Brute Force (36 page)

“Go to hell,” the Chinese commando spat.

Quinn twisted like a cat over a bathtub as Jiàn Z
u tried to let him go. His left arm shot around the man’s waist. Arching his back, Quinn pushed off the wall with both feet, spinning the startled commando and sweeping his knees. With his energy already moving in the direction of the stairs to throw Quinn, Jiàn Z
u teetered forward, with nothing left to stop his fall. Quinn helped him on his way, slamming the man’s face into the steps and riding him all the way to the bottom in a short but bumpy trip.

Quinn rolled away as soon as they rattled to a stop. Jiàn moaned, staggering to his feet. Song crouched at the base in the middle of the furnace room. Quinn could tell she was hurt, but things were moving too quickly for him to be sure how badly.

Growling, Jiàn Z
u kicked Quinn aside and began to limp toward the stairs. Song shrieked, throwing herself at him, trying to drag him back, but he just shook her off. She looked at Quinn, beckoning him to his feet with her eyes. She said something, but Quinn could hear nothing but the constant ringing in his ears. Then her eyes flashed toward the long metal tube that protruded from the glowing orange opening of the nearest furnace.

Seeing that he understood, Song flung herself at Jiàn Z
u again, just as he reached the base of the stairs. She sank her teeth into his ear as Quinn yanked the heavy tube from the furnace. Stumbling forward, he planted the business end in the center of Jiàn Z
u’s chest. The commando twisted, screaming as he tried in vain to use Song as a shield. His shriek was cut short as the fist-size ball of 2,500-degree glass vaporized his lungs and shattered his spine. The sickening odor of roasted flesh filled the air in an instant. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Song flinched in pain as Quinn dragged her away from the sizzling corpse. For the first time, he noticed her injuries. Her left shoe was blackened and charred, presumably in her fight with the second glassblower. Closer inspection showed a piece of hot glass the size of a quarter had burned its way through the top of her foot, between the bones and out the sole of her shoe. The pain must have been unbearable and Quinn found himself getting queasy at the thought of it.

“Call in,” she said. “Let them know we are good.” She pulled herself sideways, toward an overturned wooden bench, her back to Quinn now.

“I will,” Quinn said. “Let’s get you flat on your back before you go into shock.”

She coughed when he rolled her over, wincing at the slightest movement.

Quinn took a bottle of water from the workbench and poured it over her foot in an attempt to bring down the temperature. He put his fingers to her neck, checking her pulse, fearing that she was falling into shock. It was then that he saw she’d retrieved the Glock that must have fallen behind the wooden bench during her fight.

She raised it with a feeble hand.

“There is still the matter of the Black Dragon,” she groaned, her breath coming in rapid gasps. “I cannot allow it to fall into American hands.”

Quinn shook his head. “Song—”

“At least tell them I made an attempt.” She let the pistol fall with a long sigh. “I cannot shoot you, Jericho Quinn. You have toes.”

C
onsistent with protocols after a security breach, the Secret Service should have whisked Hartman Drake away from the concert hall as soon as they realized the Vice President had been assassinated. The lead agent for his detail informed him of the death, as agents formed a protective barrier around him. Instead of ushering him straight out to the Beast, they took him into the back offices that had been designated by Advance as a safe room in the event of a shelter-in-place emergency.

His back to the wall and surrounded by machine-gun-wielding agents, Drake began to sweat profusely. He suddenly found it impossible to breathe and all but tore the bow tie from around his neck.

“What’s going on?” he demanded of the young agent standing inside the door. “It’s been over an hour. Why aren’t we moving?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. President,” the agent said, eyes focused on the door.

“Is the Vice President really dead?” Drake shuddered at the thought. No matter how much he despised the man, going forward without him seemed impossible.

“I’m not sure, Mr. President,” the agent said, as if it was the only phrase he knew. Then he put a hand to his ear, nodding at some radio traffic. He looked at Drake. “Please stand by to move, Mr. President. They’re bringing up your limo now.”

 

 

The short move from Seattle Center to Boeing Field and Air Force One should have taken ten minutes, especially with a Seattle Police escort. For some reason, the Secret Service seemed to be taking their own sweet time. Alone in the backseat of his limo, Drake pounded on the partition.

“Why are we taking so long?” he asked as the tinted glass screen lowered with an electronic whir. A different agent turned to look back at him from the front passenger seat. It was Jack Blackmore, the Special Agent in Charge of President Chris Clark’s protective detail. “What’s happened? Where is my detail?”

Blackmore smiled, the crow’s feet around his dark eyes adding to the rugged, outdoorsy look Drake had always found off-putting. “We believe your detail was compromised, Mr. President. Not to worry though. We’re almost there. You’ll be wheels up in five minutes.”

“Thank you,” Drake said. Things were happening much too fast for him to make sense of them. He relaxed a notch when they turned through the secure gate at Boeing Field and pulled up alongside Air Force One.

Drake very nearly threw up when he stepped on board. He would have fled the plane had not the steward shut the boarding door behind him.

Waiting in the executive seating area just inside the door sat Winfield Palmer, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Admiral Ricks, Secretary of Defense Andrew Filson, former Secretary of State Melissa Ryan, and Virginia Ross, former director of the CIA.

“Admiral,” Drake coughed, trying to still the spinning in his head. “These people are fugitives . . . Secretary Filson, I’m appointing you acting Attorney General and ordering you to place them under arrest. . . .” His gaze shot around the plane, falling on the form of another man seated three seats back with his head down. Drake’s legs buckled when he realized it was Jericho Quinn—bruised and bandaged but very much alive. The reality of his situation came crashing down around him with a suddenness that made it hard to breathe, let alone keep his feet.

