Day Zero

Chapter 34

By six-thirty a.m., Garcia sat cross-legged with her back against the headboard of the hotel bed. Five hours of fitful sleep had chased away enough of her panic that she’d been able to take a shower. A white towel now sat piled around her wet hair like a turban. She wore a clean pair of faded jeans and a white T-shirt that was loose at the waist to conceal her Browning Hi Power and tight enough at the chest to ensure no one looked down there anyway. Barefoot, she wiggled her toes, tapping a pen against her teeth while she considered the list in the spiral notebook that lay in her lap.

Empty dishes from her breakfast of steel-cut oats, three slices of bacon, and toast covered in orange marmalade cluttered the room service tray next to her knee. The first cup of coffee from the little hotel-room coffeemaker had revived her just enough to stumble into the shower. The stuff that came with her meal was much better and actually made her feel something close to human again.

The notebook held two dozen names and their associated contact information. The problem with ditching a cell phone so it couldn’t be used to track her location was that all the phone numbers and e-mail addresses got ditched as well. She hated committing sensitive information like this to paper, and would eventually drop the entire notebook in a burn bag, but for now, she had to decide where to start.

The volume on the television was low, but the willowy brunette on FOX News seemed to shout every word that roamed across her teleprompter, from barked sound bites about the national debt to some slutty pop star’s latest vacation to rehab. Ronnie had picked up the remote to turn it off when the news anchor called in a hunky GQ model with “leaked” news about the arrest of the CIA director.

“…Ross’s capture comes amid a massive series of intergovernmental probes,” the reporter said from his vantage point outside the US Capitol. “The Justice Department would make no statement regarding the investigation, but sources confirm that Director Ross is suspected of leaking sensitive, even top-secret, material to foreign agents.”

“This is just incredible, Steve,” the shouting brunette said. “Do we know yet when she’ll appear in court?”

“As I said, Leslie, the government has not commented officially,” GQ said. “We can only assume that some of the hearings will be held in camera or, in other words, closed to the public due to the extremely sensitive matters that are certain to come out. That said, we can confirm that Virginia Ross, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, has been arrested and is being held in federal custody at an undisclosed location.…”

Garcia picked up the notebook and ran her finger down the back page, looking for a particular number. “Undisclosed federal custody,” she said to herself. She found who she was looking for, then picked up the burner phone.

He would either be the perfect guy to call… or he’d throw her in jail.

Chapter 35

Above all the other aspects of protective work, Deputy US Marshal August Bowen enjoyed the chance to explore. A Montana native and former US Army scout, he was a tracker and hunter by nature. He liked the conquest of things that others might consider mundane. The back hallways, restaurant kitchens, laundry rooms, and basements of five-star Washington, DC, hotels — all proved to be new frontiers as far as Bowen was concerned.

He had a pleasant face with deep dimples on either side of a well-trimmed goatee. At thirty-six, his beard was still dark, as his hair had been when he’d deployed to Afghanistan two years before. That trip had changed many things about him, the most noticeable being that his hair had turned gunmetal gray.

Broad shoulders and a trim waist made his off-the-rack suit look more expensive than it really was. A clear pigtail ran from his ear to the flesh-tone wire clipped to his shirt collar, disappearing beneath his jacket and running down to the brick-sized radio on the left side of his belt. A second and third wire from the radio ran respectively up the back of the coat and down his sleeve to a small beige microphone pinned to his lapel and an activation button held in place on his left wrist with a rubber band. This “surveillance kit” allowed him to use his radio without going all Hollywood and putting his finger to his ear or raising his hand to his mouth every time he spoke. The suit coat also covered a pair of handcuffs, a X26 Taser, and a .40 caliber Glock 22 with two extra magazines.

A voice came over the radio, crackling in his ear. “He wants to head to the courthouse in thirty minutes.”

“Advance copies,” Bowen said. As the deputy out front of all movement, he’d need to go check with the deputy assigned to sit with the vehicles and make sure the exits were clear. After that, he’d scout the route to the courthouse ahead of the detail.

Deputy US marshals worked with so many different agencies that they generally dispensed with cumbersome codes and signals on the radio, instead using plain talk that was understood by all, no matter the jurisdiction.

Picking up his pace, Bowen moved down the bright hall that ran below the main lobby of the hotel. Absent the fancy carpets and mood lighting of the guest areas, these subterranean passageways were steaming hives of activity with thriving cultures that were far more interesting than the stuffy cigar bars upstairs.

They also made excellent entry points for threats to the protectee, providing plenty of places to explore.

The principal, US District Judge R. Felix Knudson, was new to the bench. His chambers were in Norfolk, but he was in town training with some of the more experienced judges. One of his first cases had seen him rule against a group of white separatists who had a compound near the North Carolina border. The ruling had garnered enough death threats that the Marshals Service was still in the middle of trying to discern if the letters were sent by genuine “hunters” who planned to make good on their threats, or “howlers” who talked a loud and bothersome game but were basically harmless.

Of all the judges Bowen had protected, Knudsen had to be the easiest. He warned his detail well in advance of any movement and acted as though he realized they were genuinely concerned for his safety. He’d not been on the bench long enough to “turn purple” or “royal,” as often occurred to powerful judges and senators. It was a difficult thing, hearing nothing but yes to every question and hearty laughs at all your jokes, no matter how lame.

Bowen wouldn’t know. Few people ever told him yes.

Making his way down the hallway past the kitchen toward the alley exit where the vehicles were staged, he passed a smiling Hispanic woman wearing blue hospital scrubs. She stood beside a train of canvas laundry carts working at a huge blue-and-white sheet-pressing machine that was called a mangler — a little factoid Bowen would never have known had he not explored the back hallways of the hotel.

“Augusto.” The woman smiled, raising dark eyebrows up, then down to flirt. “I take a break in five minutes. Why don’t we sail away on that boat you are always talking about? My husband, he would never be able to track us down.”

“Ah, Josephina,” Bowen chuckled. “Mi Corazon es perdido en ti.” He used six of the dozen Spanish words he knew — and those from a Brooks and Dunn song. My heart is lost in you. “But I think I could not keep up with a woman like you.”

Josephina was old enough to be his mother, but she gave him a sly wink that would have scared a lesser man. It was all innocent flirtation.

As advance deputy, Bowen made it his job to know the backstairs staff by name. It took a little extra time, but gave him two dozen more sets of eyes and ears to help protect the judge.

Saying good-bye to Josephina, Bowen worked his way down the hall, past industrial driers that hummed and thumped and filled the air with the pleasant smell of warm cotton. The hotel was built on a hill, so he exited the steel delivery doors at ground level, across the street from a Panera Bakery and a Starbucks. The Suburban and Lincoln Town Car they used for the protective detail were parked around the corner, but they would come this way en route to the courthouse in Alexandria. It was Bowen’s job to let them know the area was clear of any possible threats.

It was still early and crowds of commuters ducked in and out of the bakery and Starbucks, getting their morning bagel and coffee fixes before heading off to work. A group of three youths in their early twenties hung out near the doorway to the coffee shop. Their swaggering demeanor caught Bowen’s attention as he crossed the street. They wore baggy jeans, loose NFL jerseys, and colorful tennis shoes. One, the tallest of the three, wore a ball cap turned sideways. But their clothing, their race, or the fact that there were three of them was not what aroused his suspicions. It was the way they looked at the people walking by.

They were predators looking for someone to catch unawares. A hunter himself, Bowen watched a young woman just a few feet away from the boys, and recognized her as just the kind they would target. She had a messenger bag over her shoulder and a rolled copy of the morning paper under her arm. Her eyes were glued to the screen of a smartphone and her ears plugged with buds that piped in music to block out the noises — and threats — of the world around her.

Bowen picked up his pace, watching the kid with the ball cap step out as the girl walked by. She was too close for Bowen to reach her in time so he shouted, trying to get her or, at the very least, Ball Cap’s attention before he sucker punched her in another senseless game of “knockout” — just to watch her fall.

“Hey!” Bowen yelled as loud as he could, running now.

Even wearing earbuds, the girl heard something and looked up in time to see the kid swinging at her with a doubled fist. The blow still came in hard, but it hit her shoulder instead of her head. She staggered sideways.

His knockout sucker punch foiled, the kid turned to run, and came face-to-face with Deputy August Bowen.

His two buddies just stood there, waiting to see how their friend handled a full-grown man.

Realizing he didn’t have time to get away, Ball Cap bladed his body, bringing his right arm back as if to chamber it for a punch.

Bowen had been a boxer since junior high school, and sent in a left jab before the kid even had a chance to make a good fist. The jab put him in perfect line for a right cross, which in turn set him up for Bowen’s left hook — a powerful blow that nearly took the kid’s head off. With punks like this a simple combination was all it took. Bowen didn’t even have to get clever. Reeling, Ball Cap’s main problem seemed to be trying to figure out which way to fall. Bowen helped him with a wicked uppercut that snapped his teeth shut like a gunshot and shut out his lights.

The deputy turned to look at the other two, but they’d wisely decided to vanish somewhere between the cross and the left hook.

Bowen flipped the kid over on his belly and handcuffed him, patting him down for weapons as a gathering crowd cheered and applauded. He got on his radio and briefed the protective detail supervisor, letting her know what had happened. She advised they would take the alternate route away from the hotel, and told him to hang back with his collar and fill in Arlington PD when they arrived.

Bowen showed his badge to the victim, who seemed more shaken up than anything. She was anxious to stay and give her statement to the police. Scribbling something on a piece of her newspaper, she shoved it toward Bowen with a shaky hand.

“Here’s my number,” she said, smiling. “You know, in case you need it for your report… or just want to call me…”

Bowen’s cell phone began to buzz in the pocket of his suit, but an Arlington squad car rolled up so he ignored it for the moment.

He made his excuses to the girl and turned to hold up his credentials.

“Knockout game?” the officer said.

“Yep.” Bowen grinned. “And you can maybe add assault on a federal officer because his chin sort of hurt my fist.” He’d been known to cross three lanes of traffic and pull his car over just to right the smallest of wrongs, but he’d prayed for the day he was around when some delinquent turd decided to play the knockout game

Bowen winked at the girl as his phone began to buzz again. He looked at the officer, holding up the phone. “Sorry,” he said. “I need to take this.”

“Hello,” he said, pressing the phone to the ear without the pigtail radio wire hanging out of it. He walked down the street a few steps.

“Deputy Bowen.” The caller was female and spoke in the snapped speech of someone on a mission. “Do not say my name out loud, but do you recognize who this is?”

“I do now,” Bowen said. Even when she was rushed, there was no mistaking the sultry tones of Ronnie Garcia, peppered with just a hint of Cuban spice. Hers was one of the few voices that, like the voluptuous Jessica Rabbit from the cartoon, actually belonged to the lips that made the noise. “Who else besides you and that boyfriend of yours would get all spy games on me?”

“True,” Garcia said. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” he said, chuckling at the pleasantries. “What can I do for you?”

“I need to ask you a favor,” she said. “But I have to warn you that it could get you into serious trouble.”

Bowen groaned inside. Just being assigned the Jericho Quinn fugitive case had nearly gotten him relegated across the river to work the DC Superior Court cellblock — otherwise known as “Marshals Service Hell.” Still, dismissing the fact that Quinn had beaten the snot out of him when they were both still in the military, he was a good man and there were damn too few of those.

“What’s the favor?” Bowen asked when he was well away from the Arlington PD officer and the growing crowd.

