Brute Force

Chapter 66

Quinn bolted past the window as Jiàn Zŏu sent two rounds crashing through the glass. Song returned fire, forcing the other man to duck behind one of the heavy glass furnaces long enough for Quinn to boot the door. The action sent a wave of pain up his already injured hip, but luckily the frame separated under the first kick. Stumbling forward, Quinn sent a round downrange, keeping Jiàn Zŏu’s head down so Song could make it in past the fatal funnel of the demolished door. Two of the Asian men working the furnace floor had their hands full with the balls of molten glass. The third stepped behind a wooden partition to reappear an instant later with what looked like an M4 carbine. He sprayed a volley of fire into the shop, sending shards of shattered glass flying in every direction. Quinn and Song dove for a line of tall Oriental vases that would provide some semblance of concealment if not actual protective cover. Vases and glass shelves alike exploded behind them as the shooter tracked their movements with the rifle.

Quinn came sliding to a stop behind a leather sofa at the far end of the shop, likely meant for tired husbands to rest their feet while their spouses continued to shop. Song looked up from where she lay beside him, both eyes locked in a grim stare.

“Go left,” he whispered. She nodded, rolling away and laying down a line of fire. Quinn rolled to his right, putting two .45 rounds in the chest of the rifleman. The crash of glass and a sharp cry told him Song’s rounds had found their way into one of the glassblowers.

The rifle began to bark again as Jiàn Zŏu sprayed the ceiling with lead. Razor-sharp shards began to rain down, causing both Quinn and Song to shield their faces to keep from being blinded. Exposed skin, clothing, and even their hair were covered in tiny blades they couldn’t brush away without being cut. Deadly icicles, remnants of the broken flowers, swayed on thin wires above, threatening to slice anyone to pieces who happened to be walking under them when they fell.

When the shooting paused, Quinn caught a glimpse of the second glassblower working his way around the wooden counter, carrying his metal tube tipped with molten glass like a spear.

“I will take care of this one,” Song said. “Jiàn Zŏu ran up the stairs. You must stop him.”

Song rolled away from the heavy sofa, advancing on the man with the hot glass as she shot into the wooden partition.

Quinn ran for the stairs, Kimber up and ready to shoot as soon as he had a sight picture. Jiàn Zŏu sent two shots down the stairwell but Quinn could tell they were unaimed and meant only to slow Quinn’s advance so he could arm the Black Dragon. At this point, it mattered little if he even hit his intended target. If a Chinese weapon was fired anywhere near the President, it would be enough to cause a war.

Quinn made it up the stairs in two bounds, knowing he would be a bullet sponge before he got Jiàn Zŏu in his sights. But the commando had overestimated Quinn’s aversion to gunfire, expecting him to come creeping up the stairs. A look of genuine surprise crossed his face when Quinn rushed into the room.

Surprised or not, he had time to raise his pistol and fire, striking Quinn in the right shoulder. The shock of the bullet’s impact sent the Kimber flying from Quinn’s hand as surely as if it had been slapped away. Instead of slowing, Quinn plowed straight ahead, impacting the Southern Sword commando with the full weight of his body. Both men fell to the floor, Quinn’s left hand shoving the barrel of the other man’s pistol out of the way as he pulled the trigger again, inches from Quinn’s ear.

The concussion sent a shower of lights through Quinn’s brain. Ambient noise was replaced by a piercing whine in his ears. His right arm nearly useless, Quinn struck out with a flurry of knees and his good elbow, biting, kicking, and head butting in his best impression of the cartoon Tasmanian Devil.

Thankfully, the sudden outburst of energy knocked Jiàn Zŏu’s pistol away in the struggle, but the wiry man seemed able to soak up any beating Quinn was able to dish out.

Growling a string of Chinese curses, he sent a volley of his own punches into Quinn’s face and ribs. Quinn rolled away as best he could, but with a broken right wing, there was little he could do to block the man’s powerful left hooks. Momentarily stunned, Quinn felt himself being dragged along the floor by the collar. Jiàn Zŏu meant to throw him down the stairs.

Song’s pitiful scream drifted up from the floor below.

Instead of tensing, Quinn let his body go limp as if he’d given up. It allowed his exhausted muscles a split second to regroup and made it more difficult for Jiàn Zŏu to drag him.

“Ben dan!” He barked in Mandarin. “Stupid fool.” “It is over.”

Still relaxed, Quinn felt Jiàn Zŏu lift, ready to toss him down the wooden stairs.

“Go to hell,” the Chinese commando spat.

Quinn twisted like a cat over a bathtub as Jiàn Zŏu 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 Zŏu 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 Zŏu 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 Zŏu 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 Zŏu’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.”