Brute Force (26 page)

 

Q
uinn turned on the phone Kevin Bursaw had given him the moment the plane touched down at de Gaulle. As rushed as he felt to reach Seattle, Quinn was grateful for the chance to finally get a sit-rep about Ronnie. He glanced at Song while he waited to get a signal. She’d passed out the moment they’d reached altitude leaving Zagreb, telling him flying on commercial aircraft were one of the few times she could relax. Quinn had scratched flying off his list of relaxing endeavors just a few months before. Still, he was exhausted as well, and fell into a semi-conscious doze for much of the three-hour flight, letting his subconscious work through his long list of unanswered questions.

He got the signal as the Croatia Air pilot turned the little turboprop down the taxiway and headed toward the gate where they would transfer to a British Airways flight direct to Seattle. They wouldn’t leave the airport so they didn’t have to clear French Immigration.

Jacques picked up on the second ring.

“L’ami,”
the big Cajun sighed, as if relieved to finally get the call. “We got her,” he said. “She’s whole.”

Jericho let his head fall against the seatback. He closed his eyes, feeling his throat tighten at the news. He took a deep breath, working to regain his composure. “Thank you,” he said, the catch noticeable in his throat. “Is she there?”

“She is,” Thibodaux said. “But first things first . . . and this is where things get tricky. Your number-two buddy inside the Beltway . . .”

Quinn knew he meant Vice President McKeon. “Okay,” he said.

“Looks like his wife is part of it too, and Number One ain’t really in the loop, so to speak.”

“Understood,” Quinn said, running through the possible scenarios. “Can you get in touch with the boss?”

“He’s gone dark,” Thibodaux said. “But I’ve got Butterfly with me. She’s taking us to his location as we speak. I’ll get our girl all settled, then come runnin’ your way.”

Quinn ran down a thumbnail sketch of what he knew about the weapon, highlighting its size and destructive capabilities.

“Got it,” Jacques said when he was finished. “I’ll pass it up the food chain so they can get the big giant brains working on possible targets. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of,” Quinn said. “I’m sure we’ll have more after we get there.”

“That bein’ the case,” Thibodaux said. “I got somebody here who wants to talk to you.”

Ronnie came on the phone a moment later, her voice breathless and frail, like she was sedated.

“Hey, Mango,” she said. “You doin’ okay?”

Quinn let his head fall backwards again. “I’m fine,” he said. No words seemed adequate, no question quite right. “Are you okay?” he whispered.

There was a long pause, as if she needed to figure out how to answer. “I been better,” she finally said. “But I’ll mend. Sorry I got myself caught.”

Quinn felt some of the tension in his neck begin to ease at the sound of her voice. There was so much more he wanted to say, but the phone didn’t seem like the venue.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said at length, closing his eyes again and hoping it wasn’t a lie.

 

R
an Kimura squared her shoulders and cleared her mind, gently placing the black lacquered sheath on the carpet to her left, parallel to her body. Every movement with the katana, whether in practice or during the shedding of blood, she executed with reverence and perfection. She knelt in a position known as
kiza
, ignoring the Vice President, who was still in bed at the other end of the room. With the balls of her feet touching the floor and her toes flexed forward, Ran found
kiza
a much more active stance than formal
seiza
kneeling that put the tops of the feet down toward the floor and, to Ran’s way of thinking, the kneeler in a much more subservient position. Subservient she was not. Meditation in
kiza
allowed her to focus while still maintaining the ability to rise and move quickly.

Both she and McKeon were early risers, often stirring by four a.m. But where she preferred to get out of bed quickly, falling into an established regimen of exercise and battle drill, he liked to linger in his pillows, checking e-mails and watching her. With his wife still attending to her social obligations in Oregon, they spent every night together. Once his wife returned, Ran intended to make certain the troublesome woman wasn’t in the way for long.

Awake for over an hour now, McKeon had grown bored with the news on his phone and propped his pillow against the cherrywood headboard to get a better view. His tan arm trailed across her side of the bed. Long legs bent slightly, lifting the end of the tangled sheets to expose his feet. Though he was a heartbeat away from the Presidency—and arguably the most powerful man on earth—he knew enough to keep quiet while he watched.

Pink capris and a black sleeveless T-shirt accentuated powerful thighs and strong shoulders. She’d pinned up her hair, allowing a peek at the snarling
komainu
or “foo dog” that covered her back. The scoop neckline revealed the ropelike blacks and greens that that formed the borders of her tattoo. Known as a
munewari
,
the ink had been applied traditionally, by hand with a repetitive stabbing from a bundle of ink-dipped needles tied to a bamboo stick with silk thread. Scenes of feudal Japan covered her chest and torso but left a five-inch gap of untouched skin down the centerline of her body, allowing her to wear clothing that blended in more easily with the rest of polite society.