“I can’t talk about it on the phone,” Garcia said. “We need to meet.”

“Okay,” he said. “Come by the courthouse. I’ll be there most of the day after I finish up here.”

“That won’t be possible,” Garcia said. “I’ll explain it all when we meet. Someplace public.”

“Public?”

“Look,” she said. “I’m not sure who I can trust right now.”

“You called me,” he said. “Remember?”

“I guess I did,” she said. “Listen, there’s a water park near Manassas. Can you meet me there?”

“Well,” Bowen said, “I was assigned to a protective detail, but as it happens I just got relieved to deal with a local police matter. I can meet with you tonight, no problem.”

“That’s too far off,” Garcia said, sounding as if she about to loose a flood of Cuban curses. “This is life or death. I wouldn’t bug you if it wasn’t.”

Bowen took a deep breath. “Okay. A water park in Manassas.”

“Eleven o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.” He looked at his watch. “But I’m not wearing a swimming suit.”

“Up to you,” Ronnie said. “But this is a family place. They won’t be too happy with you lounging around in the water without one.”

Chapter 36

Quinn hung his head out the window of Lovita’s borrowed Pontiac, thinking of how many times he’d ridden this road on a motorcycle. Die-hard riders often called other vehicles cages. The little Pontiac was a perfect example of why. Thankfully, the passenger window was completely gone, allowing some escape from the stale odor of fast food trash — and some creature that had crawled up inside the air vents and died.

It was not quite seven in the morning but the sun had already been up for three hours and the Chugach Mountains glowed with the brilliant golden-green of summer. Joggers and bicyclists moved steadily through the crisp Alaska morning down the paved pathway between the Glenn Highway and Joint Base Elmendorf Richardson. There was a time Quinn had thought of becoming the OSI detachment commander here at JBER. His parents pushed for it. Kim certainly wanted it. Heaven knew he owed Mattie a little more of his time. But for some reason, that normal, move-up-the-ranks-and-become-the-boss portion of his career just wasn’t meant to be so the det co thing never materialized. He was an Air Force Academy alumnus, a Fulbright Scholar, and spoke five languages. Out in the world he could have been described as a renaissance man. But he was just rough enough around the edges that he always felt like a bit of a thug compared to the other Air Force officers in garrison. He supposed he just wasn’t cut out for it. Lately, it had been difficult to comprehend what he was cut out for except for slitting the odd throat now and then. It sure wasn’t being a father — no matter what patriotic platitudes he spouted to Lovita about having something to fight for.

His mind had covered a dozen different scenarios for his arrival at the airport by the time they passed the National Guard Armory — known as the “Green Banana” — between Eagle River and Anchorage. He had never been the nervous sort. When he made a decision, he followed through, leaving the outcome to God or fate or whatever great cosmic dice game was in control of his destiny. But that was him. When it came to his daughter, he was capable of worrying a hole in his gut.

Quinn’s greatest worry was that his parents had been followed out of DC and a crowd of IDTF agents or contract killers would swoop down on them as soon as he set foot in the airport. If by some miracle his parents were able to get Mattie to Alaska unimpeded, there was the high likelihood that some other passenger, a TSA officer, or even a US Customs agent might recognize Jericho from having grown up with him. Nearly 300,000 people called Anchorage home, but the small-town feel made it difficult to go to a store or restaurant without running into someone who knew him.

Five months of heavy black beard had made him look like a pirate. He’d trimmed it back to a more city-acceptable length before leaving the hangar that morning. Lovita said it gave him “ambiguous ethnicity.” He wore a ball cap pulled down low and black Wiley X shades that he hoped were all enough to camouflage his identity.

Traffic was heavy with morning commuters along the Glenn, but Lovita took C Street through midtown and hung a right on International Airport Road across from Baily’s Furniture Store. He’d met plenty of pilots who scared him to death when they got behind the wheel of a car, but Lovita, a village child who rarely drove anything larger than a four-wheeler, handled the car as if she’d grown up driving in a city much larger than Anchorage.

His head still out the window, Quinn caught the flowery sweet scents of birch and balsam poplar as they neared the airport. The air was still crisp enough that no one questioned the fact that Quinn was wearing a black motorcycle jacket. A Vanson Enfield, the jacket was heavy leather but old and worn enough to fit like a comfortable baseball glove. It wasn’t armored like his customary Aerostich Transit Leather, but that one had been cut to ribbons back in Japan.

Lovita pulled up next to the curb at the North Terminal and put the car in park. She turned to look at him, smiling softly.

“I think I would make a good government operative,” she said, out of the blue.

Quinn cocked his head to one side, studying her face. The traditional tattoo notwithstanding, she was probably right.

“I think so too,” he said. “Give me a call after this is over. I can introduce you to some people.”

“Be careful, Jericho Quinn,” she said, as if his name was all one word. “I need to keep you as a contact.”

Her voice was even huskier than usual, her eyes red as if she’d stayed awake much of the night. She was an incredibly tough human being, but coming within inches of crashing into a mountainside was enough to work on anyone’s emotions.

She leaned across the seat to give him a hug. The smell of cigarettes and some sort of musky perfume she’d found back at the hangar was a welcome cover for the odor of the Pontiac.

“Thanks for flying Air Lovita,” she said.

“Yeah, well, thanks for saving my life.” Quinn turned to grab his duffel from the backseat. “You flying back tonight?”

She nodded. “Got a Costco run, then fish to cut when I get back,” she said simply. Good-byes over, she waited for him to shut the door, then pulled away without another word.

The North Terminal was the older portion of Ted Stevens Airport. It wasn’t quite as swank as the newer, main terminal across the way, but it did have a huge stuffed polar bear in the waiting area outside security — the part of the airport Quinn most remembered as a child. It was also the terminal for US Customs and international flights arriving and departing Alaska.

The Alaska flight from DC had arrived an hour earlier at the South Terminal, but Quinn was already inside by the time his parents had retrieved their bags and hopped a shuttle to the north side of the airport. Quinn didn’t see any tail, but if there was one, it wouldn’t matter at this point anyway. He’d known Kim wasn’t coming, but his heart sank a little when she didn’t get off the shuttle with everyone else.

Mattie bolted to him as soon as she came through the door. It had been half a year since she’d seen him last, beside her mother’s hospital bed. It was a lot for an adult to handle, let alone a seven-year-old girl.

She buried her face in his chest, squeezing him until her arms shook.

“I missed you too, Sweet Pea,” Quinn said, glancing up at his father. He mouthed the words “How’s Kim?” so Mattie couldn’t hear him.

Pete Quinn took a deep breath, putting a hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “Can you help Grandma with the luggage, sweetheart?” he said. “I need to talk to your dad a minute before y’all go.”

Mattie looked up, arms still locked around her daddy’s neck.

“We’ll just be a minute.” Jericho hugged her one more time before peeling her away.

Mattie nodded and dutifully went to stand with her grandmother, a tall woman with deep brown eyes and silver-gray hair she liked to call “Arctic Blonde.”

Pete Quinn’s large gray eyes held the same look they had one winter when Jericho and Bo were boys and he’d told them their favorite dog had been eaten by a pack of wolves.

“What is it?” Jericho said, bracing himself for the worst.

“She banged her leg pretty bad when those guys tried to get her and Mattie in the van,” he said. “I think she’ll be fine, but doctors are worried about blood clots. She’s in the hospital at Bethesda. I know you’re worried, son, but Bo is with her night and day. Your friend Jacques is pulling security and helping out more than seems humanly possible. He’s a good man. I like him.”

“Me too,” Quinn said. “But he’s got his own family to worry about.”

Quinn’s mother handed him the folder with Mattie’s passport and the visas Thibodaux had given her. Quinn gave her a hug at the base of the escalators leading to the second level and through security, apologizing for turning her into a mule for forged documents. She gave him a tense smile, tears welling in her eyes.

“Don’t cry, Mom,” he said. “Dad always said God counts a woman’s tears and blames them on us guys.”

The matriarch of the Quinn family smoothed the front of her light Windbreaker. “Well,” she sniffed, “if that’s the case, you boys are going to have a lot of explaining to do someday.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek before gathering Mattie in for one last hug. “Now remember,” she said. “Your name is Mattie Hackman. Don’t forget that.”

“Ten-four, Nana.” Mattie grinned, giving a little mock salute.

Jericho shook his father’s hand. “I wish you’d let me make some calls. I’ve kind of turned you into a target over here.”

The elder Quinn shook his head. “Have you seen the fish runs this year? I have a boat to tend and a crew who depends on me. We’ll be so far out in the ocean, nobody’s going to bother with us.”

“Don’t you fret over us.” Quinn’s mother waved off any thought of worry. She seemed soft, but Quinn knew she was tough as barbed wire underneath the façade. She had to be to be married to his dad and raise the two boys she’d been given. “We’ll be fine.”

“All right.” Jericho sighed. “I don’t like it, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

His mother gave him a half grin. “Those are the exact words I used when you told me you were taking up boxing.”

Since they were taking an international flight, Quinn produced a notarized letter at the security checkpoint, signed by Kimberly Hackman, giving him permission to leave the country with their child. Kim had signed it, and Bo had used his charm to get one of his girlfriends to notarize it. The heavyset TSA officer, who was all of twenty-four, had still quizzed Mattie with some halfhearted questions and consulted with his most recent Amber Alerts and NCMEC Missing Children photos to make sure Quinn wasn’t stealing his own child. Thankfully, he worried more over that than checking out their false identification. The ID was plenty real. It was, in fact, manufactured by the government and presumably off the books. But allegiances changed and unless Miyagi or Palmer had printed the passports themselves, someone else knew of their existence. Quinn had never worried about it before, but Mattie’s presence added an entire new level of tension.

When they finally made it past security and were sitting at the gate, Quinn found himself mildly surprised that he wasn’t dog piled by law enforcement. Still half an hour away from boarding, passengers crowded around the podium so they could be the absolute first to board. Quinn suppressed a smile in spite of his nerves. It was easy to see why airline personnel called such impatient passengers “gate lice.”

Mattie had calmed down quickly, as she always did, and now sat listening to music on her iPod. A multitasker at seven, she swung her legs off the edge of her chair while she flipped through the pages of her Lemony Snicket book. Her mother had been shot, her father was a fugitive, and armed men had tried to shove her in a van just hours before, but she appeared to share Quinn’s ability to compartmentalize and carry on in the face of events that would cause other people immobilizing stress. She’d not skipped a beat in giving the TSA agents her fake name, jabbering away with just enough details about their long-planned vacation to Russia. Quinn couldn’t help but wonder how many other traits she’d inherited from him — and worried over how much of a problem this special talent at lying would be when she hit her teens.

He took a deep breath and willed himself to be as calm as his daughter. The next big hurdle would be clearing Immigration and Customs once they reached their destination. If anything, Russians were known for their convoluted bureaucracy. He’d been through plenty with Aleksandra Kanatova and he knew she was trustworthy enough to keep up her end of the plan. But even with her help, the odds were overwhelming that they would run into all manner of problems entering the country — even on clean passports.

Quinn consoled himself with the idea that the twelve-hour flight would give him time to rest and make plans. The plane would stop in Petropavlovsk on the Kamchatka Peninsula first, then Vladivostok, before continuing on to Moscow, where he’d have to make first contact with Russian immigration officials. He hoped Kanatova would be there and waiting.

Quinn looked at the information board above the Global gate, and then checked the Tag Aquaracer on his wrist. If nothing happened for the next half an hour he’d be able to relax — at least while they were in the air.