“Have a seat, Hartman,” Win Palmer said.

“I am the President—”

Palmer shook his head. “We’re way beyond that,” he whispered.

Drake’s eyes locked on Quinn, who had not moved from his seat. “Keep him away from me. . . .” He turned to the admiral. “What is this? A coup?”

“Think of it more as career advice,” Andrew Filson said. “Something for you to think about when your acting term is expired.”

“Even in the capacity as acting President,” Melissa Ryan said, “you can still nominate an acting Vice President. The senate would have to approve, but under present circumstances I believe they’ll be glad if anyone wants the job.”

“Who?” Drake glared at Palmer. “Am I supposed to nominate you?”

Palmer shook his head. “No,” he said. “I prefer to work outside the bounds of that office. I’d say we kill you now, but neither the Speaker of the House nor Senate President Pro Tem want the gig—and Lord knows we don’t want your Secretary of State filling your shoes. Admiral Ricks, on the other hand, would make a fine choice. He will take over as acting president upon your resignation and withdrawal from public life, calling for a special election so the people will actually have a chance to vote for the leader of the free world. You had a good run, Drake. Got a little booty in the Oval Office and got to play big man for a few months while your VP tried to get us into a war. But it’s over. It’s really your call how you go out. And, I have to say, at this point, your choices are limited.”

 

T
he muggy DC weather caused Quinn’s suit to stick to his skin as he exited onto the West Wing portico with Ronnie Garcia by his side and nodded to the uniformed Secret Service officer. Hot as it was, the air smelled of roses and freshly cut grass.

The Black Dragon was safely ensconced in a Pentagon lab. The Chinese hadn’t liked it, but at least they had not threatened a war. Sources in the Middle Kingdom said that General Sun had found himself in prison shortly after Song had called in to report.

Like the East German Stasi, the IDTF found itself disbanded in a single day. The FBI had already started investigations on senior leadership and many of the younger agents were all too happy to flip and testify against their bosses.

Grateful to be alive and breathing the humid air, Quinn used his left hand to peel away the necktie that Palmer had forced him to wear to the meeting in the Oval Office. His right arm was in a sling.

Senator Gorski had used her clout with the select committee on intelligence to pave the way for Win Palmer to be named as acting National Security Advisor. The position ordinarily didn’t need senate approval, but under the game of musical chairs that had become the presidency it seemed prudent to get some consensus from somewhere.

A free man for the first time in months, Quinn pitched the tie into the bed of a shiny black GMC pickup, hoping it would blow out when they reached the Beltway and got up to speed. He opened the door for Garcia and helped her up on the running board with his good arm. A patchwork of sutures hashtagged her cheeks and upper lip. Both eyes were ringed in black like she was wearing a bandit mask. She still couldn’t lift either arm much above her waist. Though she wouldn’t be doing pull-ups any time soon, her doctor said the chances of regaining full use of her arms were outstanding.

“Well ain’t this something?” Jacques Thibodaux said as he walked out behind them, wearing his wife, Camille, like a second skin at his side. He’d shattered his fist on Big Uncle’s jaw and his hand was now enveloped in a white cast up to the forearm. “I guess my brave little woman is the onliest one well enough to drive us into the sunset.”

“I’m not sure I can ever thank you enough,” Ronnie said to Camille from the backseat as she climbed in beside her husband. She didn’t mention Kim, who had been cleared to fly and was already in Russia preparing to bring Mattie back to Alaska—where Jericho and Ronnie would meet them.

“Jacques has told me stories.” Camille grinned. “I just tried to imagine what you would do.” She gave an embarrassed laugh, situating herself behind the wheel. “I can’t believe the President just resigned from public life.”

“Well, sugar,” Jacques said, “you been through enough to know he didn’t exactly resign. He and the guy who held Ronnie prisoner are spending a little quality time together in a black-site prison of their own while we see how much information they actually know.”

“What about the Chinese girl?” Camille said, turning to look at Jericho over her shoulder. “Have I been through enough to know about her too?”

Quinn chuckled, though it hurt his ribs. He still found it difficult to take a deep breath without grimacing. “As a matter of fact, she called this morning from the hospital in Beijing. They had to take a good portion of her foot because of the burn, but she doesn’t seem too upset about it.” Quinn smiled inside himself at the thought of the brave Chinese spy. “I guess the Ministry of State Security feels their agents need to have two good feet. She’s been given an early retirement to focus on her music.”

Thibodaux half twisted in the seat, peering over his broad shoulder with his good eye. “Where we gonna go now,
l’ami
?”

“I don’t know about you,” Ronnie said. “But this being wounded stuff makes me hungry. How about RT’s?”

Thibodaux slapped the back of his seat at the mention of this favorite Cajun restaurant off Mt Vernon Avenue. “Now you’re talkin’,” he said. “Puttin’ the brakes on the Muslim Caliphate does work up an appetite.”

“This is all just like some action movie,” Camille said, waiting for the Secret Service to open the gate that would take them past the bollards on the closed portion of Pennsylvania Avenue. She glanced in the rearview mirror, smiling to finally play a bigger role in this part of her husband’s life.
“
I heard someone on the news say Hollywood is tired of Islamic terrorists,” she said.

Jericho rested a hand in Ronnie Garcia’s lap and they exchanged a knowing glance. “So am I,” he said. “So am I.”