Brute Force (21 page)

Quinn, who’d come in diagonally from the tree, intercepted Bursaw and they reached the back driveway at the same moment. Bursaw stopped in his tracks, pistol in hand watching the taillights flash between the trees down the road to the highway and Dubrovnik.

“They took her,” he said, panting.

“Took who?”

“Song,” Bursaw said, nodding toward a lifeless body that sprawled along the gravel drive. “Looks like she killed one of them, but I saw her face in the back window of the car as they pulled away. They got her.”

The fleeing car was too far away to chase on foot, so Quinn spun on his heels immediately, running for the stable of motorcycles out front.

“
It’s probably a trap,” Bursaw panted, struggling to keep up.

“Of course, it’s a trap,” Quinn said.

Bursaw dug in his pocket as they broke through the crowd and nodded toward a blue GS, gleaming under the red and white lights. “That one is mine. It’s plenty fast.”

“Fast isn’t enough.” Quinn shook his head, going straight for Bursaw’s nephew. “Sorry, Craig,” he said, snatching the astonished man’s car keys from his hand and sprinting for the Hellcat. “I need fast and brutal.”

 

C
amille Thibodaux nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of the doorbell. The boys were down in the basement watching cartoons with strict instructions to stay there. She snatched a five-shot Ruger .357 revolver Jacques had given her from the gun safe above the medicine cabinet in her master bathroom and held it behind her right thigh while she went to answer the door. She was fairly certain she knew who it was, but considering the fact that she had a government agent tied to her bed, the gun seemed a prudent measure. Hand on the knob, she rehearsed the lines she’d played over and over in her head since making the call, then took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Hi,” Kimberly Quinn said, her voice perkier than her face said it should be. “Sorry it took me a minute to get here. My physical therapist was busy torturing me.”

It was easy to see what had attracted Jericho to his ex-wife. She was petite and pretty—Jacques called her “pretite”—with flaxen hair and blue eyes that were large and round, if a little on the accusatory side. She wore a loose black T-shirt that said:
I FIGHT LIKE A GIRL
! in bold pink letters. Her khaki capris said she didn’t care about hiding the above-the-knee metal prosthetic that had replaced the leg she’d lost to a sniper months before. She carried a large purse slung over one shoulder and a metal cane in the opposite hand. Camille knew she’d been able to walk without a cane until a kidnapping attempt on her daughter in Crystal City had reinjured her leg and sent her back to physical therapy. The same incident had also made it impossible for her to travel with her daughter, who was now stashed with friends in Russia to protect her from the present administration. The fact that she was separated from her child pressed Kim Quinn down more than even the loss of her leg. Camille could not imagine how she’d react if she had to give up her kids, even for a week. Mattie Quinn had been gone over a month.

Kim smiled, but it was forced, following the civilized norms of talking to the wife of your ex-husband’s best friend. “You said this was something important?”

Camille pushed the door open wider, looking up and down the residential street in front of her house before stepping back inside. “Come on in,” she said. “Were you followed?”

“No,” Kim said, grimacing a little at the question. “I don’t think so.”

Camille couldn’t really blame her. Jacques worked with Jericho on a daily basis, and as such they’d become entwined in his new life. His friends were their friends—and that included his girlfriend, Veronica Garcia. Camille had met Kim Quinn several times, and even liked her, but she didn’t know her well, and certainly not well enough to ask her to do what she was about to.

“I’ll cut right to it,” Camille said as soon as she’d shut the door. “How much do you know about what Jericho and Jacques do for a living?”

Kim’s blue eyes flew wide at the sight of the revolver. “Sorry,” Camille said, “this’ll make a little more sense in a minute.”

Kim appeared to relax a notch. “I know some, of course,” she said. “How could I not? I mean he’s taken our daughter halfway around the world. Are they all right?”