Chapter 37

August Bowen located Garcia with little trouble amid the crowd of families, flirting teenagers, and screaming children at the outdoor water park. It was ironic that a woman who seemed bent on playing spy games should possess oh so many traits that made her do everything but blend in. She lounged up to her shoulders in a raised tile hot tub that was tucked in behind a gigantic, spaghetti-like yellow waterslide. Deeply bronzed and well-muscled, she was still supremely feminine. The parts of her that lay above the surface shouted for everyone in the park to guess what lay beneath the water.

Bowen walked barefoot across the concrete, smiling, happy to feel the heat against his toes. He’d changed into a pair of blue board shorts in the locker room and shut his clothes up with a combination lock that reminded him of his days back in junior-high gym class. Even a halfhearted thief would be able to defeat such a basic padlock in a manner of seconds, so he kept the dive watch on his wrist and submitted his wallet to fate. He congratulated himself for having the forethought to leave his gun locked in the center console of his Charger.

A blinding sun reflected and refracted off the rippling blue surface of the many small pools and rivers that made up the park. The warm Virginia air, heavy with the odor of chlorine and Coppertone, mingled with the must of oaks from the greenbelt that ran between Manassas and Centerville before sliding like a leafy delta into Battlefield Park.

Bowen worked his way through scattered deck chairs and gangs of barely dressed teenagers. Screaming toddlers ran by on stubby legs or washed back and forth with their mothers in the nearby wave pool.

With so many big-armed, khaki-clad federal lawdogs wearing all the latest gadgets, August Bowen strove for practical over practi-cool, both in gear and physique. Blue jeans and a T-shirt beat out khakis and polo shirts when the marshal didn’t force his hand at work. Like many boxers, he rarely lifted weights, feeling they slowed him down and gave him mirror-muscles instead of true, usable power. He worked hard to keep the body of a fighter, hardened by hours of skipping rope, long runs, and years of pounding the heavy bag.

Such a level of fitness brought with it a certain don’t-screw-with-me vibe that stopped most fights before they started — and garnered him stacks upon stacks of cocktail napkins with women’s phone numbers.

A bright scar, the size and shape of a football, stood out against the tan skin of the ribs on his right side. His blue board shorts covered a corresponding scar on his buttock and thigh, all from a long-forgotten Russian land mine near Mazar-i-Sharif. The mine put him in the hospital, but it had turned his interpreter into a red mist. Bowen thought about that good man each time he saw the scar in the mirror. Few people ever even noticed the scar at first, focusing instead on the full head of silver hair on a seemingly healthy man in his early thirties.

Garcia looked up when he approached and nodded him over with a wide smile that could have stopped a charging buffalo in its tracks. Bowen imagined she’d hooked Jericho Quinn with much the same look.

“Hey there,” she said, as he stepped into the cool water. “Thanks for meeting me.”

Though the water park was relatively crowded, the moms and kids that made up the bulk of the patrons were much more interested in the high-octane slides and wave pools than a simple whirlpool tub. Ronnie shared the ten-by-fifteen pool with only a couple of pimple-faced teenage boys who lounged along the wall opposite her, willing themselves to look ten years older. They cast expectant glances every few moments, just waiting for her to stand up so they could get a better look at her. The boys stared at Bowen with dagger eyes when he encroached on their territory, but cowered when he came closer — small dogs, brave only when safely behind their screen doors.

Bowen gave the boys a polite nod. He remembered all too well the mind-numbing rush of hormones he would have felt at their age in the pool with someone with the curves of Veronica Garcia. Pushing through the waist-deep water until he was beside her, he slid down the cool tile wall with his shoulders against the concrete lip of the pool.

Garcia rolled solid shoulders as if she was trying to relax. Bowen, whose army shrink had told him after the nonsense in Afghanistan that he should use his artistic talent to work though his issues, watched this woman and told himself he was thinking only of what fine art the lines of her body would produce. His artist’s eye picked up the slight unevenness in her collarbones — a car wreck, maybe. She had a tiny mole on the lobe of her left ear — something he would certainly highlight if he were drawing her face.

He blinked to clear his thoughts, covering with a smile. “How have you been?” he asked.

She glanced back and forth, dark eyes scanning the crowds. The last six inches of her black hair pooled in the water around her neck, mopping bronze shoulders when she moved.

“I’m good,” she said, her voice detached, distant. She scooted closer so her thigh brushed his under the water.

Bowen knew it was just so their conversation would be more private, but it still made him catch his breath. He hid it with a cough, he hoped.

“Did anyone try to follow you?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” he said honestly. It hadn’t really occurred to him to look for a tail, but he was pretty sure he would have noticed one had it existed.

“Okay,” Garcia said, lips pursed as if mulling over one last time how much she wanted to tell him. “I need your help,” she finally said, “but I have to warn you again. It could get you in a lot of trouble.”

“Trouble is my middle name.” Bowen smiled, hoping to tamp down the drama.

“It’s ‘danger,’ Mango.” She smiled. “Danger is your middle name.”

“Are you sure?” Bowen said. “Because I get in a hell of a lot of trouble.” He leaned back, draping his arms along the pool deck. They were close enough it was impossible to avoid touching one another and his fingers brushed the moist skin of her shoulders. “Anyway, I’m used to it. Trouble, I mean.” He coughed, clearing his thoughts. “So, what can I help you with?”

Garcia leaned in close and let her head tilt sideways. Her damp hair slid across his arm. “Are you familiar with the IDTF?”

Bowen gave a thoughtful nod. “Who isn’t?” he said. Mention of that agency alone was enough to sour anything positive about sitting in a hot tub with a beautiful woman. “President Drake’s new department of Internal Defense. Rooting out the bad apples in government and safeguarding the freedoms of all Americans… if you believe their press.” He turned to look her in the eye. “Which, as far as I can see, no one in the government does.”

“Well,” Garcia said, eyes still flicking nervously around the crowded water park. “A couple of their goons did a black bag job on my house. The bastards even put a camera in my bathroom.”

“Yeah,” Bowen chuckled. “I saw that. It’s already up on the Internet at Ronnieshowers.com.”

She slammed a sharp elbow into his ribs. “Shut up.”

“I apologize,” he said. “I shouldn’t joke. That’s a bad deal.”

“Anyway…” Garcia’s chastening glare faded slowly. “They followed me to a gas station, so I knocked one of them out with a two-by-four and broke the other guy’s leg with his car door—”

Bowen sat up straighter. Grimacing, he showed her the flat of his open hand. “I don’t think you should tell me stuff like that.”

“If you’re going to help me, there are things you need to know.”

“My drill sergeant used to tell us that some things are nice to know and some are nuts to know. Any alleged assaults against federal agents…” Bowen shook his head. “That’s just nuts for us to talk about.”

“Gus.” She ignored him, big eyes blinking as she gazed across the water. “If you knew half the things I’ve done, you wouldn’t even bother to read me my rights before you carted me off to the electric chair. Jericho trusts you, so I trust you. I may as well come clean and confess. If you have to arrest me, so be it.” She glanced at him from downcast lashes, watching for a reaction. “Did you hear they got Virginia Ross last night?”

Bowen gave her a slow nod as if he was still making up his mind on what to do. “It was all over the news,” he said.

“I’ll bet.” Garcia quit talking as a blond man in his late twenties walked down the steps to enter the whirlpool. He was alone, in good shape, with a couple of scars on his right shoulder that looked like shrapnel wounds. Conventional wisdom said that if an IDTF agent had war wounds, they were likely to be in the back from running away or getting shot by his own guys.

Garcia stood up, unwilling to take any chances. “Let’s swim,” she said.

Water ran in silver rivulets down her body, following the swells and dips of her skin. Bowen had drawn dozens of different women and wasn’t the type to be easily overwhelmed by a girl in a bathing suit, but Veronica Garcia’s purple one-piece made it hard for him to swallow. It was as modest as humanly possible on a body like hers, but no wet fabric capable of being sewn into clothing was truly able to contain the parts of her that needed containing.

Rather than walk to the steps at the other end of the whirlpool, Garcia put both hands on the concrete and pressed herself up, bringing one knee and then her entire body onto the pool deck in one smooth motion. It would have been easy for her to look like a wallowing seal, but she pulled it off like a dancer. Standing, she reached back to adjust the seat of her swimming suit, and then tilted her head to wring the water from her hair. Her movements carried an innocent allure that Bowen suspected she wasn’t even aware she possessed.

The new guy in the pool followed her with his eyes, but that was likely a function of watching her curves try to escape the bathing suit rather than any thought of seeing her arrested. Bowen’s Montana-born grandfather would have described her body as a litter of puppies trying to squirm their way out of a gunnysack.

Never turning to see if he was behind her, Ronnie stopped long enough to rent a yellow tube from a kid under a big umbrella. Oblivious to the other teenage boys with gaping mouths, she told the kid at the register to keep his change. Bowen found himself wondering where she’d gotten the money from to pay him in the first place.

A moment later, Garcia tossed the tube into the water and slipped smoothly into the long ribbon pool that wound its way through the entire water park. Known as the “Lazy River,” there was just enough current that swimmers could hang on to their big tubes and drift along without expending any energy.

Apparently satisfied it was safe to talk again, Garcia draped her arms over the tube, breasts mashed against the yellow plastic, and waited for Bowen to join her, which he did.

He pulled himself up across from her, legs trailing in the cool water, steering them so they moved sideways and neither had to drift backwards. If gunfighters swam in lazy rivers, this was the way they did it.

“Nice necklace.” She nodded at the black pearl hanging from the chain around his neck. “Looks real.”

“Hmmm,” Bowen grunted. “It is.”

“Doesn’t really fit the rest of your profile,” Ronnie said, half to herself. “There must be a story behind it.”

“So, what is it you need from me?” He repeated his question from the whirlpool, changing the subject. The last thing he was going to do was talk to this spy chick about his past.

She nodded and got down to business, obviously realizing they weren’t that close.

“Marshals usually end up with federal prisoners once they see a judge, right?”

“That’s right,” Bowen said. “But things are a little muddy on that front lately with the IDTF sticking their noses in everything. I’m assuming Director Ross will have some kind of in-camera hearing with only the ID agents and the judge in attendance. And that’s if they have a hearing at all. The stories about these guys would give you chills.”

“I’m sure,” Garcia said. She waved a hand under the water, toying, watching the trailing whirlpool as she spoke. “But you could find out where she’s being held, right?”

“I can try,” Bowen said. “For all the good it will do. I’m guessing you’ve lost your friends in high places if you’ve gone outlaw like Quinn.”

“That’s an understatement,” Ronnie said. “My friends in high places don’t have even have friends anymore. But you let me handle that end when the time comes. I’d appreciate it if you can just find out where she is. I’ll take it after that.”

“Of course, I’ll help you.” Bowen smiled. “If only for the chance to go swimming with you again.” Bowen had never been very good with gray areas. If someone needed their ass kicked, he kicked it. If they needed arresting, he arrested them and let the courts figure out the rest. But something was different here. He’d sensed a sea change the moment he’d set foot in Japan when he’d first been assigned the fugitive warrant for Quinn. Washington had always been full of powerful forces that could rip a person to pieces if they took a wrong turn. Bowen couldn’t put his finger on it, but sometimes, he wondered if he was still working for the good guys.

Ronnie looked back at him across the tube, seeming to realize he was coming to grips with the situation. He rubbed a wet hand across his face, resolving to march forward at full speed if he was going to march. “Who do you think is behind all this?” he said.

