Brute Force (30 page)

“What?” she said, turning away from the mirror to help him with his cuff links.

“Nothing,” Quinn said. He didn’t say it, but he was glad “Killer Queen” Song was back.

 

C
lay Gillette, the sandy-haired lead agent for Lee McKeon’s Secret Service detail, used his knuckles to rap on the back window of the black Cadillac. He was noticeably twitchy, casting worried looks toward the woods on the long hill across the highway from the airport. As the official limousine of the Vice President, the Caddy was code-named “Trailbreaker.” It was fully armored with steel plating and equipped with exterior microphones, dual batteries, smoke machines, and windows that were nearly two inches thick.

The windows would not roll down, so McKeon pushed open the heavy door.

“You asked to be informed, Mr. Vice President,” Gillette said. “Air Force One is wheels-down in two minutes.”

“Well.” McKeon chuckled. “Half an hour of shaking hands and kissing babies with the reception committee and we should be in position to bring rush hour traffic to a standstill. That should ingratiate us to Seattle locals.”

“That’s what we’re here for, sir,” Gillette said, his face impassive. It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking.

McKeon thanked the agent and pulled the door shut. He looked across the leather seat at Ran, who stared out the window in the other direction. Never a particularly vocal person, she’d grown even more distant in the last two days. In anyone else McKeon would have chalked the behavior up to nerves, but he wasn’t sure Ran Kimura was ever nervous about anything.

Beyond the vice presidential motorcade was a second line of marked cars from Seattle PD and the Washington State Patrol. A dozen police motorcycles that were part ceremonial and part intersection-blockers queued up in the front. Three black Cadillac limousines, identical to McKeon’s, sat flanked by a half dozen Chevy Suburbans of the same color. The “straphanger” vehicles were used to transport presidential staff and other nonessentials who were not included in the Secret Service protective package. They’d been provided by the Seattle office. The “Beast,” as they called the POTUS Cadillac, along with Trailbreaker, and hardened decoys for both limousines had been flown in earlier that day on two Air Force C17s.

McKeon looked out the tinted window, past his contingent of twitchy Secret Service agents, as the blue-and-white 747 seemed to float in slowly from the south. The Air Force colonel at the controls touched down without a bounce. The big bird’s engines whined as they pushed her along the taxiway.

Staged vehicles began to move the moment the ramp attendant chocked the 747’s wheels. Motorcycles roared past, setting up in the front of the motorcade. A marked Washington State Patrol lead car pulled in behind the bikes with the Beast rolling up next. A suited agent stood with his hand in the air, directing the limo driver to align the rear door perfectly with the end of a red carpet rolled out below the portable air stairs. A Secret Service muscle Suburban bristling with agents with heavy weapons came up next, followed by the decoy limo and several straphanger sedans and other marked police units. McKeon quit bothering to count after he got to fifteen. A rambunctious press gaggle had formed behind a rope barrier on the other side of the limo, away from the plane. Local luminaries, including the governor of Washington, two congressmen, and a handful of generals from Joint Base Lewis-McChord, formed the greeting party. Two Air Force NCOs in Class A uniforms stood at attention at the base of the air stairs.

“Look at all those buffoons,” Ran said without bothering to turn around. “Standing around to touch the hand of the nation’s biggest idiot.”

“It’s a much smaller group than it should be.” McKeon sighed. “Half the delegation in Washington hates us and the other half are terrified of being implicated in an IDTF investigation. I had to have David Crosby threaten most of these into showing up. All the love and adulation keeps POTUS’s mind off of us.”

Drake appeared in the open doorway of the aircraft a moment later, dressed like a peacock in a dark suit and flamboyant yellow bow tie.

“Watch him pause as if he is a magazine model,” Ran said, her voice dripping with disgust. “And now he turns to flex his puffed chest so the press can have plenty of B-roll. It is pornographic. . . .”

McKeon opened the door and stood by the limo while he waited for Drake to schmooze with the congressmen. The fact that there was not a single female staffer among the military contingent was not lost on McKeon. Word of the President’s ruttish behavior had evidently trickled down from the Joint Chiefs, who had to live with it every day. Waving again at the press corps, Drake turned and said something to the nearest Secret Service agent. A moment later, Agent Gillette spoke into the mic on his lapel, then stepped up to McKeon.

“He’d like you to join him in his limo for a moment,” Gillette said. “We can drive you up, sir.”

