escape window.
Fighting dizziness, Quinn leaned in for a split second, remembering his jujitsu instructor’s credo: When pushed, pull. He wanted to be certain his opponent was fully committed. Without warning, he gave way, pedaling backward to bring the evil Elvis with him. Quinn’s fists shot in and upward, crossing in front of the surprised man’s throat before looping the taut wire up and over his head of slicked hair.
Quinn let his right leg collapse under his butt as he used his opponent’s momentum to drag him along. Rolling backward on his shoulders, he planted his left foot in the other man’s gut, throwing him in a forward somersault over Quinn’s head.
Glass shattered, raining down on the combatants as the force of the dark man’s momentum propelled his body through the chicken wire and out the window.
Quinn gripped the ends of the garrote, feeling the sudden heavy tug as his opponent’s weight slammed against the wire. The handles suddenly grew light in Quinn’s hands. He rolled to his side, fearing the wire had broken and expecting to continue the fight.
Instead, Dark Elvis’s head landed in the dim hallway with a sickening thud, black eyes squinting, fallen pompadour sulking across a furrowed brow. His body lay in a heap outside the broken window on the rusted fire escape grating.
Pounding footsteps brought Thibodaux bounding up the stairs, pistol extended and ready in his beefy hand. He slid to a stop, staring in slack-jawed disgust.
Quinn pushed himself up on one knee, blinking and wincing in pain from his throbbing foot. “Where’s Badeeb? You didn’t kill him, did you? We’re supposed to see what he knows.”
The Cajun sighed. “Sucker swallowed a little magic coward pill before I could even unass my bike. NYPD is sacking up the body.” He tipped his gun barrel toward the severed head. “Anyhow, you got no room to chastise me. I guess the King’s not gonna do much talking either.” He did a passable Elvis impersonation, complete with quivering upper lip. “Thank you, thank you very much.”
“No, he’s not talking.” Quinn struggled to his feet, using the wall for support. “But maybe someone else will.
A red smear followed on the wooden floor behind Li Huang where she had dragged herself to the edge of her bed. Dark, arterial blood seeped between the gaps of bony fingers clenched at her neck, ebbing and flowing in time with the weakening beat of her heart. Her lips had gone a chalky blue.
Quinn knelt beside her. “We have an ambulance en route.” He took a piece of QuikClot gauze from the black Cordura wound kit in his pocket and applied it to her neck. Even as he worked, he knew the injury was too great to save her.
“My husband… responsible… for this,” she croaked. The glistening gray white sheath of her windpipe was visible through the sagging wound, moving when she spoke. “… faithful… to that… dog… fifteen years…”
“And yet he wanted you dead,” Quinn said, slowly shaking his head. This woman had surely been a party to the deaths of untold numbers of innocents. It was difficult for him to muster much sympathy. “Why?”
“… hate him,” she gasped.
“I believe I can save you,” Quinn lied. “But you have to tell me what you know.”
“Too late…” Her voice came in ragged whispers, like the worn-out remnants of a sobbing cry.
“Your husband ordered you murdered,” Quinn said, keeping firm pressure on the old woman’s wound. “Are you going to protect him after that?”
“It is a girl,” Li Huang whispered, lapsing into Mandarin. “She will kill them all.”
Quinn shot a glance at Thibodaux, nodding. “We took the girl into custody,” he said, following the woman into her native language. “Before she could get in her airplane.”
“Not Tara…” The old woman shook her head. The move was slight, but enough to start the wound bleeding again in earnest. “Tara was… insurance…”
Her eyes fluttered, dimming.
Quinn held her chin with his free hand. “What is her name?” he asked, still in Chinese. “This other girl? Where is she?”
“Vice president’s wife… new assistant… they will kill your president…” The old woman tried to swallow. “Could… I have… water?” Dried saliva flaked white at the corners of slack lips.
“They?” Quinn asked, his face just inches from the dying woman.
“There… is a man… He… he…” She coughed, drawing a series of rattling breaths. “What time is it?”
Thibodaux looked at his watch. “Just after five,” he said.
A wan smile crossed Li Huang’s sallow face. “It does not matter anymore.” She shook her head for the last time. “You are too late-”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Quinn laid the old Chinese woman’s lifeless body on her rude wooden bed. Shaking off the hollow pit of abject fatigue, he reached in the pocket of the Transit jacket for his phone and glanced up at Thibodaux as he punched in the number for Palmer.
The big Cajun stood, staring down at the gaping wound in the old woman’s neck, jaws loose again as if he might be sick. “I don’t reckon I was ever around a people so keen on cuttin’ one another’s heads off…”
“Do me a favor,” Quinn said.
“Huh?” Thibodaux looked up as if from a trance.
“Get Smedley back on the horn. Ask him to get his Osprey here on the double. We have to get o
ut to that wedding.”
“She said, ‘he,’ ” Thibodaux mused. “Got any notion who ‘he’ is?”
“Could be anybody,” Quinn said, waiting for his call to connect.
Thibodaux grunted his agreement and went to work.
“Dammit,” Quinn spat. He got the fast busy signal that told him something was going on with the cell tower handling his call. He pressed redial but heard the same rapid series of beeps.
“Mine’s not going through either.” The big Cajun met his gaze. “I’m gettin’ zip.”
“Then we’ll deliver the message in person.” Quinn was already trotting toward the stairs.
Thibodaux still had the cell phone pressed to his ear as he ran beside Quinn. His face suddenly brightened. “It’s ringing.” He handed Jericho the phone.
Smedley picked up on the third ring. His phone was connected via Bluetooth to his Lightspeed headset and the lawnmower thump of the V-22’s Rolls-Royce engines was barely audible in the background.
“Smeds,” Quinn said. “It’s me, Copper. Where you been? Your phone wasn’t working.”
“Just dropped off a load of Castle Guards at the venue,” the pilot said, referring to the Secret Service detail. “The place is swarming with those sunglass-wearin’ dudes-and I gotta tell you, they all look like they’re itching to shoot someone.”
“Yeah, well, me too, Jared,” Quinn said. “Me too. So where are you now?”
“Setting down at the heliport by the ferry terminal. Why?”
“The moles must have a cell phone jammer on the island,” Quinn mused, as much to himself as Smedley. “I can’t get through to Palmer and your phone was in-op while you were over there.”
“Want me to get a message on the military frequency?” the major asked. “It was working fine.”
Standing at the Ducati now, Quinn paused to sort his thoughts. He was hurt and exhausted, dead on his feet. It was moments like this when he couldn’t afford to make snap decisions. But it was one of the great paradoxes of his life that in moments like this, snap decisions were all he had time for.