Brute Force (35 page)

T
he IDTF sniper seated on top of Key Bank Arena panned his scope across the top of the Cornish Playhouse and caught a glimpse of movement. He called out the target over the radio.

“Hercules CP, this is Nest 4. I have a visual on the Playhouse roof. Asian female, dressed in black. We have anyone up there?”

The command post asked him to stand by and there was a long pause on the radio—as he expected there would be. The entire campus below him had erupted into a frenzied circus with the flashing lights of emergency vehicles running in every conceivable direction, providing cover over the escape of the fleeing black snake that was the VP’s motorcade.

The sniper had memorized the position of every Secret Service countersniper and lookout unit and had been given orders to dump anyone not on that list—but he wasn’t about to get jammed up by shooting some Secret Service darling who wandered into the wrong spot.

After what seemed like forever, he got the answer he was looking for. “Nest 4, Hercules CP. She’s not ours. Green light on the target. Repeat. Nest 4, you are green to go.”

Verbal orders, logged and heard by many over the radio, relieved him of that worry—giving him the CYA he needed to pull the trigger. The playhouse was supposed to be clear of anyone, and yet there she was, a dark female, possibly Asian, peering through a set of binoculars from the shadows behind an air-conditioning unit.

Using the laser on the side of his night vision scope he ranged the target at 211 meters. He chuckled to himself, careful not to lose sight of the woman. Anything under 300 meters was point-blank range for his. 300 Winchester Magnum. One of the handful of consummate professionals in the IDTF, the sniper didn’t rely solely on the laser. He knew a normal air-conditioning unit was approximately five feet tall. This one filled up eight mil-dots on the crosshairs of his scope. He did the math in his head and confirmed that the laser rangefinder was correct. At that range, no adjustment to his scope was necessary. He was high enough off the ground that the suppressed shot was not likely to even be noticed by any of the agents below, especially when scrambling around in code black on the VP. Pulling the stock in tight against his shoulder with his off hand, the sniper slipped the pad of his finger over the trigger and let the crosshairs of his scope settle on the Asian woman’s ear. He took a deep breath and slowly began to release it, settling his body into the shot. This was almost too easy. A whisper of wind shattered his concentration, like the flutter of a bird on the roof behind him.

 

 

Ran Kimura buried her blade in the sniper’s neck. She flicked it back and forth as she shoved the rifle sideways in the event of any involuntary convulsions of his trigger finger. He collapsed facedown without ever even knowing she was there.

Ran shoved his body sideways, taking up a position behind the scope. She made it her habit to carry a cloned Secret Service radio and had heard him call out the target and description. It had taken her precious seconds to make it to the top of the Key Bank roof and she’d had to kill two agents on the way up.

Settling in, she slid her finger over the trigger and took a deep breath. “Hello, Mother,” she whispered as the crosshairs settled over Emiko Miyagi’s face. “How nice of you to drop by.” She swung the rifle a hair to the left and pulled the trigger, sending a 180-grain bullet singing off the brick a scant foot in front of Miyagi. “That is much better,” Ran said to herself, watching her mother duck behind the air conditioner. “How will we ever get to know one another if you get yourself shot?”

Ran moved quickly, sliding along the slanted roof to disappear into the darkness behind the glowing red sign of the Key Arena. She had no doubt that she would see her mother again, or that she would be the one to kill her. It would not be soon—but when it happened, she would not hide behind a riflescope from a great distance away. It would eye to eye and heart to heart.

Q
uinn bolted past the window as Jiàn Z
u sent two rounds crashing through the glass. Song returned fire, forcing the other man to duck behind one of the heavy glass furnaces long enough for Quinn to boot the door. The action sent a wave of pain up his already injured hip, but luckily the frame separated under the first kick. Stumbling forward, Quinn sent a round downrange, keeping Jiàn Z
u’s head down so Song could make it in past the fatal funnel of the demolished door. Two of the Asian men working the furnace floor had their hands full with the balls of molten glass. The third stepped behind a wooden partition to reappear an instant later with what looked like an M4 carbine. He sprayed a volley of fire into the shop, sending shards of shattered glass flying in every direction. Quinn and Song dove for a line of tall Oriental vases that would provide some semblance of concealment if not actual protective cover. Vases and glass shelves alike exploded behind them as the shooter tracked their movements with the rifle.