She had wanted a full-body tattoo like her father—to prove that she too was capable of enduring the repetitive pain that often took over a decade to complete. Her father had suggested the gapped
munewari
and instructed the tattoo artist to stop the design at mid-thigh and shoulders, like shorts and capped sleeves. Of course, she had yielded to such a powerful being, but had still been able to prove her stoicism and endurance by undergoing
taubushi
—complete tattooing of the tender flesh of her underarms. The weekly process of an excruciatingly painful assault with a bundle of needles took two months to complete. Even during the long days in between visits, when her skin was so sore it would have left the toughest of men whimpering—she had not uttered a sound. Each time she raised her arms in battle, any opponent would know they were dealing with a woman who could endure unfathomable pain.

She’d been fourteen years old—and her father had commissioned a new sword because of her bravery.

Leaning forward with her hands flat on the carpet in front of her, she thought of her father. Her feelings were impossible to put into words. Reverence, veneration, fear, hate—any one of them would do, depending on the moment.

But whatever her feelings for the man, there were few wiser in the ways of battle. He had taught her that a gymnasium was unnecessary in her practice. Like him, she preferred movements that utilized her own body weight, building strength while retaining her ability to move quickly—for power in battle came when strength was combined with speed.

She was practical enough to remain proficient with a firearm, but preferred the sword for its fluid movement and the concentration required for its use. Each morning, before she picked up the blade, she spent five minutes dry-firing the small Smith and Wesson revolver that was rarely out of her reach. Push-ups, handstands, sit-ups, yoga poses all had merit and kept her sharp—and she did them all first, saving the blade work, her favorite, for last.

She picked up the katana by the lacquered scabbard in her left hand, then placed it flat on the carpet in front of her, handle facing to her right. Both hands on the carpet behind the blade, she bowed deeply, then picked up the sword and placed the scabbard along her hip, as if she meant to slide it in a belt.

Most practitioners of any art involving a Japanese sword dressed the part, wearing a robe-like judo
gi
and
hakama
, the flowing pantaloons of a medieval samurai. Her father had stressed the old way, requiring his disciples to dress in traditional clothing when on the grounds of his estate—in order to “keep their minds right.” Ran found such a notion preposterous. She fought and killed in the real world—not some fantastical notion of the past. Her work was often presented to her when she was wearing a dress. Sometimes, when she had the opportunity to prepare, she wore nothing at all to keep from soiling her clothing in blood. A martial system that offered a convenient heavy-duty collar to grab or a long hem that hid the movement of the feet was more akin to a dance than a true martial way.

Ran’s father had taught her many things, but she’d learned on her own that the art of killing required no costume, no tradition, merely a will to follow through.

Drawing energy from her center, Ran used the sword and scabbard as one, first pushing straight backwards, imagining an opponent behind her. She left the scabbard to the rear, drawing the blade in a fluid motion, listening for and feeling the familiar hiss as it leapt into the air. Slashing sideways with one hand, she let the scabbard fall to the floor as she stepped forward on her right foot, bringing the blade straight down the centerline with both hands. Rising, she spun to finish the imagined opponent behind her, then dropped in an instant back to one knee, letting the sword trail behind her and slightly to one side. It was a taunting technique and one of the few things she remembered about her mother’s fighting style.

Death in a black T-shirt and pink capris.

McKeon’s cell phone began to ring.

Ran considered cutting the thing in half. Distractions occurred during battle, so she followed through with her movements until she’d returned the katana to its sheath.

She resumed the
kiza
position, holding the katana at her side, breathing deeply to center her spirit as she listened to McKeon’s side of the conversation.

From the corner of her eye she watched McKeon brighten at the call, as if it was good news. He returned a traditional Muslim greeting in English—“. . . and peace be unto you . . .”—as he customarily did when the other party had given him an
“As-Salaamu.”
He swung his long legs off the bed so he was facing away from Ran and kept his voice low. The call was over quickly and he shoved the sheets aside to walk naked to the bathroom. The smile on his face was visible in the mirror through the open door. It was the soft sort of smile he wore when he spoke to her in the shadows.

“Was it Ranjhani?” she asked.

McKeon half turned, dragged from some deep thought. The smile vanished from his lips. He nodded, the phone still in his hand as he walked. “Ranjhani,” he repeated when a simple yes would have sufficed. “I wish I had time to watch the rest of your workout, my dear,” he said, settling into his old self. “But there is a lot to finish before the trip this afternoon.”

