State of Emergency (4 page)

 

K
atya Orlov was in love enough to let herself be dragged through uneven drifts of grimy snow along Zagorodny Prospekt. Her boyfriend, Wasyl, had suggested she borrow her mother's Sberbank card. It wouldn't be stealing, he'd assured her, merely a loan they would pay back after he got work aboard the fishing boat.

The columned entries of Vitebsk Station loomed before her, bathed in brightness against the dark night. Slush soaked through her tattered leather boots. She wore thin cotton socks and her American straight-leg jeans did little to protect slender legs from the cold. She'd thought of packing a few things, but Wasyl had said it wouldn't matter. They could buy what they needed—and they would need little, for they were soul mates.

Rafts of evening commuters, recently disgorged from an outbound city train, flowed in a gray woolen sea. New snow hung heavy on the night air. The greasy smell of sausages and boiled potatoes drifted from the green kiosks up on the platforms inside the station. As a girl, Katya had thought Vitebsk's stone breastwork and clock tower made it look like a palace. It was a fantastic place with interesting people—but she'd never met anyone as interesting as Wasyl.

Of course, her mother hated him. It was not because he was nineteen and handsome and three years Katya's senior—but because he was Ukrainian and often spoke of taking her to Odessa. He was a man with dreams and a real plan to get her out of their drafty flat in Pushkin—where she would surely have to live with her mother forever unless she found someone to marry her. Wasyl promised they would travel by train, rent a berth where they could sleep in each other's arms and eat eggs and fresh green salads. Once in Odessa they could stay in his rich uncle's beautiful dacha on the Black Sea. Wasyl had a friend with a fishing boat who'd promised him a job.

It was perfect. All they needed was train fare—and perhaps a little sum more to tide them over.

“There,” Wasyl said, flipping a thick swath of black hair out of his face once they jostled their way through the doors and into the echoing marble main hall of the station. He pointed to a row of ATMs—
bankomats
in Russian—along the sidewall below a Soviet-era mural of dedicated factory workers and a sweeping Art Nouveau staircase. “We can get the money there.”

The damp heat of so many people hit Katya full in the face. A woman with two toddlers on a dog-leash tether fell in beside them, the little ones in tiny wool coats chattering between themselves. A bent and wrinkled
babushka
shuffled along beside them, pushing a creaky metal cart and working her way through the crowd toward the same bankomats.

A businessman in a sable hat and long black coat stood at the nearest machine and Wasyl crowded in front of the woman and her jabbering children to make sure he got to the next one first. He flipped his hair again and held out his hand for the Sberbank card.

Katya reached in the hip pocket of her jeans and handed it to him.

“The PIN?” Wasyl demanded, sliding the card in the slot.

“My birthday,” Katya said, the heavy weight of guilt suddenly pressing against her shoulders.

Wasyl sighed. “And exactly when is that again?”

Katya shook her head in disbelief. Surely a true love would remember such a thing.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered, heartbroken.

Wasyl did the math in his head and punched the buttons. The machine gave a faint pop.

Katya thought she heard a child's worried cry. At the same instant a molten ball of flame erupted from the bankomat, cutting Wasyl, then Katya, in half.

 

 

 

Jordan Winters leaned against the train window and shut his eyes against the stark interior lighting. He felt the swaying rumble through exhausted bones. Night shift sucked. By the time he got home his kids had already caught the bus and his wife was headed out to her shift at the hospital. But jobs were as scarce as politicians with backbone and he was lucky to have work at all. To make matters worse, the Pontiac had lost a U-joint the week before, so he'd been forced to take the train and then the bus to and from work. That meant another half hour on each end of his trip if he made the connections just right. At this rate, he got to see his wife fifteen minutes a day and on weekends—if they were lucky and she didn't have to cover for another nurse.

They made up for it by talking on the phone every day during his commute as soon as he got phone reception. Tuned to the timing of it all, his eyes flicked open the moment he felt the train shudder and began to slow.

“Good morning, bright eyes,” he said, glancing at the older man next to him who gave a rolling eye. Jerks blabbed in public on their phones all the time about much less important things. Trains going outbound from the city weren't nearly as crowed as those packed with commuters heading in at this time of day, but they were still full enough you could read the paper of the guy sitting next to you, so Winters kept his voice at a respectful level.

“Hey, Jordy,” his wife said. She sounded hoarse. Her cold was getting worse. “How's my man?”

“I'm fine,” Winters said. He gathered his jacket and moved toward the doors as they hissed open. “You're sick. Why don't you call in today?”

“I do feel like crap, baby,” she said. “But you know I can't call in. I don't qualify for OT if I take a sick day this pay period and heaven knows we need the money, honey.”