Camille nodded quickly. “They’re fine,” she said, the rest gushing out like a waterfall. “At least I think so. To tell you the truth I don’t know. I don’t know anything really. I haven’t heard from Jacques in over two weeks, but the last time we spoke, they were both doing okay. He told me he had to go dark for a while. I understand, but you never get used to something like that.”

Kim nodded. “I hear that.”

“I’m sorry I had to drag you into this,” Camille said, getting control of her emotions. “But I literally don’t know who else to call.”

“How much do
you
know about what they do?” Kim asked.

“Jacques is a talker,” she said, “but he knows how to keep a secret too. I know they’re into things that aren’t exactly in the published job description for the Marine Corps or OSI.”

“No kidding,” Kim said, shivering a little.

“Again . . .” Camille said, the rehearsed words sounding stupid in her head now, “I’m sorry to get you involved, but—”

“Involved in what?”

A muffled cry, followed by a series of hollow thumps came from down the hall.

“Come with me,” Camille said, nodding toward the sound. “It’s easier if I just show you.”

All the blood drained from Kimberly Quinn’s face when she saw the man tied spread-eagled to Camille’s bed. She spun as quickly as she could on the prosthetic leg to leave the bedroom and walked back toward the front door. Even after Camille explained what had happened, she insisted that they call the police. It took five agonizing minutes to convince her that the agent tied to the bed had something to do with the work Jacques and Jericho did—something in which they were both already deeply embroiled. He was IDTF, Camille had reasoned. The police would believe his story over hers, no matter the circumstances.

Ten minutes after she’d arrived, Kim Quinn gave her tentative agreement to help. After spending two minutes in the room with Joey Benavides, any reservations flew out the window.

“Do you bitches have any idea who you’re dealing with?” Benavides said, finally working himself free of the gag Camille had stuffed in his mouth. He arched his back in time with his words, like a flopping fish trying to make a point. “Let! Me! Go!”

His wrists were red and swollen from his thrashing to get free of the cuffs. The sheets were sodden with blood that wept from the stab wound in his right hand. Even as his face was stricken with terror, he resorted to threats and hollow bravado to try to get his way. He leered at Kim, eyeing her prosthetic leg with a vaporous smirk. “Can you hear what I’m telling you? Gimp your ass over here and turn me loose.”

Kim ignored him, her arms folded across her chest, thinking. She looked up suddenly, startling Camille. “Jericho hides little lock pick thingies and blades in the seams of his clothes,” she said, nodding at Benavides.

“You’re right,” Camille said. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She went to Jacques’s drawer of “Important Tactical Shit” in his bureau. Among the dozens of assorted knives, she found one with a small and very sharp curved blade.

Benavides resisted when she’d first started, but the sight of Kim standing back with the revolver aimed at his head, and Camille with the razor-sharp blade a whisper away from his soapy flesh left him a silent, trembling blob. Camille was horrified to find a small pistol in a holster on the man’s ankle as she cut away his slacks. Thankfully, she’d not given him a chance to get to it. Not wanting to chance missing another weapon, she even took his socks.

“And that,” Kim nodded to the heavy gold necklace around Joey’s thick neck. Camille grimaced as she reached to pick it up from the matted thatch of curly black hair on his flabby chest. Jacques had plenty of chest hair, but he also had lots of muscle. Joey looked more like a fuzzy, half-deflated beach ball. She yanked the necklace away, snapping the clasp so she wouldn’t have to get too close.

Shuddering, she threw the necklace and shredded clothes in the corner of the bedroom and then locked the pistol in the closet safe. Her boys were smart and knew about gun safety, but they were still boys. Even with a man tied to her bed, she didn’t want more than one gun out at a time.

Now wearing only a dingy pair of briefs, Joey B transitioned from threats to tears. A ponderous belly rippled in time with his pleading sobs.

“Pleeeeeease,” he whimpered. “You have to let me go.”

Camille whispered something in Kim’s ear. She nodded slowly, thinking things through, and then stepped out of the room. Camille leaned toward the door. “Ask Dan!” she shouted. “He’ll know where Jacques keeps it.” She turned back to a quiet Joey B. “You mentioned that Ronnie Garcia has been arrested.”

