State of Emergency (10 page)

 

A
misshapen sun squatted smugly on the horizon over Biscayne Bay, its December warmth pushing moist fingers of ground fog across the racetrack, streaked black from thousands of spinning tires.

Quinn leaned into the fifteenth and final corner of his fourth lap. It was shallow and relatively easy, but he felt the bike wobble when he caught a glimpse of Veronica Garcia standing beside Thibodaux along the fence. As in life, the bike generally went the direction the eyes were pointed.

He poured on the gas, putting the sight of the beautiful woman behind him to begin another lap. Cranking his head as far to the left as it would go, he pushed the purring Yamaha R1 hard over as he took the third turn, tickling his inside knee against the pavement. Emerging from number three, his head snapped quickly right, then left, as he slalomed through four and five before standing up to gain speed on the relatively long straightaway toward the next turn.

Riding in general and racing in particular were good metaphors for living. Quinn looked in the direction he wanted his bike to go, all the while focusing on the moment he was in. And the uneasy tension at seeing Ronnie Garcia translated directly from hand to handlebar to wheel.

The throaty brap of the R1's cross-plane engine and the humming vibration of spinning tires against the track mere inches below his boots kept Quinn glued to the “now” of his ride. A healthy respect for Homestead's hairpin corners forced him to think and look well ahead. The speed and turns he could handle. Veronica Garcia, however, might just get him killed.

 

 

Jacques Thibodaux leaned across the low rail, biceps bulging from the arms of a gray T-shirt, his back flared in a massive V. His eyes were glued to Jericho as he took a red and white Yamaha R1 around the eighth turn, a hairpin corner on the far side of the roughly U-shaped course.

Without turning his head, the big Cajun spoke to the buxom Latina woman leaning against the rail beside him.

“You ready for this, cher?”

The daughter of a Cuban mother and Russian father, Veronica “Ronnie” Garcia was fluent in the languages of both parents. Nearly thirty, she was tall with strong legs and the broad shoulders of collegiate softball player. A white tank top and matching terry-cloth short shorts displayed the delicious curves of her rich café latte skin. Black hair pulled back in a thick ponytail that matched her round Hollywood-starlet sunglasses.

The breeze toyed with her hair. “You trying to psych me up for battle, Jacques?”

“Hell yes, I am,” he said, putting on his best gunnery sergeant bark. “Take a stance and give me a loud, vicious, tigerlike growl. . . .”

She turned up her nose. “Seriously?”

“No,” he chuckled. “It's somethin' my drill sergeant used to yell at us. I reckon it don't really fit what we're doing. In my experience, lovin' ought to be scream-your-head-off loud—killin's best done quietly.”

The woman smiled, turning back to watch Quinn make another lap around the track. “How could a girl disagree with that?”

Garcia had worked with Jericho before in Western China and the mountains of Afghanistan—a mission that had almost gotten her killed. Her behavior and bravery—along with a helpful recommendation from the president—had earned her an appointment as an operations officer candidate in the CIA. Palmer had pulled her out of her training at Camp Peary for this mission, hoping she would be the type to catch Valentine Zamora's eye.

Thibodaux watched as Quinn took another sharp turn at speed, dragging a knee. He swooped the bike through the gentle curve at the ninth turn, then popped it back upright on the long straightaway until the next set of corners. Even as a motorcyclist himself, the big Cajun found watching his friend hurtle around the concrete track at speeds well over a hundred miles an hour made his teeth hurt.

The throaty moan of Quinn's Yamaha grew louder as he approached, then quickly faded as he sped away toward the first set of turns on his next lap.

“I wish our dirtbag would get his ass out here,” Thibodaux said, leaning his chest against the fence and rattling the chain link.

Garcia looked up with a sly wink. “You're not the one with your boobs and butt cheeks hanging out of your clothes to bait him in. I should be the one whining.”

“You watch yourself, cher.” Thibodaux wagged a finger at her. “Valentine Zamora is a bad dude. You get a chance to read the file?”