“The President,” Ronnie said without a moment’s hesitation. “And I don’t just think. I’m sure of it.”

“That’s a pretty bizarre thing to be sure of.” Bowen watched her eyes for any sign of doubt.

She stared back at him, lips trembling with the heat of pure conviction. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that the Speaker of the House came within an inch of stepping into the presidency once before because of a bomb a year ago, and then both the President and VP are assassinated a short time later so he gets another chance? There has never in our history been another assassination of both a sitting president and VP — and now we have one near miss and a bull’s-eye during the same administration with exactly the same players.”

Bowen shrugged. “It wasn’t the Speaker’s fault someone killed the President and VP on the same day.”

“I’m positive it was,” Garcia said. “And look at what he’s doing with the country. Do you think Clark would have put so many thugs in high-level government positions?”

“Washington is full of thugs,” Bowen said. “People like that are drawn to money and power.”

“I can’t argue that,” Garcia said. “But you have to agree that there are more in place now than ever before. The Secretary of Labor has known contacts with organized crime in Chicago. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was twice accused of sexual harassment of female subordinates. The Secretary of State is a moron and the Secretary of Defense is an avowed isolationist who can hardly order pizza without threatening to kick the delivery boy’s ass. Does that sound like the kind of people that should be running a government?”

“Look,” Bowen said, “if the President is leading some secret cabal, it seems impossible that he’d have so many co-conspirators with his same ideology. From what I’ve read, the Taliban, al Qaeda, and even the Baader-Meinhof gang may have been highly organized, but in the end, they couldn’t even agree on what to have for lunch, let alone find enough like-minded guys to run an operation as large and unwieldy as a presidential administration within the United States.”

“That’s the beauty part.” Ronnie brushed a lock of damp hair out of her face. “They wouldn’t have to share the same ideology. Have you ever had a bad boss?”

“Of course.”

“What happened to him?”

“Well,” Bowen said, “it was a she, and the people above her in rank eventually tuned her up.”

“Exactly my point,” Ronnie said.

They floated under a series of metal teapots raining water down on their heads. Elbows hooking the tube, Ronnie wiped her face with both hands and looked at him. “Think about it. What if the man at the very top turned a blind eye to bad behavior? Imagine the worst bully in your office, and then imagine him with all authority of a Nazi SS officer or East German secret policeman. He wouldn’t have to share the President’s ideology — because he has one of his own that is equally rotten. It really doesn’t matter what that ideology is. It still benefits Drake’s plan.”

Bowen sighed. All this talk about ousting a sitting president made him wonder how he’d do in prison.

“And exactly what do you believe that plan to be?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Garcia said. “But it’s not good. Just imagine all the things you could do to bring down the nation if you were the president of the United States.”

“I’m not that much of an imaginer,” Bowen said, though the entire story made more sense than he’d like to admit. “I am going to help you though. Those Internal Defense guys are the kind of people I cannot abide.”

“Thank you.” Ronnie smiled. Her eyes fluttered, half shut as if she was on the verge of drifting off to sleep. “You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”

“Listen,” Bowen said, “I’m sorry for being so flip about those guys putting a camera in your bathroom. That’s pretty twisted. I shouldn’t have made light of it.”

“No big deal.” Garcia gave him another killer smile. “Anyhow, it’s a conscience like that that will keep you from getting recruited by the IDTF.”

She shoved Bowen backwards as they approached a large waterfall that fell in a roaring curtain from a fake stone arch across the Lazy River. Garcia was on her back now, and strong legs propelled her toward the falls. Her feet cleared the surface so he caught delicious glimpses of her painted toes. Just before she disappeared behind the falls, she flipped onto her belly. Her butt arched out of the water as she dove below the surface to vanish under the silver curtain.

Bowen kicked the tube through the falls, just seconds behind her. His mind worked double-time, pondering ways he could prolong this conversation, thinking of when they might meet again.

But when he pushed the yellow tube into the calm water, Ronnie Garcia was gone.

Chapter 38

IDTF agent Roy Gant bounced on his feet behind a scrawny oak, a hundred meters to the west of the water park. He was a heavy guy with a big belly that the tree did little to hide — but he had bigger problems than that now. He’d been assigned to follow the deputy marshal, didn’t know why, didn’t care — especially once he’d had the happy accident of stumbling on this meeting with the girl. Every ID agent within two hundred miles of the Beltway knew what she’d done to Lindale and Maloney. They all wanted to get her in their crosshairs. Gant had literally jumped up and down like a kid on his birthday when he’d realized he had Garcia in his sights. He’d called it in right away so he could bask in the praise of his superiors, giving none of the credit to his partner, a former FBI agent named Miller.

And now the girl had disappeared.

“Tell me you have eyes on,” Gant said into the small mike attached to his iPhone.

“That’s a negative,” Miller said, from his vantage point fifty meters away, nearer the parking lot. “I never did have a clear view. You get all the credit for this one.”

Gant stomped his foot. They should have been closer, but how was he supposed to know he’d need a pair of swimming trunks in order to blend in? Besides, he was not a small man and if he’d stripped down to his shorts, some wise guy might have harpooned him as the great white whale.

“Keep watching the parking lot,” Gant said. “She’ll have to leave the area sometime.”

“What about the deputy?” Miller said. “He’s a hard one to miss with that head full of gray.”

“You’re tryin’ to tell me Veronica Garcia is easy to miss?” Gant snapped.

“No,” Miller said. “I’m telling you that I have a visual on Bowen. If we can’t find the girl, I say we stay with him. She met him once. She’ll meet him again. Looks to me like they may have a little thing for each other.”

Gant leaned against the rough bark of the tree, steadying his arms as he played the binoculars back and forth among the crowd. He searched frantically for any sign of the curvaceous Latina. His heart rose for a moment when he saw a girl in a dark swimsuit and large white hat — until she scooped up a little kid and took him to the wading pool.

“I am so screwed,” Gant muttered to himself. She couldn’t have just vanished — but that is exactly what she had done. Backup teams were speeding in his direction at that very moment, ready to make him a hero when they swept in and arrested Garcia. “Forget the deputy,” he said to his partner. “Keep looking for the girl. She has to be here. She’s the priority.”

“Roger that,” Miller said, the shrug evident in his tone. He’d received none of the credit, so he wasn’t about to share any of the blame. “Just sayin’, the deputy is walking to his car right now.”

“Is he by himself?”

“Affirmative.”

“Then forget him,” Gant said, fighting back the rising panic. “Keep looking for her.”

“You want me to slam a car door on your leg?” Miller said. “It worked to get Lindale out of hot water when he lost her.”

Gant chewed on the inside of his cheek as he kept up his search with the binoculars — and seriously considered Miller’s offer.

Chapter 39

A faulty gear indicator on the Alaska Airlines plane carrying Tang Dalu and his team from Las Vegas to Anchorage kept them on the ground in Seattle an hour longer than planned. His entire team was sweating by the time they made it to the North Terminal. They reached security with less than fifteen minutes until boarding, which, Tang supposed, helped their cause. The Anchorage TSA officers, though watchful as ever, showed a modicum of compassion and hurried them along so they would not miss their flight.

The last-minute change in plans had set everyone on edge, but their rushed demeanor had masked their nervousness. Ma Zhen, the most pious among then, attributed the delay to the will of Allah. Tang wondered why this same Allah that would reach down with his merciful finger to break a tiny gear light had not chosen to save his daughter. The others might be doing this as part of some personal jihad. Tang had other reasons.

Anchorage International’s North Terminal was minuscule compared to the Las Vegas airport, with only eight gates — and the massive Airbus A380 took up two of them. All two stories of her loomed outside the windows like a great white whale with her nose to the glass. At once bloated and sleek, the “super jumbo” was the largest plane in the sky. The Global CEO’s wife was French, giving him the impetus to stray from their usual fleet of American-made Boeing 747s, making this Airbus an even richer target in the eyes of the man from Pakistan. Bringing it down would not only destroy the company that had gambled on something European, but enrage American nationalism.

Tang had read the statistics on the airplane while he’d waited for their connection in Vegas. Seven stories tall at the tail, the Airbus was three quarters of a football field in length and had an interior almost seven meters wide. Most airports placed an eighty-meter wingspan limit in order for a plane to use their runways. The A380 made it under that with just inches to spare. Promotional literature said the wings were so large that seventy passenger cars could be parked on each one. Each of the four Rolls-Royce turbofan engines weighed more than six tons, providing a combined total of over a quarter million pounds of thrust.

Tang had never read the Christian Bible, but he knew enough of the stories to recognize this airplane as a potential Goliath that would, despite its enormous size, be brought down by something extremely small.

With the plane’s capacity at nearly 600 people, the boarding area was packed with passengers and carry-on baggage. Lin found one of the only empty seats along the windows looking out at the runway and fell into it, shutting her eyes. Her boarding pass slipped out of her jacket pocket and fluttered to the carpet. Tang moved to pick it up, but a small girl with dark hair and a broad smile rushed forward, beating him to it.

“Ni chi fan le ma?” The little girl asked, handing the ticket back to Lin. It literally meant have you eaten?, but was colloquial for hello.

Lin opened her eyes. She took the boarding pass and shoved it back in her pocket. Even Tang was dumbfounded by the child’s grasp of Chinese.

“Wo chi le.” Lin nodded. I have eaten.

“Ni okay ma?” The little girl said. “Nide lianse weishenme bu gaoxing?” Are you okay? You seem sad — literally, Why is your face color not excited?

Lin sat up straighter in the chair. Tang was horrified when he saw a smile perk the corners of his wife’s lips.

“You are a cute little thing,” Lin said in heavily accented English. “How did you learn to speak Mandarin so well?”

“My school,” the little girl said, beaming at having been understood. “We can start in kindergarten.”

Ma Zhen began to glare over the top of his glasses. A dark man with a thick beard stood behind the girl, close enough that he was obviously her father — or some kind of protector. The man smiled at the little girl’s skill but his eyes challenged everyone around him. Tang had been a police officer himself for eleven years. Either this man was a policeman or something very close to it. He tried to shrug off the worry. It would not matter. A policeman could do nothing to stop them once they were in the air. Tang touched his wife on the shoulder. “Come,” he said. “We should prepare to board.”

Lin ignored him. She smiled openly now — something he hadn’t seen her do in a very long time.

The little girl put a hand to her chest, introducing herself. “Wo jiao Mattie,” she said.

“We need to get in line.” Tang mustered a tight smile of his own. It felt like he was squinting at the sun.

“It is so nice to meet you, Mattie,” his wife cooed. She grudgingly got to her feet, and then turned back to the child. “My name is Lin. Maybe I will see you on the plane.”

The dark man with the beard called the little girl to him, praising her Mandarin. He acted as though he spoke the language himself, which made sense considering his daughter was so fluent. Tang made a mental note to remember that when speaking around him.

Ma Zhen came up to stand beside them when they got to the other side of the room. Arms folded, he looked sternly at Lin, then back at Tang, frowning. He’d been close enough to hear the exchange.

“It would be best if you avoided conversations with other passengers,” he whispered so they could both hear. “It will only complicate matters at this stage of the affair.”

“The child spoke to her,” Tang said through clenched teeth. He was put out with Lin, but furious that this boy would doubt their commitment. “Everything will be fine.” But when he looked at Lin, the remnants of a smile on the corners of her mouth told everyone he was a liar.