Quinn came sliding to a stop behind a leather sofa at the far end of the shop, likely meant for tired husbands to rest their feet while their spouses continued to shop. Song looked up from where she lay beside him, both eyes locked in a grim stare.

“Go left,” he whispered. She nodded, rolling away and laying down a line of fire. Quinn rolled to his right, putting two .45 rounds in the chest of the rifleman. The crash of glass and a sharp cry told him Song’s rounds had found their way into one of the glassblowers.

The rifle began to bark again as Jiàn Z
u sprayed the ceiling with lead. Razor-sharp shards began to rain down, causing both Quinn and Song to shield their faces to keep from being blinded. Exposed skin, clothing, and even their hair were covered in tiny blades they couldn’t brush away without being cut. Deadly icicles, remnants of the broken flowers, swayed on thin wires above, threatening to slice anyone to pieces who happened to be walking under them when they fell.

When the shooting paused, Quinn caught a glimpse of the second glassblower working his way around the wooden counter, carrying his metal tube tipped with molten glass like a spear.

“I will take care of this one,” Song said. “Jiàn Z
u ran up the stairs. You must stop him.”

Song rolled away from the heavy sofa, advancing on the man with the hot glass as she shot into the wooden partition.

Quinn ran for the stairs, Kimber up and ready to shoot as soon as he had a sight picture. Jiàn Z
u sent two shots down the stairwell but Quinn could tell they were unaimed and meant only to slow Quinn’s advance so he could arm the Black Dragon. At this point, it mattered little if he even hit his intended target. If a Chinese weapon was fired anywhere near the President, it would be enough to cause a war.

Quinn made it up the stairs in two bounds, knowing he would be a bullet sponge before he got Jiàn Z
u in his sights. But the commando had overestimated Quinn’s aversion to gunfire, expecting him to come creeping up the stairs. A look of genuine surprise crossed his face when Quinn rushed into the room.

Surprised or not, he had time to raise his pistol and fire, striking Quinn in the right shoulder. The shock of the bullet’s impact sent the Kimber flying from Quinn’s hand as surely as if it had been slapped away. Instead of slowing, Quinn plowed straight ahead, impacting the Southern Sword commando with the full weight of his body. Both men fell to the floor, Quinn’s left hand shoving the barrel of the other man’s pistol out of the way as he pulled the trigger again, inches from Quinn’s ear.

The concussion sent a shower of lights through Quinn’s brain. Ambient noise was replaced by a piercing whine in his ears. His right arm nearly useless, Quinn struck out with a flurry of knees and his good elbow, biting, kicking, and head butting in his best impression of the cartoon Tasmanian Devil.

Thankfully, the sudden outburst of energy knocked Jiàn Z
u’s pistol away in the struggle, but the wiry man seemed able to soak up any beating Quinn was able to dish out.

Growling a string of Chinese curses, he sent a volley of his own punches into Quinn’s face and ribs. Quinn rolled away as best he could, but with a broken right wing, there was little he could do to block the man’s powerful left hooks. Momentarily stunned, Quinn felt himself being dragged along the floor by the collar. Jiàn Z
u meant to throw him down the stairs.

Song’s pitiful scream drifted up from the floor below.

Instead of tensing, Quinn let his body go limp as if he’d given up. It allowed his exhausted muscles a split second to regroup and made it more difficult for Jiàn Z
u to drag him.

“
Ben dan!
” He barked in Mandarin. “Stupid fool.” “It is over.”

Still relaxed, Quinn felt Jiàn Z
u lift, ready to toss him down the wooden stairs.