Ronnie glanced up, leaning forward, both elbows propped against the fence. The muscles in her long legs showed almost orange in the early light. “I read enough. Sleazebag gunrunning playboy with ties to Hezbollah, FARC, and AQAP. Daddy is some muckity in the Venezuelan government who'd just as soon disown him. Mommy is an Iranian diplomat's daughter and spoils him rotten. By eighteen, junior got himself kicked out of University of Texas for a couple of rapes.... One girl disappeared so he's most likely a murderer too. Mommy convinced Daddy to pull some political strings and got charges dropped and him admitted to U of Oregon, where he promptly started his guns and bombs business supplying hairy, unwashed environmental terrorists on the West Coast.”

Finished, Garcia turned up her nose. “I shouldn't complain about showing a little skin on such a beautiful morning. I'd take my shirt off just to catch this son of a bitch.”

“I got the best job in the world,” Jacques said to no one in particular.

“Anyway—” Garcia ignored him. “It doesn't hurt my feelings to get away from The Farm for a few hours.” Her voice grew softer as she gazed across the infield at Quinn. “It's not too bad seeing Jericho either. He and I never could seem to get our schedules to work out after he got back from visiting his daughter—so I've had nothing to do but hit the books.”

Thibodaux turned his head to study her. “Our buddy Mr. Quinn is a mighty private soul,” he said. “Just so you know, he's never said a word about what happened between you two.”

Garcia shrugged, sighing heavily as Quinn roared past again in a red and white blur. “I'm pretty sure his ex-wife happened. He was on the phone with her earlier and it had to be, what? Two in the morning in Alaska?”

“Never can seem to make a choice between her and any other woman,” Thibodaux said. “Can he?”

“Yeah, well.” Garcia gazed out at the track. “That in itself is a choice.”

“Mmm.” Thibodaux gave an understanding nod. The way Quinn clung to the idea that he'd someday get back with his ex-wife bordered on insanity. “I never met the woman,” he said, “but he made a damn poor trade if you ask me.”

“Thanks, Jacques, but I—”

A high whistle came from the race bays behind them, underneath the stands. Thibodaux's wrist brushed the butt of the baby Glock under the loose tail of his shirt as he turned. He carried a Colt Detective Special on his ankle in case things really went rodeo. In his experience, the fastest reload was another gun.

“Why are you so early?” A dark man with a tightly curly black hair and a scarred upper lip called from the shadow of the pits under the stands. He was thickly muscled with a bull neck and angry scowl. Strong arms swung stiffly from a loose, cream-colored guayabera shirt.

“My boss came out to run a few laps before they open,” Thibodaux shouted back, facing the newcomer as he approached. It was his job to act as Quinn's bodyguard. With his towering height and his back as broad as a barn, it was an easy assumption for people to make. “Don't worry, amigo. There's still enough track left for everybody.”

Garcia leaned farther over the fence, arching her back slightly, pointing her tight terry-cloth shorts toward the new arrival.

The bull-necked man paused as if Jacques had just challenged him to a duel. “I am not your amigo,” he yelled back, picking up his stride.

A second man walked a few steps behind the first, wearing a bright green and yellow racing suit. The tight leather suit was built for sitting, not walking, and that, along with the protective hump on his back, made him appear to waddle. He raised a gloved hand to silence his companion when they were still fifty feet away.

“It is fine, Monagas,” he said. “This man is correct. There is plenty of track for all of us.” He was tall and slender, with a pencil-thin mustache and a heavy brow. His black hair was slicked back to reveal a prominent widow's peak. His eyes were transfixed on Garcia.

“You can go home if you want to, Jacques,” Ronnie whispered, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder. “I think I can handle this one.”

“Smartass,” Thibodaux hissed under his breath. “This guy is a stone killer.”

She winked at him again. “Smart's got little to do with what he's looking at.”