“That’s all right, Clay,” McKeon said. “I’d like to stretch my legs.” Ran came around from the other side of the limo and stood beside him.

Five agents formed up in a loose diamond around the pair as they walked the twenty meters between the two limos. Always vigilant, they were more agitated than usual, as if they sensed something bad was going to happen on this trip.

Drake’s face twisted into a dark scowl when McKeon sat down in the backseat of the Beast facing him. Ran ducked her head to follow him in and sat to his immediate right.

“Is everything all right, Mr. President?” McKeon said, smiling softly as a detail agent shut the door behind him, giving the three their privacy.

“No, it is not,” Drake said. “Hell, the last briefing I got on the plane has half the people in the world thinking I need to be impeached. Every network is carrying this garbage news poll as breaking news.” He shook his head, staring off into space the way he did when he was frozen by the stress of his job—which happened more and more every day. “And that doesn’t count the large portion of the population who think it would be a good idea if someone assassinated me.”

“Nonsense,” McKeon said.

“Is it?” Drake said, raising his eyebrow and giving McKeon a probing gaze. “Are you sure you’re not one of those people? This event smacks of shoving me out front to take a bullet.”

“We’ve covered this,” McKeon said. “The Secret Service has been here for a week locking everything down like a drum. Let’s get you through tomorrow, make the announcement supporting Japan’s primacy in the East China Sea, and pose for a few photos. You can give the order to move the Fifth Fleet into the Pacific once you’re back aboard Air Force One. My father trusted you for a reason. You are pivotal to this plan, my friend.”

“Whatever you say.” Drake came back on track easily—as he always did when made to feel important. “This has me stressed, that’s all. Last I heard, Jericho Quinn was still unaccounted for. That sneaky son of a bitch has already gotten to me once.”

“Not yet,” McKeon said. He did not mention the fact that Quinn had apparently killed every one of the Albanian hit men Rhanjani had hired in Croatia. “But it is only a matter of time. I have IDTF snipers embedded with the Secret Service Hercules teams. They are on alert for Quinn and any of Palmer’s other operatives. You don’t have to worry about them, Hartman, believe me. In just a few more hours, you and I will have created a very different world.”

“Easy for you to say,” Drake said. “You’re not joined at the hip with Nabe for three hours tonight watching a bunch of men dance around in tights.”

McKeon gave a wan smile, hiding his disgust. “There will be plenty of women in tights at the ballet,” he said. “In any case, I believe you will find tonight’s performance enjoyable. I took the liberty of arranging a local ballerina from the University of Washington to accompany you. Prime Minister Nabe will have his wife and daughter to accompany him. It is only right that you should have a docent to explain the intricacies of the dance to you.”

“Very well,” Drake said. “But we’re back on the plane first thing tomorrow morning, right after the event.”

“Of course, my friend,” McKeon said. “Things will work out as they must.”

Beside him, Ran stiffened and turned away.

 

S
ong stopped Quinn the moment they got out of the rain, tugging him by the sleeve toward one of the granite columns on the concrete steps outside Big Uncle’s office building. She gave him a scolding grimace as she straightened his tie. Her hair shone in the halogen lights of the covered entry, still damp after the short dash from the taxi.

Quinn rolled his eyes, surrendering to her style-police tactics. In truth, he felt as if he was being strangled.

Song stepped back to admire the dark blue suit she’d picked out for him at the Nordstrom just down from the hotel. The jacket and slacks were off-the-rack separates, but with a crisp white shirt, ebony cuff links, and the cursed gray noose of a necktie, he looked as if the entire ensemble had been tailor made. Lightweight Rockport dress shoes felt like sneakers, dressy enough for a Seattle art party with the added benefit of a grippy sole in case he needed to run.

“You clean up to be a handsome man,” she said, giving a nod of approval.

“It’s the haircut.” Quinn grinned, raising an eyebrow at Song’s minidress. It was deep purple, the color of a dark moon. “Doesn’t matter though. No one is going to notice me with you wearing that little thing.”

She ran a hand down the hip of the tight fabric for the benefit of any cameras that might be watching their approach. Big Uncle had apparently met her before, but he would have had many interactions with public officials—most of whom he would have bribed. A simple note from some former MSS contact would be unimpressive to him. It was imperative that they arouse his curiosity without getting themselves thrown out. And that’s where the dress came in. Shimmering silk, the cap sleeves, and a choker collar gave a nod to Song’s Chinese heritage. Stopping a few inches above her knee, the dress revealed a great deal of leg while leaving plenty to the imagination—not to mention the hidden knife. A half-moon cutout from the nape of her neck to well below her shoulder blades exposed the honey-colored richness of her back.