He looked up at her, rolling carpy lips until they turned white.

Camille bumped the bed with her hip. “Where is she?”

Benavides clenched his eyes shut. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Sure you can,” she said. “I’m just a weak little housewife. What harm could it do?”

Benavides turned his face away. “That would get us all killed.”

“You let me worry about that,” Camille said, trying to mimic Jacques’s tone. “Where is Ronnie Garcia?”

“I’m telling you I don’t know!” he wailed.

“No,” Camille said. “You told me you couldn’t tell me. That’s different. I’m thinking you’re the sort of creep who would make it his business to know where they put the pretty women.”

Kim walked in, lugging a red metal toolbox with both hands. She looked at Camille and gave it a rattle to get Joey’s attention.

His head snapped around. His lips quivered. “What’s that for?”

Kim shrugged. “You know,” she said. “A little of this, a little of that.” Camille was surprised at this new steely calm in her voice.

“It’s not too late to turn back.” Joey began to hyperventilate, eyes pleading to Kim. “You didn’t stab me. You’re not the one who tied me to the bed. You don’t have to be a part of this.”

Kim took a deep breath. “Jericho always says I should trust my gut instinct,” she said. “And my gut tells me you are somehow connected with the people who shot me.”

Joey began to writhe wildly, popping loose the fitted sheet from the mattress. “No,” he said. “I’m not. I got no idea what happened to you. I don’t even know you. I am IDTF. You have to let me go!”

Camille took the toolbox from Kim and set it on the ground at their feet without a word.

 

 

Joey Benavides watched in abject horror as the two women ducked down beside the bed, and out of his sight. The stab wound made his hand feel like it was being eaten by ants and throbbed enough to make him lose his mind. His wrists were about to snap into pieces and he was pretty sure he’d sprained both his ankles fighting against the ropes. Unable to see over the edge of the bed, he raised his head and strained to hear what these crazy women were saying over the rapid thudding of his heartbeat in his ears. They whispered so he caught only snippets of muffled conversation.

“. . . No, no, not that one,” the blond one said.

A series of clanks and bangs followed before Camille Thibodaux stood, holding a ballpeen hammer. The blonde used a chair to pull herself up. Her eyes were cruel and devoid of forgiveness. She grasped a large pair of channel-lock pliers like a club.

“Now, wait, wait, wait,” Joey stammered, feeling as if he was coming unhinged. “I . . . you . . . I mean I didn’t mean any harm. . . .”

“
Beh
,” Camille said, in the Italian equivalent of a verbal shrug. “I’m sure you didn’t expect it to come to this,” she said. “I would have been so docile and compliant if only you’d been able to get that roofie into my sweet tea without me catching you.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he pleaded, “what about your kids?” He licked his lips. “You can’t do this with little kids in the house.”

Camille gave him a pitiless smile. “My husband and I make a lot of noise in this room. That’s why we have so many kids. He made sure the door was heavy enough to deaden any sound.” Her laugh was cold and heartless. “Besides, they’re boys. They wouldn’t notice a stick of dynamite if it went off in the middle of their cartoons.”

The room began to close in around Benavides. He’d been in his share of bad fights. He’d thought his boss might shoot him. Hell, he’d even been afraid Jacques Thibodaux was going to kill him, but he’d never in his life been as terrified of anything as he was of these two insane women. The blond one didn’t say much, just held the heavy pliers like she intended to start yanking off important parts. He began to jerk against his restraints in earnest, past the point of feeling any pain.

Camille stepped to the edge of the bed, studying his knees with her cruel black eyes. Nearly out of his mind, he locked on the ballpeen hammer. “Wh . . . what are you going to do with that?”

“To tell you the truth,” she whispered. “I don’t really know. Guess we’ll just keep trying stuff ’til we hit on something that does the trick.”