Ma Zhen stalked away and flopped down next to Gao, sulking like an angry teenager. When he wasn’t making bombs, he rarely did anything but sulk. Fate had dealt him that sort of life. Tang supposed such a look was to be expected from a man who had resolved to kill himself — even for a greater good.

Any evidence of Lin’s smile vanished by the time the gate agent called for them to board. Tang calmed some as they walked down the Jetway, considering what lay ahead.

British Airways, Lufthansa, Emirates, and several other airlines had Airbus A380s in their fleets, but Global was the first American carrier brave enough to snub venerable US-made Boeing. Most of these passengers had never flown on this type of aircraft and they stood in nothing short of awe when they first boarded, clogging the aisles when Tang and his wife finally made it down the Jetway. It took time to find their seats and get their carry-on luggage situated. Tang inched ahead slowly, memorizing the surroundings in case he needed them later. Years as a policeman had taught him nothing ever went as planned.

The interior was double the size of any plane he’d ever seen. Highly polished walls of marbled teak rose up on bulkheads at either side of the boarding door to form a wide and welcoming foyer. Three well-groomed flight attendants, wearing Global Airline’s red pencil skirts and white blouses, stood under an ornate glass light fixture that hung down like a palace chandelier. Rather than the musty smells of old carpet and recirculated sweat common to commercial aircraft, the pleasant odor of fresh espresso wafted up from a plush galley. Leather stools ran along a rolled leather bar just inside the entrance. It looked more like a fancy nightclub than something found on a commercial airliner.

Tang could picture the diagrams he’d seen on the Internet and knew the exact location of their seats. Still, it wasn’t good to appear too self-assured, so he showed his ticket to an overly helpful bald man wearing a red vest. The man directed him to his left, forward and through the luxurious first-class cabin and up a flight of teak stairs located across from the cockpit door, which for the moment was open, revealing a crew of at least three as they prepped the plane for takeoff. Tang knew the crew could be completely self-contained once in the air, with their own rest quarters and lavatory facilities. He sighed to himself. It wouldn’t matter. Hiding behind a reinforced door would do little to keep their precious airplane in the sky.

Once at the top of the stairs, Tang worked his way back, through the forward business-class seats, past another galley with yet another coffee bar, this one only slightly smaller and no less elegant than the one in first class. A Global flight attendant with brunette hair piled on top of her head like an urn approached as he helped Lin get situated next to the window. She was wearing a barista’s apron and offered freshly ground espressos and scones before takeoff.

Tang thanked her and stuffed their camera bags into the cubbies under each footrest so they’d be able to access them without having to drag everything out of an overhead bin when the time came. Each seat sank down inside its surrounding plastic walls when it reclined to meet its footrest, forming a plush bed and a good semblance of privacy. Lin’s seat was located one row back from the forward emergency exit door, closest to the wall. On the flight from Las Vegas to LA, she’d planned to wedge the bomb between her armrest and the skin of the airplane. Business class on the A380 provided a small storage bin along the outer wall, next to her armrest, much like a lazarette on a boat — a perfect place for the device.

The flight attendant brought two cups of espresso for them before their flight. Lin waved hers away, but Tang accepted his in order to appear compliant.

“That little girl was amazing, don’t you think?” Lin said, once the attendant had moved on with her tray.

Tang gave a thoughtful nod. His stomach began to knot again. Now? After a nearly two years, Lin had chosen this moment to display some hint of emotion — all because a filthy guizi child had picked up her boarding pass? His hand shook when he tried to sip the espresso. He took a deep breath, screwing his face into a calm smile.

“She spoke passable Chinese,” he said. “In any case, her father looks dangerous. We will have to be careful of him.”

Lin ignored the last, thinking only of the child. “She was so… I cannot even say it… so alive.” She turned away, the refection of another smile clearly visible in the aircraft window.

She didn’t say the words, but Tang knew what she was thinking. The child named Mattie made her think of their daughter — happy thoughts of better times that threatened to ruin everything.

Chapter 40

Not ready to relax until the plane was in the air, Quinn herded Mattie down the aisle in front of him. Their seats were on the main deck, in the far back section of the aircraft that Thibodaux would have called “steerage.” Out of habit, Quinn studied the faces and moods of the other passengers as he passed, watching for people who seemed out of place or more interested in him than they should have been. So far, no one seemed to care about anything but grabbing the overhead bin space before it was all gone.

They walked nearly the full length of the plane to get to their seats so Quinn got a pretty good look at the passengers who’d boarded before him. Of course, there were still plenty who came in later, and an entire second floor of potential threats that Quinn knew he had to consider. This “unseen threat” way of thinking had driven Kim crazy during the years they’d been married. Stupidly, he’d tried to explain to her that just because she wasn’t paranoid didn’t mean someone wasn’t out to get her. They’d shared all too many silent dinners, with her staring daggers across her Greek salad, because he’d observed someone who looked suspicious in the restaurant.

One thing they had always been able to agree on was the need to be overprotective of their daughter. Mattie negotiated her way down the aisle with her bagful of books and electronics like a miniature adult. It killed Quinn inside that he had to cart her off to Russia in order to ensure her safety. Once she was seated, he made a mental note to go for a short walk upstairs after they got airborne, just to ease his mind. The thought of over five thousand square feet of floor space was a little overwhelming.

An Alaska girl from birth, Mattie had been used to flying from the time she was still in diapers, but even she’d stared open-mouthed at the luxury of the upper-crust seating when they’d walked through first class. The rest of the main, or lower deck, was coach, with three-four-three seating and an aisle down either side. The forward two-thirds of the second deck was reserved for business class, not quite as fancy as first, but still relatively spacious — and expensive at around eight grand a seat. The rear of the upper deck contained more economy seating, cramped and ordinary like the seats Quinn had been able to afford.

Mattie stopped in mid row and compared her ticket to the number above the seat. They were about as far from the ritzy real estate up front as they could get.

“Here they are, Dad,” Mattie said. Quinn was amazed at how much the tone and lilt of her voice sounded like Kim’s.

Seats were scarce with their last-minute booking, but Quinn was able to get theirs on the left side of the plane. Years of flying armed had ingrained the habit of choosing a seat where his gun hand could be next to the aisle — as much to keep from having to explain the bulge between himself and another passenger as to get access to any problem that sprang up during flight.

The guy in the window seat, on the other side of Mattie, looked to be in his late forties. His graying hair was buzzed short over a high forehead. Slightly built, he had a perpetual squint and a prominent chin that reminded Quinn of Popeye the Sailor. Slouching back with the big chin against his chest, the man’s head bobbed to the tune on his headphones. A sweater and a paperback spy novel lay beside him in Mattie’s seat.

She stood politely, waiting for him to move his belongings while Quinn stowed their bags in the overhead. The guy looked up, still nodding to his music, and grudgingly picked up his stuff.

Mattie flopped down beside him, exploring what was to be her new home for the next twelve hours. She brushed the man’s arm when she fished her seat belt out from the space in between their seats. He recoiled as if she’d slapped him, yanking off the headphones.

“Lucky me,” he groaned. “An entire day of flying and I get stuck by some kid who’s all elbows.”

“I’m sorry.” Mattie flinched, shooting a glance at her dad. “I was just trying to get my seat belt.”

“How about that.” He mocked her high voice. “Let’s just try and keep our bony little selves in our own seats. Okay?”

Quinn gave Mattie a wink, nodding her back out into the aisle.

“I think you’re in my seat, Sweet Pea,” he said. “I’ll take the middle.”

The guy groaned again when Quinn moved in beside him.

It was amazing how quickly the airline got so many people to board and buckle up. A few minutes later, the screens on the back of each seat in front of them flickered to life and the Global safety video began to play as the gigantic aircraft began the lumbering taxi toward the runway.

Quinn settled in, letting his arm and shoulders spill over into Popeye’s space, forcing him to readjust with a sidelong glare. He started to say something, but the pilot came over the intercom, introducing the crew.

“Dobroye utro,” the pilot said, showing off his Russian good morning. “I’m Captain Rob Szymanski. Captain Rob, to make it easier on everybody. Welcome aboard Global Airlines Flight 105 from Anchorage to Petropavlovsk, Vladivostok, and continuing on to Moscow. They want to get us out of here quickly this morning so they’ll have room for three more normal-size airplanes. They didn’t quite take the size of our bird into account, so they need to move some things before we can push back and get in line for departure. We’ll be underway shortly, so sit back and let our capable flight attendants see to your comfort — but more importantly, your safety…”

An attendant named Carly stopped her walkthrough beside Mattie. She was tall with broad shoulders and thick curls of bourbon blond hair that was heavy enough to stay put over one shoulder where it played peekaboo with her eye like a 1940s starlet. The ID card hanging around her neck said her last name was Shakhov and Quinn wondered if she might speak Russian. Smiling, she leaned in to remind the man with the Popeye chin to take his headphones off during the safety briefing.

The man threw his head back, like a teenager who was angry at being told to clean his room, and stared up at the attendant. He left the headphones in place, forcing her to ask him again.

She did, smiling as she’d been trained to do when dealing with turds.

“As you wish, my queen,” Popeye said. He gave a flourish of his hand, mocking her with a theatrical bow.

Carly chuckled as if she’d seen it all before. She was dressed in Global’s trim red skirt and white blouse. Quinn guessed her to be in her early thirties, but she carried herself like she’d been in the business for some time.

She caught Quinn’s eye, shaking her head as if to apologize, before looking back to the passenger with the Popeye chin. “You can put them back on as soon as the briefing is over,” she said. “Believe me, if anything were to happen, you’ll be glad you paid attention.”

Satisfied her orders were being obeyed, Carly gave Quinn one more nod — identifying him as an ally — and continued down the aisle.

Mattie leaned forward looking up and down the aisle. “Four back, three forward, Dad — in case the lights go out.”

“Good deal, Sweet Pea.” Quinn gave her a thumbs-up for remembering. When she was only three years old, he’d taught her to count the number of seats between her and the exits in case she had to find her way out in the dark.

Her eyes sparkled as she focused on the safety video playing in front of her, sucking in the information the way Quinn took in languages.

She glanced up at her dad. “My teacher told us why they have you bend forward in case of a crash,” she said, putting herself in brace position. “This way you’re only thrown backward into your seat if the pilot has to land hard and won’t get whipped forward and then back, like this.” She demonstrated the movement in her seat.

“That’s exactly right,” Quinn said, genuinely proud.

Popeye threw up his hands. “Seriously,” he said. “Do I have to listen to two safety briefings at once?”

Quinn turned to look the man in the eye. That prominent chin was an awfully tempting target.

“What is it that you do?” Quinn said. He kept his voice low, just above a whisper.

“What?” Popeye sneered, leaning backwards as far as he could, creating as much distance as possible before the window stopped him. “What do you mean?”

“For a living?” Quinn nodded slowly. “What is it you do for your job?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” he said, “but I’m in the crab industry.”

“A crab fisherman?” Quinn mused. This guy was far too flighty to survive on board any crab boat he’d ever been around. Quinn’s father would have thrown him out for chum ten minutes after his shoes hit the deck.

“No, not a fisherman,” the guy said, pursing his lips as if the very word was distasteful. “Fishermen are shit for brains stupid. I’m a buyer. I buy Russian crab for the US market.”

“My dad’s a crab fisherman,” Quinn said. “He fishes Alaska crab for the US market.”

“Yeah, well, too bad for your dad.” The man shrugged.

