Brute Force (32 page)

“Jiàn Z
u?” Quinn stared at her. Hands shaking from adrenaline and fatigue, he cut her free with a knife he took from the dead Uyghur’s pocket. Three burns, brands from the point of the iron, blotched the flesh of her left thigh. Angry and swollen, the three-inch triangles were already filling with fluid.

Song sprang to her feet, gritting her teeth as she tugged the hem of her skirt back down over the burns.

“Jiàn Z
u is a Chinese soldier,” she said, already starting for the door. Quinn didn’t know if her face had gone pale from the Ehmet’s torture or from seeing Jiàn Z
u. “Please hurry. He must not escape.”

Quinn fought the queasiness in his gut and took an extra second to grab the Uyghur’s cell phone and scoop up the Glock pistol he’d kicked out of Yaqub’s hand. He staggered toward Song, who leaned out the open door, looking for threats up and down the dark hallway.

“In your country you would call him special operations,” she said, turning toward the door. “He is exceptionally well trained—and he has the Black Dragon.”

 

V
ice President Lee McKeon sat with Ran, across from a frowning Hartman Drake in the presidential limo’s vis-à-vis backseat. McKeon’s motorcade had joined the President’s and Drake had asked him to ride in the Beast, saying he wanted to talk on the way to the ballet performance. In reality, it was likely because he was frightened of being left alone. The President had hardly said a word since leaving the hotel.

McKeon had expected this behavior. If he’d inherited anything from his father it was his ability to read people—and Hartman Drake was all bow tie and bluster, easily manipulated into following the path of least resistance—so long as it made him look like a rock star. A Tajik by birth, he’d been taken from his family while still a child and raised to follow the path of jihad. Instead, he’d become tempted by the vices of men and was now vastly more interested in fame and power. Such a weakness made him controllable.

McKeon stared past his own reflection, watching rivulets of rainwater crease the tinted ballistic glass. Dusk had begun to fall outside, earlier because of the rain, but intermittent streetlights illuminated the roadside trees and shrubs of Seattle Center.

They were nearly there.

Yelping sirens announced the arrival of the presidential motorcade as a phalanx of Seattle PD motorcycles led seventeen shining black SUVs and armored limousines under the monorail track above Fifth Avenue. They jumped the small curb onto the wide concrete path beneath the Space Needle and continued south past the Armory food court and a grassy amphitheater to circle the vehicles below a long gray structure along the Fountain Lawn called the Fisher Pavilion.

With both POTUS and the Prime Minister of Japan attending the ballet, security personnel were on high alert. Nabe had brought with him a small number of his own security from the elite
Keibibu Keigoka
, but while a foreign leader was on American soil, the United States Secret Service shouldered the protective responsibility. Each of the Japanese security men had attained the rank of third-degree black belt in either jujitsu or kendo in order to have even applied for the job. They buzzed around their leader like fussy bees, wearing natty suits with a red ties and matching pocket squares. The driver of their follow vehicle—the Secret Service demanded to be the limo driver—wore white gloves as was customary in Japan.

The Secret Service chose the pavilion as a staging area because it was near the Marion Oliver Hall where the Pacific Northwest Ballet was performing and because of the large parking area below the two-story building that overlooked the fountains and park. Teeming with security, the building would provide protection and cover in the event of an attack. The President’s motorcade would stage directly outside the performance hall for quick egress in an emergency, but the cavalry of big guns would stage at the pavilion. A virtual army of snipers and lookout agents had already posted all over the complex, covering the Key Bank Arena, the parking garages across Mercer Street to the west, the Sacred Heart church tower to the southeast, and even the Space Needle itself, which had been closed to civilian visitors for the past twelve hours. The Secret Service briefing had noted that careful attention had been given to posting agents at every point around the venue that could give cover to an attacker. Seattle PD would provide a protective ring around the outer perimeter. Secret Service marksmen could lay down intersecting lines of fire at any moment in the unlikely event that someone was able to slip through. The supervisory agents for all three details had assured their charges that every precaution had been taken. The President was safe—and as long as he was safe, everyone was safe.

McKeon glanced across at the witless Drake and smiled serenely. If only they all knew.

It would be good to finally be rid of the idiot. He’d been a necessary evil that Allah had seen fit to place in the right place to assume the US presidency. And now, he had one more task to complete. At least the black tuxedo gave his ridiculous bow tie a home that didn’t seem to scream buffoon.

“Tell me again why you’re not attending,” Drake said, running a finger around his starched collar to get more air.