Zamora strode purposefully up to Thibodaux. An entire entourage had followed him out of the tunnel, complete with two young men wearing green mechanic's shirts pushing a Yamaha R1 identical to Quinn's but for the fact that it was black. There were no fewer than fourteen women in the group, including a set of gap-toothed blond twins that Thibodaux suspected were from some British modeling agency. All of them but the mechanics dragged along as if they'd been pulled away at this early hour from an all-night party. Most wore shades. One, a short brunette wearing red spandex shorts and a yellow tube top, sported a fresh black eye. A redhead in a gaudy green halter-top carried a chartreuse motorcycle helmet that matched Zamora's suit.

When the little procession was within earshot, Ronnie Garcia bounced on her toes and looked up at Thibodaux.

“One-twenty-six and change,” she said as Quinn brapped by in a red blur. “That's his best lap yet.”

“He can do better.” Thibodaux leaned against the fence watching the parade of newcomers. “I've seen him.”

Zamora stood completely still, his eyes flitting back and forth from Garcia's body to Quinn ripping around the track. “Very nice,” he said at length. “Very nice indeed.” He tilted his head, leaning toward the shorter man, who Thibodaux could now see had the flattened nose of a brawler and a deformed cauliflower ear to go with his thuggish scowl. “Monagas, what time is it?”

Monagas consulted a heavy Seiko dive watch on his wrist. “Seven-fifty-five,
patrón
. Do you wish me to show them out?”

Zamora raised a gloved hand, pursing his lips as if in thought.

The throaty rumble unique to the R1's exhaust grew louder as Quinn came around again. Instead of slowing, he seemed to dig in, wringing a louder smoker's howl from the Yamaha's pipes as bike and rider shot past like a bullet aimed at the first turn.

 

 

Quinn took another easy lap, then pulled into the pit area, coming to a rolling stop beside Garcia. He stayed on the bike as he peeled off red and white Phantom gloves and red helmet that matched the red, white, and black panels of his leather race suit. Fingers of ground fog swirled around his boots in the long morning shadows. Quinn tipped his head toward Zamora, giving him a polite two-finger salute.

“I heard somebody rented the track for the entire day,” he said. “Thought I'd get a few laps in before you started. Warm it up for you, so to speak.”

He'd not shaved in two days and already the dark stubble of his beard combined with the rich bronze skin tone of his Apache grandmother made it hard to tell his origin. The fact that he was fluent in Arabic—and three other languages besides his native English—added to his ability to blend in in a multicultural place like south Florida. Still, with all his years in this line of work, he wondered if the contempt he held for a man like the one standing before him shone through in his eyes. He forced what he hoped looked like an easy smile and swung a leg over the bike to extend his hand.

“Impressive.” Zamora raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Your attractive lady friend said you ran a one-twenty-six lap.”

“I've been riding a while.” Quinn shrugged, grinning as if full of false modesty.

“I am Valentine,” Zamora said, stepping forward to shake hands.

“Quinn,” he said, taking the offered hand. “You know, it's really all about the bike.”

“Twenty percent bike, eighty percent rider, some say.” Zamora nodded toward his flat black R1, then let his eyes play over Ronnie Garcia. She leaned backward against the fence, elbows on the top rail, her back arched, eyes closed to the sun. The corners of Zamora's mouth turned up in a sly smile. “You have excellent taste, Mr. Quinn,” he said.

“Well, then.” Quinn saluted again. “You paid to have the track for you and your guests. We'll leave it to you.”

“Good,” Zamora said, letting him walk past.

The blond twins stood along the chain-link fence at the head of the entourage, eyeing Quinn like he was a piece of meat. Garcia drew a jealous, gap-toothed smirk as she walked beside him while Thibodaux pushed the bike.

“One-twenty-six is a scant two seconds off the track record,” Zamora called out. “How would you feel about a little wager? If you're a sporting man . . .”

Quinn turned, grinning. “Mister, I'll be happy to take your money if—”

The mousy brunette's cell phone chirped, bringing a crippling glare from Zamora. She cringed, rushing to silence the thing before it earned her another black eye. Another phone began to ring among the group, then another and another. Garcia shot a glance at Quinn as her phone began to ring as well.

She picked up.

“Well, go on,” Zamora said, flicking a hand at his entourage. “It's obviously something important.”