“I thought you said every girl should have a little black dress,” Quinn said, offering his arm to escort her through the door.

“And they should,” Song said. “But tonight, I don’t want to be every girl. We must stand out and be noticed.”

“You’ve got that covered,” Quinn said as they made their way across the expansive marble lobby to a bank of elevators. “You worry about Big Uncle. I’ll take care of Lok if he has any heartburn with us.”

“Lok is a bad man.” Song turned as the elevator chimed and the doors slid open. “Both of them are. But it is good to deal with truly bad men. I find it much easier to make a decision. Don’t you think?”

“You sound like my friend Jacques,” Quinn said.

“Is that a good thing?”

Quinn smiled. “That, my dear, is outstanding.”

 

 

The elevator doors slid open to the clatter of cocktail plates and buzzing chatter. Hit in the face with an overwhelming odor of alcohol, perfume, and hair products, Quinn couldn’t help but think of the gashouse in OSI Basic. Big Uncle might be a triad crime boss, but he threw quite a party. Just as Song had predicted, a sea of little black dresses dominated the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. Paintings, pottery, and ornate handblown glass sculptures of every description lined the walls and took up valuable floor space, begging to be knocked to the floor.

“That’s him,” Song said, thirty seconds after they’d stepped into the crush of people.

“Lok or his boss?” Quinn scanned the crowd. There were art lovers from various races, but more than half the group was drawn from Seattle’s Asian population. Quinn estimated nearly two hundred people were crammed into the open gallery area that resembled the lobby of a bank with smaller, windowed offices around the outer walls.

“Big Uncle,” she said. “He is standing behind that long table of glass flowers.” She took her glasses out of the tiny beaded clutch she’d bought along with the dress and put them on long enough to scan the crowd.

“You should just wear them all the time,” Quinn said. “They flatter you.”

“Ha!” She snatched the glasses off her face and used them to point at a small group of men directly in front of Big Uncle. “And there is Lok. I did not see him at first behind that wide woman. He is one of two bodyguards within reach of Big Uncle.”

Quinn located Lok and his partner quickly. Both men wore expensive-looking suits, larger than usual, the same way Quinn’s OSI suits were cut to conceal a weapon—or two. Lok was maybe ten years younger than Quinn—which seemed the case for everyone he fought nowadays—with a puffed chest and thick arms that filled the suit. The second man was even younger with a buzz cut and neatly trimmed goatee. This one’s left arm floated away from his side a fraction farther than his right. Quinn guessed he was wearing a shoulder holster under the suit jacket.

“Big Uncle knows me,” Song said, tentatively, as if trying to convince herself. “Once he sees I am not here to arrest him, he should tell his guards to stand down.”

“That would be nice,” Quinn said, though he knew things rarely ever turned out that way for him. “I’ll keep an eye on Lok. You focus on the kid with the goatee.”

It was not wise to underestimate strong men like this, especially when they were armed. But there was the strength of youth and the strength of knowing what to do in the moment. Quinn still had a relatively good amount of the first and a whole lot of the latter.

He wasn’t worried until Song barged forward, shoving her way through the crowd toward the triad boss and his bodyguards as if they owed her money.

Big Uncle glanced up from his chat with a lithe blonde and locked eyes with Song. Almost imperceptibly, he maneuvered to the left, using the woman as a human shield. Lok caught his boss’s sudden flutter and threw Quinn a pick-on-someone-your-own-size sneer.

Quinn came up on the balls of his feet, lightening his center so he could move quickly. Song peeled off, homing in on Goatee.
Good girl
, Quinn thought. At least she’d heard him—or was smart enough to see what needed to be done.

Lok was confident enough in his size and physical prowess that he waited a fraction of a second too long to make his move. Quinn caught a glimpse of a pistol on the left side of the bodyguard’s belt, grip facing forward—a cross draw.

Lok’s ponytail flipped as he canted his head, sizing up his opponent. Quinn kept coming, picking up speed while calling Lok by name as if they were lifelong friends. He waved, lifting his hand to where it was even with the point of Lok’s shoulder. The bodyguard’s hand dropped, reaching across his body at belt level, indexing the pistol—but he was too late.