“It is protocol, Mr. President,” McKeon said, greasing the man’s already monstrous ego with the title. “Heavy is the crown.”

“So they say.” Drake stared directly at him. “How can I be sure you haven’t ordered one of your private IDTF goons to shoot me in the face?”

Ran threw back her head. “I have begged to kill you a thousand times. If he wanted you dead—”

McKeon squeezed her knee, half thinking she might cut his hand off. She didn’t, but at least she stopped talking. The fact that Ran Kimura wanted to kill him was no surprise to Drake. She told him so every other day with her eyes. Words were rare from the intense Japanese woman, but her meaning was generally crystal clear.

“My IDTF goons are your IDTF goons, Mr. President,” McKeon said in the verbal equivalent of rolling over and showing his tender white underbelly. “In any case, I need to make sure the venue change you ordered for the event tomorrow is taken care of.”

“Very well,” Drake grunted. “So long as you and your girlfriend here know who’s in charge.”

“Believe me, Hartman.” McKeon raised both hands and smiled. “After your speech tomorrow, no one in this country will have a doubt as to who is in charge.”

“There you go again.” Drake shook his head. “I swear you creep me out with that kind of bwahahaha talk.”

The motorcade took a right, then an immediate left, a river of black sedans pouring onto the concrete apron between the South Fountain Lawn and the Fisher Pavilion. From above, it looked like a choreographed dance. The Beast came to a controlled stop and a moment later an agent rapped on the President’s door. A petite woman with dark hair cut over her ears the way Drake preferred stood beside the agent. David Crosby had done a good job finding this one. She was an accomplished ballerina from the University of Washington who would give the flighty President something to concentrate on during the lengthy performance. Her silver dress was accented with sequins, elegant enough it wouldn’t raise any eyebrows from the social elite while still doing the job of raising Drake’s blood pressure.

“Your guest for the ballet, Mr. President,” the agent said, monotone, as if he’d seen it all before. “She’s been thoroughly screened.”

“I’m sure that was quite the pleasant undertaking.” Drake grinned. His doubts and fears apparently flying from his mind at the arrival of a pretty woman, Drake patted the seat beside him. “Have a seat, my dear. The Vice President and his friend are just leaving.”

“Miss Elliot.” McKeon nodded, taking Ran by the hand in order to help her out of the limo. She would never exit merely because Drake told her to.

“Make certain to work out those arrangements, Lee,” Drake said, flexing his POTUS muscles in front of the girl.

“Of course, Mr. President.” McKeon could barely contain his smile. Groveling was easy when he knew the man would be dead before nightfall.

 

Q
uinn pulled up short, stopping in the darkness at the bottom of the stairs to do a quick peek around the edge of the doorway. He trotted through the shadows to peer around the backhoe. The fact that he had no shoes was a problem. It was tough to do much fighting in bare feet, no matter what the super-duper cool ISIS training videos showed.

Evening traffic thumped on the viaduct overhead. Birds chirped and cooed, settling in for the evening in the trees that ran along the hillside that led up to the city. Quinn had hoped to catch a glimpse of Jiàn Z
u running away, but he’d had too much of a head start. He stuffed the Glock into his waistband and put a hand on Song’s shoulder as she came up beside him, intent on rushing past. She had been inconsolable since she’d recognized the man she called Jiàn Z
u.

“Listen to me,” Quinn said, leaning against the rear tire of the backhoe. “Both of us look like we’ve been mugged. My face is covered in blood, your lips look like someone hit you with a brick, and our shoes are gone. We have to use our heads here. We’ll get stopped by the police before we make it a block. We don’t know if he went up toward the Market or got picked up by a boat—”

“He went up,” a voice said from under the viaduct. “Toward Pike.”

Quinn drew the Glock again, scanning the shadows.

“You’re the one who gave me the light, aren’t you?” the voice spoke again. “Jeez Louise, those boys had it in for you. We thought they was going to murder your ass right here. Scared Burt so bad I think he’s halfway to Tacoma by now. . . .”

Quinn relaxed a notch when a homeless man stepped around a concrete pillar. He held a plastic grocery sack in his tobacco-stained hand.

“I found your shoes,” the man said, offering the sack to Quinn. “Was gonna sell ’em, but it looks like you still got a need.”

Quinn thanked the homeless man, who said his name was Jiggy, and took Song gently by the hand to lead her back toward the apartment. “I have to make a call,” he said. “And we need to take a look at those burns.”

