Act of Terror

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Standing outside Nadia Arbakova’s front door, one hip cocked to the side, Ronnie Garcia’s throat tightened as she watched Quinn and Thibodaux gear up. Dressed in black leather, with stiff riding boots and full-gauntlet riding gloves, the men reminded her of gladiators straddling futuristic machines out of an Alien movie. They mounted their bikes without speaking and roared down the driveway back toward Highway 270.

Arbakova’s murder had solidified everyone’s workday. Garcia would pay a visit to Agent James Doyle’s older sister, Tara, and see what the Air Force F-22 pilot had to say about her kid brother. The big boy biker with the Louisiana drawl and his darkly handsome friend would check out a couple of addresses on the guy who’d apparently tried to kidnap them that morning. They would all link up around 1500 hours at the Naval Observatory-the official vice-presidential residence-for an appointment with Nadia’s former boyfriend, Special Agent Doyle.

Ronnie put the tip of her index finger against full lips, eyes narrowed in thought. It would take some time to understand this one named Jericho. The Cajun dude had muscles on top of his muscles. Some women would be into that, but there was a brooding violence in the dark one that felt familiar to Garcia, as if she’d known him for a very long time.

Palmer and the others were still inside, letting the crime scene technicians go about their business while Bodington, no doubt, pitched high-level plans that didn’t involve Garcia doing anything more than carrying his briefcase.

Beyond the trees, the bikes threw up a spray of gravel, disappearing around the line of oaks along the deserted street. Ronnie sighed, jingling her keys in her fist. She looked at Arnie Vasquez, Palmer’s Secret Service driver. “You know that one?” she asked.

“You talking about Quinn?”

“Hmm.” She bit her bottom lip. “He married?”

“Not anymore.”

“Hmmm.”

“He’s a dangerous man, chica… muy dangerous.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Something else you want to know?”

“I’m wondering how he likes his coffee…”

Arnie smirked. “And just how do you want him to like his coffee?”

Garcia opened the door to her shiny black Impala and gave Vasquez a wink as she climbed in behind the wheel. “Strong, hot, and Cuban.”