Shielded by the crowd of party guests, Quinn stepped in close. He kept both hands open and his body centered, low in his belly. A wicked right snapped hard against the forearm of Lok’s gun hand, disrupting the man’s movement but not disabling him. Rolling one hand over the other as if playing a child’s game, Quinn followed up with an immediate left, catching Lok hard above the elbow, knocking the arm straight and directing it well away from the sidearm. Another lightning-fast right, left, right combination hammered the bicep as Quinn worked up the arm and stepped across with a powerful right elbow across the bodyguard’s jaw. It was over before it had even begun and Quinn caught him as he sagged.

Holding Lok in a bear hug, Quinn glanced over his shoulder to see Song in a chest-to-chest embrace with Goatee. Her body blocked the man from accessing his shoulder holster. She kept her hands low, between them, out of sight. Lips almost brushing the young bodyguard’s face, she whispered something in his ear. Quinn remembered the thin ripping dagger hidden in her garter. He could imagine what she was saying.

Big Uncle stepped forward, shaking his head. He patted an unconscious Lok on the shoulder.

“I wish you would not kill my men,” he said, deadpan. “I have more, but there are so many people at the party. The fight would be terribly messy.”

 

 

The triad boss recognized Song as an MSS agent and agreed to meet in a private room at the back of the main exhibit hall. Agile for a man of his age, Big Uncle hopped up to sit on the edge of the wooden desk, letting his feet dangle. He motioned for Quinn and Song to take two of the half dozen soft leather seats along the glass wall. A stunned Lok and Goatee took up a position behind their boss, their egos damaged far more than anything else.

“How can I help my esteemed colleagues with the Ministry of State Security?” Big Uncle asked in Mandarin, ignoring Quinn as if he wasn’t even in the room.

Song nodded meekly, then explained that they were looking for the Feng brothers. She was hesitant in the telling as if she did not want to offend such a powerful man and noted apologetically in her explanation that witnesses had overheard the Fengs talking about their connection to the crime boss.

“It would seem to me,” Big Uncle said, “that the MSS would be pleased if men such as this spread a little mayhem in the United States.”

“That is incorrect,” Song said, throwing Quinn a glance he couldn’t quite read. “But the Fengs must be arrested before they cause irreparable damage.”

“Please understand,” Big Uncle said, “a business such as mine depends on a certain amount of . . . discretion. Even the stupid American would understand that.”

“I understand plenty,” Quinn said in Mandarin.

“Big Uncle,” Song growled, rising from her seat. Her face went from meek to malignant in a flash. This was the same Song who had threatened to cut off Habibullah’s balls and Quinn was happy to see her reappearance. “Allow me to be blunt. The MSS has allowed you a great deal of latitude in your business transactions in Europe. If you wish that policy to continue, then you must cooperate.”

Big Uncle stared at her for a long moment, then gave a great belly laugh. “I like you,” he said. “You are brave. Foolish . . . but very brave.”

Song took a step forward, looking amazingly authoritative for someone in a tiny purple dress. “I will require the location of the Fengs—now.”

“I will tell you what you need to know.” Big Uncle waved her off with a thick hand. “You really are a bright young thing. But I suggest you wear your glasses more. They keep you from squinting.”

 

 

Ten minutes later, Big Uncle watched the flippant MSS bitch and her American friend hurry toward the elevators. Clenching a beefy fist until it shook, he sent the nearest glass vase crashing against the floor as soon as the elevator door slid shut. Even destroying the five-thousand-dollar vase didn’t make him feel any better.

The guests mingling just outside the office peered through the window at the noise, but the look on the crime boss’s face told them a broken glass was something they should ignore.

“You let him take your guns?” Big Uncle turned to Lok, cuffing him on the back of the head and sending his ponytail swinging. “Why do I even keep you around?”

“Forgive me, boss,” Lok said. He knew better than to make excuses.

Big Uncle folded his arms across his belly, still sitting on the edge of the desk. He raised thick eyebrows and looked from one bodyguard to another. “Well?” he said. “What are you waiting for? The Feng brothers will be waiting to kill these fools. Go and help them. I’ll decide what to do with you when you return.” He glared at the kid with the goatee. “That is, if that little MSS girl does not beat you up and take your gun again.”