Jordan pushed his way along the packed platform, ducking and dodging the endless tide of morning commuters. He could smell the relatively fresh air of Market Street rolling down the stairway above as he passed the ATMs in the ticketing lobby.

“We don't need the money that bad,” he lied. “I can pull an extra shift this weekend if I have to.”

He worked his way toward the escalator and what his buddies on the night shift called the “world of the day-worker.”

“I'd better not. . . .” Her voice wavered.

After fourteen years of marriage, Jordan knew that slight hesitation meant he had her. “It'll be worth it to spend the day with you.”

“That would be nice,” she said, sniffling.

He sweetened the deal. “I'll stop by that Czech bakery you like before I catch the bus and get you a couple of kolache. That'll put meat on your bones.”

She giggled. He loved it when she giggled.

“It's settled then. I . . .” He paused, one foot on the escalator, cursing under his breath. He'd loaned his last ten bucks to Cal at work.

Jordan pushed back from the escalator and through the crowd, past the guy playing his saxophone in front of an open case, toward the bank of three ATMs along the white tile wall. Most people were coming to catch the train so it was easier now that he'd turned around and wasn't a salmon swimming upstream.

“Oh, Jordan . . . you really think I should?”

“No question about it.” He felt the thrill of getting to spend a few precious moments with his wife—even if it meant feeding her soup and fruit kolache.

With a new spring in his step, he made his way to the ATM just as the headlight from the next city inbound beamed out of the tunnel. Brakes squealed above the din of frenzied commuters, desperate to catch this particular train as if it were the last one on earth. Hundreds of people shoved and jostled their way from the stairs and escalators, flinging themselves into the bowels of the packed station.

Jordan chatted happily with his wife as he put his card into the slot, thankful to be going home.

“You just get better.” He began to punch in his PIN. “I'll be there—”

A blinding flash of heat and light shoved the words back down his throat.

The initial blast all but vaporized Jordan Winters and everyone else within five meters. Commuters were blown from their expensive loafers and high heels. Their bodies, some intact, some in mangled bits and pieces, hurtled across the tracks in front of the oncoming train.

Above, at ground level, passersby felt Market Street rumble under their feet. A blossom of inky smoke belched from the dark stairwell, carrying with it the screams of the dying and the smell of the dead.

 

J
ericho Quinn had been steeped in conflict for most of his life. He'd made a conscious effort to excel at boxing, jujitsu, blade work, and the all-out brawl. The most accomplished fighters would call him an expert—and still, three against one was something he took seriously.

No matter what Internet self-defense gurus taught, a violent encounter against multiple attackers was no simple application of a few snazzy techniques. The slightest mistake could nick a tendon or slice a nerve—and end his career. A larger error could end his life.

“Sticks?” Quinn walked forward, speaking Japanese in derisive tones, as a medieval samurai might speak to a dog. He gestured to the bats with his helmet. “You think to stop me with sticks?”

The apparent leader, wearing the
tokko-fuku,
brandished the knife but kept his feet rooted, not fully realizing the posturing phase was over.

Still ten feet away, Quinn suddenly changed direction, picking up speed before the uneasy kid to the right realized he was the intended target. The startled
bosozoku
had thought he was working as backup and hardly had time to raise the bat before Quinn bashed the helmet into his face and sent him staggering backwards in a tangle of feet and misgivings.

Quinn spun immediately, crouching to keep his center low and fluid. Tokko-fuku and the second helper moved in a simultaneous attack, slashing wildly with blade and bat. Quinn stepped under a crashing blow from the bat, swinging his helmet in a wide arc as he moved, connecting with Tokko-fuku's jaw then the second man's knee. The leader growled, caught only with a glancing blow. The second was driven to his knees.

Tokko-fuku wasted no time pressing his attack, slashing out with the knife in a flurry of blows. At least two landed with sickening scrapes against the crash armor of Quinn's thick Transit jacket. A wild swing caught Quinn under the eye, slicing flesh but missing anything vital. In the heat of battle, it felt more like a punch than a cut.

Quinn advanced, pushing Tokko-fuku back with the swinging helmet. He didn't have time for this. Drake was getting away.

To his right, the kid with the bum knee stumbled to his feet, yanking a pistol from his waistband.

Not wanting to alert Drake, Quinn snatched the suppressed .22 from the holster under his arm and put two rounds straight up under the kid's chin as he stumbled past. The wide-eyed
bosozoku
clutched at his neck, full of the horrible knowledge that he was already dead.

“Fool!” Tokko-fuku attacked again before his partner hit the pavement. Blood and saliva covered his teeth, dripping from a pink sheen on his chin. He screamed at his surviving partner, who cowered on the ground. “Get in the fight!”

