Act of Terror (36 page)

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Authors: Marc Cameron

BOOK: Act of Terror
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PILOGUE
Washington
Ten days later
 
L
ate 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
 
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
 
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 quotes used in reviews.
 
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
 
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.
 
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-3047-7
 

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