“The burns will heal.” Song was breathing hard, about to hyperventilate. “I fear you do not understand. Jiàn Z
u is not like the Fengs. He is a professional.”

“So are we,” Quinn said. “But we’re going to need some reinforcements.”

 

 

Back in the dilapidated apartment, Quinn had Song sit on the sagging couch while he knelt to look at her wounds. It was surreal, even to Quinn, to come back and sit with the bodies of the two men they’d been chasing for what seemed like an eternity. He moved the couch so the Fengs were out of her line of sight, hoping Song could focus on the Chinese-language news program on the television over his shoulder.

Quinn knew time was of the essence, so he used the dead Uyghur’s cell phone to call Jacques, holding it against his ear with an aching shoulder while he knelt at her feet. Being engaged like this with someone else made lifting the hem of her dress feel less intimate, and more comfortable for both of them.

Three almost identical brands from the tip of the iron formed the beginnings of a rough circle on the otherwise pale skin of her inner thigh. Ehmet Feng had just been getting started with his torture—having only gotten past the taunting phase when Quinn stopped him. The Uyghur had applied just the tip of the iron, leaving behind small, triangular burns, complete with spots from the steam vents. It was as if he’d been drawing a flower with each nasty burn forming a pink and blistered petal.

Thibodaux answered on the second ring.

“ ’Allo?” the big Cajun grunted, not recognizing the number.

“Hey,” Quinn said, feeling a little light-headed at the sound of his friend’s drawl.

There was nothing in the shabby apartment that was even close to sterile, so Quinn did the best he could by ripping away some of the lining of his suit jacket and, after running it under cool tap water, applying it to Song’s thigh to bring down the temperature of the wounds. There was little else he could do without first aid supplies, but he knew from harsh experience that small wounds could become big problems if left unattended.

“We’re alive.” He adjusted the cell phone with his free hand and rolled his neck to try to ease the pain. “That’s something, I guess.”

Quinn pressed the cool cloth lightly to Song’s thigh, as much to keep her sitting as to treat the burn.

“Oo ye yi!
L’ami
,” Thibodaux said. “Don’t you do me that way. Where you at?”

Quinn gave their location and a rundown of events, including the new information about this Chinese commando, Jiàn Z
u. He didn’t know much, but he gave Jacques what he had.

He left out how badly he was hurt.

Song remained inconsolable, bouncing in her seat and looking toward the door as if she wanted to bolt. She suddenly tensed, moving his hand off her leg, nearly knocking him over as she jumped to her feet, pointing at the television.

“Hang on,” Quinn said into the phone. “Something’s happening.” He turned to see a pretty Chinese reporter standing under an umbrella near the Space Needle. The camera panned away long enough to show a seemingly endless line of black limousines driving onto the concrete pathways of Seattle Center. It was obviously a motorcade.

Quinn listened long enough to get the gist of the story. A familiar knot formed low in his belly. He put the phone on speaker.

“Did you know anything about the President attending some kind of concert with the Japanese Prime Minister?”

“No idea,” Thibodaux said. “It wasn’t on the schedule this morning. Must have been a last-minute thing.”

“It’s a ballet,” Song said, eyes still glued to the television. “Remember Prime Minister Nabe’s wife was a ballerina, as is his daughter. . . .” Her voice trailed off and she turned to look at Quinn. “Jiàn Z
u will not wait until tomorrow morning. This is the target.”

Thibodaux gave a low whistle when he heard the news. “I know POTUS is a shitbird and all, but I think we should make an anonymous call to the Secret Service and get him out of there.”

“It won’t matter,” Quinn said, looking at the glass walls of McCaw Hall. “That place must hold a couple of thousand people—”

“They say three thousand,” Song corrected him, slowly shaking her head.

“If we tip our hand, Jiàn Z
u will just shoot into the building. The US will blame China.”

“You said this Jiàn character is a Chinese Army GI Joe or some shit,” Thibodaux said. “Sounds to me like the Chinese are the ones behind this.”

“Not China,” Song said. “General Sun. It is he who wants a war. Jiàn Z
u was a member of the
Nan Dao
or Southern Broadswords, the Special Forces unit operating in the Guangzhou Military Region. I trained with them for a short time as well. General Sun was the commander of this unit. Perhaps our countries will be at war one day, but this is the work of General Sun. This operation was not ordered by President Chen Min.”

“Tough thing to be sure of,” Jacques said at the other end of the line.

“I am sure,” Song said. “If he’d wanted to kill your President, Chen Min would have sent me.”