Quinn folded his arms across his chest and then leaned sideways so his face was close to Popeye’s ear. His head was almost on the other man’s shoulder. “I want you to consider something.” Quinn’s voice was coarse, a quiet growl. “As a buyer of crab, I want you to think of all the things you would do to protect someone you cared about.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Quinn ignored the question and continued his thought.

“So, now that you’re thinking of all the things you, as a man who buys crab, might do to protect his wife, or girlfriend or even, say… his daughter, you might be interested to know what it is I do for a living.”

The man’s eyes flicked toward Quinn, and then looked quickly away as if they couldn’t abide the pressure.

“What is it you do?” he asked, trying in vain to hide the tremor that had crept into his voice.

“I’m a butcher,” Quinn said.

“A butcher?” The man gulped.

Quinn nestled back in his seat and closed his eyes, knowing he’d gotten his point across. “In a manner of speaking.”

Chapter 41

Popeye kept to himself during takeoff. The puny crab buyer was a far cry from any real threat and Quinn knew he should have left him alone. If Quinn was anything he was tactical, but when it came to the protective envelope around his little girl, he rarely thought long before he acted — even at the risk of getting himself kicked off the plane. He didn’t like putting Mattie on the aisle seat and planned to move her back as soon as he was sure Popeye was going to behave himself.

Until then, he leaned his seat back and stared up at the ceiling. The Airbus A380 was incredibly quiet, absent the gushing whir prevalent in other commercial airliners. If not for the pressing urgency Quinn felt to get out of the country, it would have been easy to forget he was seven miles above the earth.

According to his frequent flier programs, Quinn had flown nearly a million commercial miles over the course of his career — back and forth across the US, down to South America, all over Asia, and too many deployments to the Middle East.

From the time he’d received his Bs and Cs — badges and credentials — at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, he’d carried a sidearm every time he’d flown domestically. Most international flights made that impractical since the Status of Forces Agreements with countries not immediately involved in a conflict precluded him from carrying a weapon as an agent. Now, as a fugitive, he often found himself without a sidearm — and flying with one was out of the question. Still, on the ground or in an airplane, Quinn could usually find something that he could use as a field-expedient weapon if things happened to go south. He looked for them without conscious thought, cataloging their location for later use.

A ballpoint pen, a pencil, the spine of a hardback book could all come in handy in a pinch. A metal fork from first class could be bent at a right angle at the base of the tines to form a workable push dagger. The wooden cane placed in the overhead compartment by the elderly man who’d boarded just ahead of him made a convenient striking weapon, while a rolled magazine made a fairly efficient club. The magazine was especially painful when shoved end-first into someone’s face. Unopened soda cans could be thrown, as could beer and wine bottles from first class. Neckties made for quick garrotes — as Quinn felt they did every time he wore one — and the crooked metal side support of a folding tray table could be accessed with the removal of a couple of metal pins and wielded like the jawbone of an ass that Samson used to smite his thousand Philistines.

Quinn was a gun guy and freely admitted it. He’d have carried every chance he got, even if he hadn’t taken up the badge. But even in his line of work, he’d used his intellect and powers of observation exponentially more often than he’d ever drawn a pistol. He often thought that the mind was the only real weapon, everything else — be it gun or blade or blunt instrument — was merely an element of strategy.

More than just looking for weapons, Quinn made certain to study the other passengers. Most fell asleep quickly. A few watched movies on their seat back screens and some unrolled sandwiches or other snacks they’d bought at the North Terminal shops. Not a soul on board seemed to care about him or why he happened to be heading to Russia with his daughter. Everyone was the star in his own little show, and thankfully, no one was interested in his.

Even so, Quinn located the pins in the metal arm of his tray table and began to work them loose — just in case the need arose for the jawbone of an ass.

Chapter 42

August Bowen started making calls as soon as he left the water park in Manassas. There was an endless list of crappy things about living and working as a deputy US marshal in the DC area. The flagpole, or HQ, for instance, was much too close for Bowen’s blood. Even as an Army officer, he’d never been the spit-and-polish sort, preferring the ragtag, grimy life in the field to the relative comforts of being a garrison soldier. The upside of working in the seat of government power was a fat Rolodex full of contacts.

Ronnie Garcia’s questions about a tail made him jumpy and he found himself looking in the mirror more than usual. He didn’t see anyone, but decided it was worth the time and trouble to drive around a little while he made his calls. He took random turns, cutting back to cover the same road he’d just been down before taking a different side street. He stopped at green lights, waiting for them to turn red before speeding through at the last possible moment, and circled an entire block three times. He could almost hear the Pac-Man music inside his head.

Feeling reasonably certain he’d lost anyone who happened to be following him, Bowen worked his way south and east, generally pointing himself toward Lorton, Virginia, where he jumped on I-95 going south. He took the next exit to circle back north toward Alexandria.

Though well-educated and worldly-wise if he was to believe his mother, Bowen was self-aware enough to know he was little more than a knuckle-dragger in the eyes of Washington elite. To the bad guys on the street, deputy US marshals came down from Mount Olympus on special occasions to rub shoulders with the normal folk, flash a silver star, and snatch a fugitive from their life of crime. But to the established gentry, a GS 12 deputy was like a major in the Pentagon. Their rank might garner respect in the field, but they still fetched coffee for the generals.

When asked what branch of law enforcement they wanted to pursue, high school students often listed the Marshals, FBI, and CIA as high on their list. The truth was law enforcement and intelligence were miles apart in scope and duty. Even much of the protective work he did as a deputy marshal was far removed from the mission of a beat cop or detective. To him, intel was something you used to find the bad guy or keep your protectee alive. The term had nothing to do with bringing down or propping up governments — and Bowen preferred it that way.

Apart from Veronica Garcia — who made his stomach hurt when he thought about her too long — Bowen didn’t know anyone in the intelligence community. But he knew someone better — the ranking staffers on Senate Appropriations who held the purse strings for Intelligence and Justice. It had come as a surprise to him, a natural cynic, that the true bastions of power in Washington were these staffers. Most of them were in their early thirties — drafting bills, shaping policy, and controlling the money for their powerful senators and congressmen.

A call to a staffer named Jennifer at the Hart Senate Office Building provided Bowen with the name of Director Ross’s CIA protective team leader — an agent named Adam Knight. Jennifer assured him that Knight was “one of the good guys.”

Knight answered on the first ring. He apparently had little to do since Director Ross was now behind bars. Bowen told the agent he was working on a congressional inquiry. Knight was hungry for answers himself so he swallowed the story without a hitch.

The poor guy was still spitting blood from losing his protectee. Bowen could hear his teeth cracking from tension as they spoke over the phone. He wanted to investigate matters himself, but had been ordered to stand down by his deputy director, who was now at the helm of the agency. Knight had little to offer, but was able to give Bowen a name.

Joey Benavides had been hired by the IDTF just before being fired from the Clandestine Service. According to Knight, a long-distance affair with an Internet porn star on his government computer had earned Joey B a suspension. Lying about the continuation of the affair and the use of a government computer had cost him his job. Benavides had been one of the men next to Director Ross’s house just before they’d evacuated to the safe site.

The consummate protector, Knight was itching to have a long face-to-face with the guy, but he’d been threatened with violations of any number of laws if he so much as sent a text.

Bowen promised he’d do enough talking for both of them.

“He’s a smarmy son of a bitch,” the agent said. “It wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you put the boot to him a few extra times for me.”

“I only plan to talk to him,” Bowen said. He gave the Charger some gas, speeding up to take the Beltway exit toward Alexandria.

“Whatever,” Knight said. “But when you listen to that slick bastard for two minutes, you’ll be ready to mop the floor with his ass. From what I understand, he’s mooching off a woman who owns an empanada shop somewhere north of Dupont Circle.” The line went silent while Knight checked his watch. “If he’s not on shift yanking the fingernails out of some poor schmuck the IDTF has in custody, you’ll find him at a blues bar called Madam’s Organ about now having a liquid lunch. It’s on Eighteenth Street. Big mural on the side of the building of a redheaded saloon girl with writing all over her chest. You can’t miss it.”

“Got it,” Bowen said.

“Don’t forget to give the bastard a little good feeling for me.”

“You have no idea where Director Ross is being held?” Bowen asked. “No guesses?”

“None,” Knight said. “But Joey will know.”

“Like I said,” Bowen reminded him, “I only plan to talk to him.”

“Look,” Knight said, “Bowen, or whatever your name is, let’s get one thing crystal clear. I’m smart enough to know deputy marshals don’t do congressional inquiries. Do you think I’d be talking to you over the phone about this if Jennifer hadn’t called me after she talked to you? There’s a war going on. Hell, I’m sure my boss is tied up in it somehow. That’s why they carted her off to a secret cell somewhere in Mugambu or wherever the hell she is. But anyone interested in finding her is on the same side of that war as I am, so more power to you. Just cut the bullshit and knock out a couple of Joey’s teeth.”

Bowen ended the call and made a U-turn to get back on the GW Parkway. He took the 14th Street Bridge across the Potomac into DC, and then headed north, cutting through the National Mall and past Ford’s Theatre. It took him another fifteen minutes to zigzag his way through DC’s never-ending road construction and end up in front of the bawdy mural on the side of Madam’s Organ. There was no missing it. Nothing like a redhead with breasts the size of boulders to welcome a guy to an establishment.

Bowen backed into an open parking spot a half a block down from the bar. It was a little past one and the sidewalk in front of the blues bar was still buzzing with patrons. The darkness inside pulsed the tones of a tenor saxophone with mournful notes that could have made Pollyanna weep.

Adam Knight texted an Agency file photo of Benavides. The buttons on his white shirt strained against their stitching, ready at any moment to pop off and zing around the room like so many stray bullets. It was difficult to say if the oil that slathered Joey B’s black curls simply oozed from his body, or if he applied it in the form of a gel. Dark chest hair that looked like a dead animal pelt provided a tangled nest for the gold chain that draped above his open collar. They weren’t visible in the photograph, but Bowen was sure this guy would have rings, lots of them, gold and dripping off his fat fingers.

It took all of five seconds to spot him once Bowen’s eyes adjusted to the dark interior of the Madam’s Organ. He was sitting in a side booth like a cockroach in the shadows, chatting with another guy. The protégé looked to be in his early twenties — probably a newbie whom Joey thought he could train up in the finer points of greasiness.

The big-bosomed mural outside of the bar had nothing on the waitress who met Bowen at the counter. Everything about the woman oozed pissiness. Even her double-D chest frowned at being stuffed into a C-cup T-shirt. Bowen gave her ten bucks to seat him in the booth where he could watch the door and still have his back to Joey Benavides. She didn’t actually smile, but the ten bought him a dab more attentiveness than he’d expected. He told her he was waiting on someone who might join him, so she brought two glasses of water just in case.

Bowen ordered a burger and sweet potato fries at the recommendation of the waitress, and then sipped his water while he listened to Benavides crow in the adjoining booth. The little turd could not seem to shut up about his recent escapades with some housekeeper at a hotel in Colombia. Bowen’s mother called such talk “singing your own mighty songs.” She had assured August when he was still in grade school that others would be much more impressed when you sang mighty songs about them.

Benavides’s story about his prowess with the Colombian maid dragged into disgusting minutiae. Bowen thought his plan to eavesdrop was going be a bust, but the kid sitting with Benavides finally got a question in at about the time Bowen got his food. His waitress wrote her phone number on a bar napkin and slid it over next to his water. He gave her a wink, trying not to imagine what might come exploding out of the tight T-shirt if he got too near the woman. He stuffed the napkin in his shirt pocket with a conspiratorial nod.