“Certainly,” she said, her hand convulsing on the hilt of the sword, feeling the linen wraps, the roughness of the ray skin.

She knelt again, struggling to clear her mind. She listened for the hiss of the shower, the telltale metal scrape as McKeon slid the curtain open, then shut again after he’d stepped inside.

Peeling the T-shirt up over her head, Ran stepped out of the capris, one leg at a time so she wasn’t hobbled—as her father had taught her—the samurai way so she minimized the time she was vulnerable to attack. She was not actually afraid that someone might jump her while she was changing clothes, but a state of awareness, she had been taught, must be practiced at all times and in all things.

She folded her clothes in a neat pile and set them on the foot of the bed. She placed her sword beside them, covered by the sheets, but where she could reach it quickly if the need arose. Naked and bathed in sweat from her workout, she stepped quietly into the bathroom as if to join McKeon in the shower. Steam rolled over the top of the curtain, fogging the mirror even with the door open, and muting the dark images of her tattoos.

McKeon’s cell phone was beside the sink where he’d left it. Ran was stealthy if she was anything, accustomed to padding up behind her victims and slitting their throats before they even knew she was there. Gliding across the cool tile to grab the phone was child’s play and she was back in the bedroom in a flash.

Ran had watched McKeon enter the code enough that it took her only two tries to unlock the phone. She checked the list of recent calls and didn’t recognize the last number. The fact that there was a record at all was curious. She’d assumed Ranjhani was savvy enough to use a phone with no caller ID.

She closed her eyes, running through the possibilities. Then, with a complete disregard for strategy, she pushed the button to call back the last number.

It rang once before a woman came on the line.

“What’s the matter?” the voice said, breathless and flirty. “You can’t live without me for five minutes?”

Ran held the phone to her ear in complete silence. She recognized the voice as Lee McKeon’s wife—the woman Ran offered to kill at least twice a day. McKeon always had some excuse as to why they needed to let her live. It was curious that he’d lied about her phone call. They talked daily. Ran knew that. But he’d given her a traditional Muslim greeting of peace. She must have “
As Saalamed
” him—which was even more of a mystery.

Ran ended the call, turning down the volume so McKeon wouldn’t hear it if the woman smelled something off and called him back immediately. When enough time went by, McKeon would just assume he’d accidentally redialed her on the way to the bathroom—if his wife even brought it up.

Ran had just set the phone back on the counter where McKeon had left it when he slid the shower curtain open and stuck his head out.

“Thought I heard you,” he said. “I’d hoped you would come and join me.”

“Of course.” Ran forced a smile as she stepped in beside him. The lukewarm water made her feel like someone was spitting on her. She preferred her showers scalding hot, but she put up with tepid because that was what he liked.

“Here,” he said, turning her gently so he could soap her back. She put her hands against the tile wall and braced her feet on the wet tub while he scrubbed. It had always felt good, and often led to them returning to the bed, but now . . . now even his washing felt like a lie.

“We leave shortly after lunch?” she said, knowing the times by heart, but trying to settle her nerves with idle conversation.

“Yes,” McKeon said. “We’ll be at the Fairmont.” He kissed her neck, sending a flush of anger through her belly. “The Secret Service wanted him at the Four Seasons. Prime Minister Nabe will be at the Four Seasons as well, allowing them redundant security.”

“There will be an end to this, you know?” she said, both palms still flat on the tile.

“Ah,” he said, “but that end will only bring a new beginning. Drake actually believes he’s going to ride this out—hiding in some secret bunker while China lobs missiles at the rest of the country.” McKeon stood back and wiped the water from his face. “The idiot has no idea what his job entails. China will have no choice but to attack before the US retaliates for his assassination. Congress and the American people will easily see the need to leave the Middle East completely.” McKeon resumed his nibbling, taking her earlobe in his teeth. “My guess is that it will all begin to happen before the end of the week.”

He could not see it, but Ran’s eyes were clenched tight. “You should allow me to kill your wife. I fear she will be a burden to you during the conflict.”

“Not quite yet, my dear,” McKeon said, too easily for Ran’s taste. “When the time is right.”

“And what of us then?” Ran said, her eyes still shut. “Are we to ‘ride this out’ in a secret bunker?”

He held her by both shoulders. “Do not worry about us, my love,” he whispered. “All will work out as it must.”

Ran shrugged him off, spinning, pressing her face to his chest. He was so much taller it would have been easy for someone to believe he was her superior. In many ways he was. She had never met anyone so intelligent, so driven. It would be all too easy to surrender and give herself to him completely. He gathered her up in his arms and drew her to him, the way he always did. Instead, she thought of seven different ways to kill him before he stepped out of the shower.