Brute Force

Chapter 55

“I don’t like this,” Quinn said, standing at the top of the Harbor Steps and looking down the broad gray stairs that tumbled from First to Alaska Way, ending across from the waterfront. A low sun peeked under the ragged cloudbank across Puget Sound, casting a pink glow on the wet sidewalks and pavement above, but darkness already gathered under the Alaska Way viaduct at the bottom of the steps. Pockets of aimless youth and a handful of lost tourists moved up and down the broad terraced steps.

Big Uncle had given them the address to an apartment building located below Seattle’s lively Pike Place Market. It was a high-rent district for a terrorist flophouse, but the building was supposed to be under construction. There was a better than average chance the triad boss was sending them into a trap, so Quinn and Song ignored his suggested route directly below the market and decided to take the Harbor Steps and approach from what they hoped would be an unexpected route.

Like Quinn, Song had worn stylish but sensible enough shoes that she’d be able to run in them if the need arose. The tight dress might pose a problem, but that’s where the spandex shorts would come in. She stood directly beside Quinn, close enough he could feel her shiver.

“I do not believe Big Uncle would lie to us outright for fear of retaliation by my government,” she said. “I don’t think he knows we are essentially operating on our own.”

“He doesn’t have to lie,” Quinn said. “He can just tell the Fengs we’re coming. He wins either way.”

Song’s face grew dark, her mouth pinched. “If I find that he has betrayed me, I will kill him myself. I do not care if he has toes.”

“Come on,” Quinn said, starting down the stairs. “We can worry about Big Uncle later. If we don’t locate the Fengs tonight, my boss will have to warn the Secret Service of the threat. They would call off the President’s meeting with Prime Minister Nabe tomorrow morning.”

“And the Fengs would know we are closing in,” Song said, thinking it through. “They would simply readjust their plans to utilize the Black Dragon somewhere we do not expect.”

“Yep,” Quinn said, already moving down the stairs.

He pulled up short a few steps before the bottom. A steady thump of even traffic pounded down from the Alaska Way viaduct above, echoing off dusty concrete pillars and puzzle-piece stacks of orange construction barriers along a paved jogging trail.

It didn’t take long to locate the apartment building, six stories of dark red brick. Sections of eight-foot chain link lapped against concrete Jersey barriers to form a semblance of a security fence around the construction zone. Scaffolding ran up the south wall where the renovation project had been started. At the north end, a dim light flickered in a fifth-floor window, behind dusty panes of cracked glass.

“You think that’s them?” Song nodded at the light.

“Maybe,” Quinn said. He checked his watch. Jacques and Emiko would land in less than an hour. The first rule of a gunfight was to bring a gun. The second was to bring a bunch of friends with guns, so the wisest course of action would be to watch and wait. A low building that looked like some kind of small warehouse ran off the end of the brick apartments, back to the south. Heavy foliage covered the hillside along the active train tracks, providing a likely spot to set up a hide until reinforcements arrived.

Two homeless men sat hunched on their blankets outside the fence panels. The shopping cart beside them overflowed with plastic bags and other bits of tattered treasure. The hulking shadow of a yellow backhoe loomed above them, heavy arm and bucket drawn up and back, throwing the men in even darker shadows. Both met Quinn’s gaze, their dark faces shining with the shellac of open-air life, with no bath for weeks on end. He stared back, sizing them up as threats.

When he was young, Quinn’s mother had seen the direction life was taking him and implored him to “be kind,” but his father had pulled him aside for a little deeper counsel. While not exactly going against his wife’s admonition for kindness, the elder Quinn had explained to both his sons that there were those on whom kindness did not work. “Dig deep,” he had said. “Get inside yourself and find that part of you that makes anyone who happens to look in your direction want to do nothing but escape.” It was good advice and Quinn had taken it to heart.

“Got a match,” the nearest homeless man mumbled around a dangling hand-rolled cigarette as Quinn walked by with his arm around Song, still playing the part of a vacationing couple.

Quinn had bought a packet of two disposable lighters as soon as they’d arrived at the hotel lobby, in keeping with his habit to carry a knife, a light, and something to make fire with at all times — even if he didn’t have a gun. Years of experience in surveillance and investigation had taught him that the homeless were often ignored and overlooked, making them a wealth of information as long as they weren’t alienated.

Quinn tossed the guy one of the lighters. “Keep it,” he said.

Song laughed softly. “You are an interesting person,” she said. “I would have expected you to stare a dagger into him and you decide to be nice.”

“I’m not nice.” Quinn shrugged. “Just practical. We’re operating in their backyard. Best to stay on their good side.”

The homeless man waved in thanks and lit the cigarette, blowing a huge plume of smoke into the darkness. A bright beam of laser light pierced the cloud an instant before a red dot tracked across Song’s chest.

Quinn dove sideways, pushing her toward the cover of the backhoe. Chips of concrete flew through the air. Metal clanked and sparks flew as bullets from at least one suppressed weapon stitched the side of the machine. The homeless men dove for cover, upending their shopping cart as they scrambled for the nearest concrete column.

Quinn drew the Sig Sauer he’d taken from Lok and did a quick peek around the side of the backhoe’s thick boom. More shots pinged off the metal.

“I count two of them,” Quinn said, glancing over his shoulder to check on Song. He heard an odd metal squeak, almost a groan, and turned in time to see the shadow of a heavy length of chain arcing directly at him from high on the scaffolding. The blow threw Quinn fifteen feet, flipping him into the air and slamming him into the security fence like a baseball against a backstop. He slid to the ground with a sickening thud, completely still.