She walked away to growl at another customer.

“…I heard it got pretty rough,” the kid next door said. His voice was wobbly with excitement.

“Rough, hell.” Benavides laughed around a mouthful of hot wings. Bowen could hear the pop as he sucked the dressing off his fingers. “It was epic. You should have seen her. Oh, she sat there all high powered and dictatorial when we brought her in…”

Bowen pushed the voice memo button on his cell phone, and slid it along the rail to his left so it rested between the wall and the high wooden partition that separated him from Benavides.

“Did she give anything up?” the kid asked. “I mean, you know, anything useful?” He spoke in a fearful hush and Bowen wasn’t sure his phone would pick it up. It didn’t matter. Joey B spoke in the sotto whisper of someone who’d had too many beers.

“Not yet,” Joey said, slurping on his fingers again. “At least not while I was there.” He laughed, snorting.

“She’s on the older side, but she’s lost a shitload of weight. Not half bad to look at… if you’re into the whole mom sort of thing. That dude, Walter, really has his eyes on her though, because I thought he was going to throw her down on the table right there.”

“I called him Walters once,” the kid mumbled. “I thought he was going to shoot me for adding an ‘s.’ ”

“Yeah, he’s a real bastard,” Joey said. “But he’s good at what he does. Probably because he enjoys it so much. The guy’s ready to go all medieval on anybody’s ass to get them to talk. I’ll tell you this though: He gets results. That’s for sure.” Benavides laughed, snorting through his nose as if he couldn’t quite contain himself. “Ross was out running when we arrested her. Walter sent us in to take her little shorts and T-shirt away from her.” Benavides’s voice grew quieter as if he was confiding a secret. But he’d drunk enough beer that it was still plenty loud for Bowen’s phone to pick it up. “He made her think we were going to rape her.” Joey paused to take a drink of his beer. “The poor bitch was so scared she pissed herself.”

“Geez!” the kid whispered. “I’m not cut out for that. I’ll stick with surveillance.”

“It’s part of the job.” Joey laughed. “You get used to it. Sometimes you have to close your eyes and do the hard things for your country. I’ll tell you this though, if she doesn’t talk, Walter has some things planned for her that will make sittin’ naked in a cold cell seem like a cakewalk.”

Bowen took a long, deliberate breath through his nose. He slowly opened and closed his fist, feeling the knuckles pop. It took every ounce of self-control to keep from reaching around the partition and turning the greasy excuse for a human being into fry sauce. Instead, Bowen watched the bouncing needle on his phone and took some measure of solace in knowing that he was recording every vile word that spewed from Joey Benavides’s mouth.

Deputy August Bowen paused the recording long enough to ask the waitress with grumpy boobs if he could borrow the phone behind the bar.

“What’s wrong with your cell?” she asked, bending a painted eyebrow.

“Almost out of juice,” he said. “It’s a local call. Those sweet potato fries are awesome, by the way. Just like you said they would be.”

The corners of her mouth perked into what was not quite a frown. For all Bowen knew it was her version of giddy.

“Sure.” She nodded at the second glass of water. “You still waiting for your girlfriend?”

“Not my girlfriend,” Bowen said. “A work associate. That’s who I’m calling.”

“That so?” She blew him a pouty kiss. It gave him chills — and not the good kind.

Before he asked to use the phone, Bowen had checked contacts in his cell and found the number for Jacques Thibodaux.

The big Cajun picked up after the first ring.

“Hallo.”

“This is Deputy Bowen with the US Mar—”

“I remember you,” Thibodaux cut him off.

“I’m helping out a mutual friend,” he said. “I could use some assistance.”

“Where and when, cher?” Thibodaux said. “You call it and I come runnin’.”

Bowen expected he’d have to provide a long explanation. “Okay then,” he said. “I’m at a place called Madam’s Organ in—”

“I know that place.” The Cajun laughed like they were old friends. “Been booted out a time or two. I’m downtown now, but I can be there in twenty minutes if traffic cooperates.”

“You don’t want to know why?”

“I surely do not,” Thibodaux said. “Not on the phone anyhow.”

“Watch your back trail,” Bowen said, almost as an afterthought.

“Always, cher,” Thibodaux said, then hung up.

Bowen barely knew the big Marine. They’d met during the initial interviews when Bowen was assigned the fugitive warrant for Jericho Quinn. They’d crossed paths again in Japan. Quinn, Garcia, Thibodaux, and their badass friend, Emiko Miyagi, had all been involved in some deadly spy games that were miles above his pay grade.

Bowen had been around long enough to know that the big world was really a very small place. Whatever it was that was going on in the highest levels of government, it was very likely related to that group’s bloody adventures in Japan.

Bowen needed backup, but he wanted someone who wasn’t committed to the wrong side. He had no doubt Ronnie could handle herself in a confrontation, but his chivalrous bones couldn’t bear the thought of exposing any woman, even one as tough as Garcia, to the likes of Joey Benavides — or what he planned to do to him.

Chapter 43

Tang clutched the end of his armrest in a death grip, turning his knuckles white. He closed his eyes and worked to slow his breathing. There was little else he could do.

Intermittent turbulence and an overly cautious pilot kept everyone in their seats for nearly an hour after the aircraft reached its cruising altitude. Unable to keep still, Tang snatched the phone from the cubby beside his seat and checked the clock, like he’d done every two minutes for the last half hour. The window of opportunity was slamming shut before his eyes and he was powerless to fight it.

It was imperative that the plane be brought down over the Bering Sea. Apart from the fact that the icy waters would ensure there were no survivors, an investigation over international waters made it much more likely that the Americans would find the necessary clues regarding the cause of the plane’s destruction. The Russians were far too cozy with Beijing to let the US find out Chinese operatives were behind the crash if Global 105 went down over Russian soil. There was too great a risk the investigation would be mired in the black hole of Kremlin bureaucracy and the whole thing would simply be written off as another unexplained aviation disaster. That was all good food for conspiracy theorists, but useless for Tang’s purposes — or the purposes of the man from Pakistan.

If the death of his daughter was to matter, the device had to be deployed within the next ninety minutes. It would take half of that to assemble — leaving very little room for error.

Virtually chained in place by his seat belt, Tang turned to check on his wife. Her seat nearly all the way back, she hummed softly to herself, facing the window. For months, through all his begging and pleading, she’d been silent as a stone — and she chose now to show her emotions. He recognized the song immediately as one they used to sing to Mei Li, their little girl.

Over the last hour he’d watched her come undone before his eyes, thawing from her two-year emotional freeze. It would not last, he was certain of that. The American girl had touched a delicate nerve. That was all. All too soon, Lin would slip back into her miserable trance. Their daughter was dead and no saccharine-sweet words of clumsy Chinese from a guizi child would do anything to bring her back.

Lin’s humming grew louder until it threatened to fill the quiet cabin of the aircraft. Tang watched in horror as a smile crept across the reflection of her face. This newfound flash of happiness, this… counterfeit joy, made him want to slam her head against the wall.

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, she turned on her side, looking at him as she used to when they talked together in bed. “I worry for that little one if we continue,” she whispered.

Tang’s mouth fell open, dumbfounded. “What do you mean if we continue?” he hissed. “We have no choice but to continue.” He’d thought she might feel pity for the American child, but he never dreamed she would consider not following through with the plan.

Lin studied him without blinking for a long moment. Wispy lengths of hair, thin and dull from her two-year diet of little but tea and crackers, fell across gaunt cheeks.

Heavy turbulence continued to creak the giant aircraft, reminding Tang that he was trapped. It felt as if they were riding over a badly maintained road.

“Mei Li is dead,” Tang said, as though he were telling her for the first time. Tears welled in his eyes, running down his face. Rage and despair clutched at his throat, threatening to strangle him. He leaned closer so the other passengers could not hear their exchange. “Do you hear yourself? She is dead. Are you ready to forget so quickly?”

“How dare you ask me that?” Lin’s nostrils flared. “I have done nothing but think of her since she died.”

Tang took a deep breath, speaking the unthinkable.

“And what of our other child?” He knew the mention of their son was akin to stabbing his dear wife in the belly. But it had to be done. “Do you grieve for him as well?”

She shook her head, begging him not to continue.

“Do you remember how you assured me that it was foolish to pay the fee that would have allowed us to have a second child? You and your gaggle of friends…” He spat the words. “Those leftover women who were not smart enough to find a husband, but plenty wise enough to be absolutely certain the government had moved beyond such barbaric notions as the One Child Policy. So you used the life of my unborn son to make a stand and show the world that Chinese women are free to choose—”

“Stop it,” she mouthed the word on a quiet breath.

“Do you not remember the two army hags who dragged you in the back room during your doctor’s office visit and forced you to endure an abortion and sterilization — to make an example out of us? And then influenza took Mei Li, leaving us childless — all because you were much too progressive to pay the small government fee.”

“You are not human…” Tears pressed through her lashes. “I know I am to blame.”

A porcelain chime pinged over the intercom. Finally, the seat belt sign above winked out. Tang wiped his nose with the back of his forearm and took a ragged breath. He looked up to see other passengers reading books or watching movies — ignoring what they thought was a marital spat.

“No,” he said. “The blame lies with government thugs who trample the weak.” He gave his wife a reassuring pat on the arm. She was better now, he could tell. Back to her old self, ready to do what she knew needed to be done. “Do you still believe it is time to pull down the powerful who have caused this great harm?”

Lin swallowed back a sob, giving a halting nod, like a child submitting to some horrible medicine. “What do we know of America and all the people on this plane?”

“I could not care any less about America,” Tang whispered through clenched teeth. “You know that. But I will see China’s government punished.”

“Even if that means killing me?”

“Without question,” Tang said, too quickly.

Lin rolled thin lips inward until they turned white, biting her words. He may as well have slapped her. When she finally did speak, she sounded weary, laden with the weight of abject grief.

“Then I am your wife and I support you. There is nothing else to say.”

Tang took a quick breath through his nose, composing himself.

“Very well,” he said. “I will go meet the others.” He touched her arm again, more tenderly this time. He knew he’d been much too harsh, but it had to be done. Soon, their misery would be over and the great and powerful would begin to pay for their sins.

Chapter 44

Quinn glanced up from his motorcycle magazine to find Mattie hunched forward over her tray table. Her tongue stuck out of the gap where her front tooth should have been. Her red marker moved across the paper in rapt concentration. It had been forever since he’d been able to sit back and watch her play or draw.

Most parents were prejudiced when it came to the talents and intellect of their children — but Quinn was absolutely certain Mattie was a prodigy. She could already suss math problems Quinn would have found difficult in junior high. Quinn was a linguist himself, fluent in four languages besides his native tongue. The fact that his little girl’s Chinese was already better than any of her nonnative teachers flushed him with pride. She’d inherited his ear for languages, but her gift for music came from Kim. Mattie had played the violin with the Anchorage Youth Symphony when she was only six. She’d been working on Vivaldi recently and now hummed the bouncing “Spring” concerto from The Four Seasons as she put the finishing touches on the art project. Finished, she held it up for her dad to see.

She grinned, showing off her picture and her missing front tooth.

Quinn shook his head in disbelief. It was one thing to speak passable Chinese at seven years old, but Mattie already knew many of the intricate symbols that comprised Chinese writing. In bright red marker, she’d drawn a good luck symbol comprised of two identical characters side by side, known as “double happiness.” Common in China, it was not something many little girls in America would be familiar with.