Amazingly, the frightened boy sprang to his feet. Brandishing the bat, he rushed at Quinn with a stifled yell. Quinn got off three quick shots with the Beretta. Perfect for quick, silent work, the diminutive .22 had little effect on a deranged boy trying to redeem himself in front of his peer. The
bosozoku
crashed in, knocking the little pistol from Quinn's grasp and driving him backward. Quinn moved laterally, ducking a flurry of strikes with the bat. He kept the scared kid between him and Tokko-fuku long enough to draw Yawaraka-Te from the scabbard along his spine. Horrified at the sight of the Japanese killing dirk, the kid dropped his weapon.

There was no time for mercy in an uneven fight. Quinn extended the blade as he spun, drawing it across the kid's throat in a wide arc on the way around to face Tokko-fuku.

Wasting no time, the
bosozoku
leader feinted with the blade, edge upward, intent on delivering ripping blows for maximum effect. Narrow eyes searched for an opening.

Quinn gave him one.

Dropping his left shoulder a hair, he dragged his foot as if he was about to stumble. Tokko-fuku fell for it, lunging forward with his arm outstretched. Quinn stepped deftly to the right, avoiding the blade and letting Yawaraka-Te windmill in front of him. Three of the
bosozoku
's fingers came off in the process. His knife clattered to the pavement roughly twenty seconds after the fight began.

For the first time, Quinn stood his ground, letting Yawaraka-Te's point float inches from the bleeding Tokko-fuku's heaving chest.

“Who sent you?” Quinn whispered. He had no time for a lengthy interrogation. Every second put Drake farther away. “I will ask you only once more. Who sent you?”

Tokko-fuku's lips pulled back over bloodstained teeth in a maniacal grin. Shaved eyebrows and a false widow's peak gave him a ghoulish, Kabuki-like appearance. Instead of speaking, he released a long, rattling breath. Rushing forward, he impaled himself on the gleaming blade, then, glaring hard at Quinn, twisted sideways as if wanting to inflict the most damage.

Quinn felt a sickening scrape as the dagger known as Gentle Hand grated on bone, then snapped. He stepped back immediately, withdrawing the blade to find three inches of steel remained inside the grinning youth. Gasping, Tokko-fuku stepped forward. The mangled remnants of his bloody hand clawed at the air as he fell.

Beyond the hedgerow a boat motor burbled to life. Quinn's phone began to buzz again, more urgently this time, it seemed. He ignored it.

Quinn stood rooted in place, his broken dagger dripping blood. The entire event had lasted less than half a minute. He scanned the three dead attackers before turning his back on them. As the Chinese said, dead tigers kill the most hunters.

He made it through the hedge in time to catch the glimpse of Drake's bomber jacket as he stepped into the cabin of a powerboat fifty meters away. An Asian woman with black hair piled up in a loose bun held the door, then followed him inside. Quinn didn't get a good look at her face, but judging from the height of the cabin door, she was as tall as Drake. She was older, maybe in her late fifties. She'd surely been the one to station the young goons to watch Drake's back trail, which meant she was likely also Japanese.

Focused on a rapidly departing boat, Quinn grabbed his BlackBerry. He had to find someone who could get eyes-on while he worked out how to follow. The phone began to buzz with an incoming call before he could punch in a number.

“Quinn,” he snapped without looking at the caller ID.

Fifty meters away, the boat backed out of her slip and onto the Potomac, headed south toward points unknown.

“I need you to come in.” The president's national security advisor charged ahead as soon as Quinn picked up. In the mind of Winfield Palmer, if you answered, you were available on his terms. If you didn't answer, he simply called over and over until you did. It was no consequence to him that you might be holding a bloody weapon or standing over a dead body. When he wanted to talk, the boss expected you to listen.

“Sir, Drake is on the move,” Quinn said, exasperated. “We need to get with the Coast Guard and have them track the ves—”

“No time, Jericho,” Palmer cut him off. “There's been a bombing.”

Quinn stopped. “A bombing?”

“Listen, I'm attending a funeral,” Palmer plowed on. “Can you meet me at the Tomb of the Unknowns in half an hour?”

“I'll be there,” Quinn said. He glanced down at the dead
bosozoku
s at his feet. A knot of puzzled onlookers already gathered across King Street, staring at the broken killing dagger in his fist. “But I might need your help with Alexandria Police.”

Quinn ended the call, then used his phone to snap a photo of each dead man. He felt sure the Asian woman on the boat with Drake had hired them—making it a good guess that she was Yakuza. Maybe there was another way to find out who she was. Before heading back to the bike, he stooped to pick up Tokko-fuku's severed fingers. Rolling them in a blue bandana, he shoved them in the pocket of his leather jacket.

Back on the BMW he turned on the FM radio, letting the horrific news of panic and death surrounding the dirty bomb flood the speaker in his helmet. Hartman Drake, terrorist mole, murderer, and Speaker of the House, would have to wait.