“This is incredible, Sweet Pea,” Quinn said, genuinely impressed.

Mattie beamed. “I drew it for that lady.” She unbuckled her seat belt and slid off the edge of her seat. “I’m going to go give it to her.”

“Hang on now.” Quinn put a hand on her arm. “I don’t want you running all over the plane by yourself.”

“But, Daddy.” She threw her head back and groaned. Yep, there was a lot of Kim in this girl. “She was so sad.”

“We’ll give it to her when we land,” Quinn said. The idea of letting his daughter out of his sight so soon after getting her back made his stomach ache.

“But it’s still hours until we land,” she said. “You don’t want her to be sad for hours when I could make her happy now.”

“Mattie—”

“This airplane is one big adventure.” She stopped the whining and turned on the charm, batting her blue eyes — another Kim maneuver. “You would have wanted to explore a little bit when you were younger.”

Quinn thought of how he and Bo would have had every bin and bulkhead mapped out by now if they’d been able to travel on such an airplane when they were boys. Still, the last behaviors he wanted his daughter to emulate were those set by him and his brother.

“There are some bad people in the world, sweetie.” She’d been through enough to know it, but he reminded her anyway. That’s what fathers did.

She nodded but came back with a counterargument of someone twice her age. “Dad, all the people on this plane had to go through the X-ray thing already. Don’t worry so much.” She looked back and forth, and then leaned in closer, whispering. “Besides, you already trusted me with the big fat lie about our names.”

Quinn couldn’t help but wonder what she was going to be like at fifteen.

Carly, the blond flight attendant, came by with a cup of coffee for a woman across the aisle. Mattie tugged on her apron before she could walk away.

“It’s safe for me to walk up front and give a present to someone, isn’t it?” she asked, again with the eye batting.

To her credit, Carly shot a glance at Quinn before answering. “Whatever your dad thinks.” She looked down at the book on the tray next to Mattie’s drawing. “Lemony Snicket! I just love those books.”

Mattie smiled, proud to be reading a chapter book. “I’m almost finished with it.”

The flight attendant’s eyes opened wider when she noticed the drawing. “Is that Chinese?”

“A card for my friend,” Mattie said. “Shuāngxĭ. It means ‘double happiness.’ ”

“How old are you?” Carly gasped, genuinely impressed.

“Seven,” Mattie said.

“That’s amazing.” Carly gave her a conspiratorial look that said she thought a little girl this intelligent should probably be given a tiny bit of latitude.

“Okay,” Quinn said. “But I’m coming with you.”

Mattie stuck out her hand like she was going to push him back in his seat. “No!” she said. “You scared her last time. Just let me give her the card and I’ll come right back.”

Quinn sighed, anxiety over his little girl’s safety wrestling with the fact that he just might be a little overprotective.

“She’ll be fine,” Carly mouthed so Mattie couldn’t see her.

“All right,” Quinn said. “But don’t stay too—”

Mattie was up and gone before he could finish his sentence.

“She’s precious,” Carly said, gazing toward the front of the aircraft.

“Thanks.” Quinn nodded. “You have kids?”

“My husband and I are trying,” she said. “But with his schedule and mine, it’s hard to get together long enough to…” She blushed and her voice trailed off. “Sorry, definitely TMI. Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine,” Quinn said, eyes boring holes in the curtain where his daughter had just disappeared. Mattie was right. There was very little to fear on board a commercial aircraft, but that didn’t matter. Quinn was what he was, and that wasn’t likely to change. He felt sorry for her dates when she got to be a teenager. Lucky for them, he probably wouldn’t live that long.

Chapter 45

The others met Tang at the forward lavatories on the upper deck as soon as they were free to move around. Each carried two spare camcorder batteries in their pockets. Seen as normal Ni-Cad batteries under X-ray examination, they were able to power a camcorder for a short time if TSA had asked to turn the thing on. The bulk of their interiors was dedicated to the storage.

Apart from the detonator, which was still in Lin’s possession, the device would be comprised of two ingredients. When mixed together and stuffed into Ma Zhen’s ingeniously shaped carrier, these ingredients would become exponentially greater in power than the sum of their parts.

The men disappeared one by one into the lavatories, carrying out a surreal ballet as they retrieved their portion of the bomb components, and then passed it over to Ma. Each face had the silent resolve Tang had seen in the countenance of Tibetan monks who had set themselves on fire to protest Chinese policies. They knew what they were doing and were determined to do it right. Even Gao, the piggish tough, who’d become the de facto security man for the group, had a sweet earnestness about him as he stepped into the lavatory for his turn in the process.

The stress of waiting wore heavily on everyone. Hu’s hands shook, Gao’s eye twitched, and Ma snapped angrily at the slightest question or suggestion. Tang had to force himself to calm after the panic brought on by Lin’s recent bouts of faux happiness. This was no time to lose focus.

The device was relatively small, capable of bringing down the plane only if placed in the correct location. If it went off early, while it was being assembled, Tang and the other ran the risk of doing little damage but to themselves. If they lived through the explosion, they would be badly maimed prisoners of the United States government for the rest of their miserable lives — if they weren’t beaten to death first by angry passengers.

Hu, Ma Zhen, and Tang carried the primary explosive, a compound known as PETN. Experts sometimes pronounced it “petin.” It was an acronym for pentaerythritol tetranitrate, in the same chemical family as nitroglycerin. An ingredient of the commercial plastic explosive Semtex, PETN had been around since before World War I. It was more stable than some of its sister compounds and its quality of giving off a very low vapor trail made it a favorite for terrorists to try to tuck into all sorts of interesting places like Richard Reid’s shoe or Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab’s underwear.

Gao’s batteries carried the second component, the powdered metal that would add heat to the PETN’s explosive power. Altogether there was a scant twelve ounces of material — just enough to fill a soda can. According to Ma Zhen, twelve ounces would be plenty.

Ma had chosen PETN for its shattering force — known as brisance. And unlike the Shoe or Underwear bombers, who had tried to use conventional fuses or liquid igniters, Ma had designed an actual electric shock detonator, utilizing the flash attachment from a large DSLR camera.

Once assembled, the device would be marginally larger than the shoe bomb Reid had tried to use on the Paris to Boston flight. In theory, the pressure differential outside the aircraft would help rip a hole in the fuselage — but the man from Pakistan did not want to depend on theory. Ma Zhen had added another component to his device that would double its effective power — something they wouldn’t have to smuggle because they could easily get what they needed once on board the plane: water.

Once it was well mixed, Ma would pour the PETN and powdered metal into a flat, plastic case that resembled a mini tablet computer. This slightly malleable explosive tile would be nested between two plastic hip-pocket water flasks, one concave and one flat, each roughly the same dimensions as the tablet.

The resulting shape charge would turn the water in the concave flask into a liquid blade, slicing like butter through the thin metal fuselage of the Airbus. Pressure differential would do the rest, sucking loose objects and people out the gaping hole. Tang wanted his wife sitting as close as possible to the initial explosion, mercifully sparing her from the long minutes of terror and panic as the plane fell from the sky.

Eyes closed, with her seat almost fully reclined, Lin heard a rustling beside her. She thought Tang had returned and ignored the sound until she heard a different voice, higher and more tentative. For a fleeting moment she thought it was her daughter, Mei Li. Her heart swelled, but when she turned, it was the little girl with blue eyes from the airport.

“Mattie, right?” Lin pushed the button on her armrest so her seat slid upright.

The child nodded, smiling wide enough to show her missing front tooth. Her face glowed because Lin had remembered her name.

“You should not be here.” Lin craned her head to look up the aisle, terrified of what her husband would do if he came back to find her speaking with this little one. “Where is your father?”

“Reading a motorcycle magazine and worrying about me,” Mattie said, still grinning. “I made you something to cheer you up.” She handed her a piece of carefully folded notebook paper.

Lin opened it up to find the symbol Shuāngxĭ — double happiness — drawn in Mattie’s youthful hand and colored with a red marker. She held it to her chest.

“This is…” The words stuck in her throat. She swallowed back a sob. “This… is much… too kind.”

Lin started to say more, but the little girl leaned across her armrest and wrapped both arms around her neck. She held on the way Mei Li had once done.

“I hope you can be happy,” Mattie said, her face pressed against Lin’s neck.

The plane gave a sudden shudder. Lin clutched at the girl to keep her upright. For a moment, she feared her husband had detonated the bomb in another part of the plane. When she realized they’d only hit more turbulence, her heart sank even more. Tang would soon return with the device. If she did not detonate it as planned, he would only do it himself. This little angel reminded her so much of Mei Li. It was unthinkable to kill her.

The plane gave another violent lurch. An overhead bin fell open, dumping a leather briefcase into the aisle. The seat belt chime rang, seeming even more urgent amid the commotion.

“My dad will be worried about me,” Mattie said. She didn’t seem afraid, only aware of her father’s concern. “I should go back to my seat now, but I’ll come see you again.”

“No!” Lin shook her head, horrified at the thought of putting little Mattie near the bomb. “We will talk more when we land,” she lied. “Too many bumps for now.”

“Okay,” Mattie said, reaching to give her one last hug. “I hope you can cheer up.”

Lin watched the precious child run toward the stairs that would take her to the lower level and back to her father, a man who surely would do anything to protect her. The journey would take her past Tang and the others. She groaned within herself, hoping he would be too focused on his task to notice a child.

Lin wracked her brain for a way out. If she spoke up, they would still detonate the bomb. That was far too dangerous. Her husband would return any moment. He was a good man. She knew that. Perhaps she could talk to him, explain the way she felt and buy this child some more time. Lin cared little for the other faces on the airplane, and nothing for her own life. Her sorrow was a stone against her soul that could not simply be removed by a hug or a piece of paper with a childish symbol — but she would not stand by and watch this sweet little girl die.

Gao was still in the lavatory when the plane began to pitch violently. Waiting outside by the bulkhead, the bucking knocked Tang sideways, shoving him into a wide-eyed blonde as she stumbled out of the adjacent lavatory. The woman gave him a cold glare and muttered some invective oath in Russian. The rumbling continued, as if the pilot had decided to drive over a field of large stones. Hu and Ma had to lean against the wall to keep their feet.

“This will pass,” Tang said. “Go back to your seats before someone sees us loitering together.”

A bony man wearing the red vest of a flight attendant made his way toward them, eyebrows raised, chiding them for disregarding the seat belt sign.

“Go now,” Tang whispered.

Ma checked his watch. His face was pinched into an angry wedge, but he turned to go before the attendant could tell him to. Hu ducked down the front stairs, back to his seat on the lower deck.

Tang wasn’t sure what Gao would do if everyone left him alone. He waited as long as he could, smiling politely to the advancing flight attendant. Behind the lavatory door, Gao banged around as if he was in a fight, letting loose a string of vehement curses.

The seat belt sign chimed again as if to emphasize the need to be seated. The plane continued to rattle and shake. The flight attendant hustled up the aisle.

“Sir, the captain has ordered everyone back to their seats.” The attendant looked at him with raised eyebrows and the half smirk of a little man who thought he had unfettered power over another.

Tang gave a polite nod toward the lavatory. “My friend is sick.” He spoke in halting English, acting as if he’d not fully understood.

Gao’s cursing was easy to hear, even over the rattling airplane.

“We’ll look after your friend,” the flight attendant said. “But you have to return to your seat.”

The restroom door levered open and Gao poked his head out like a camel nosing its way into a tent. His face was pale and slack as if he might actually be ill.

“Your seats, gentlemen.” The attendant shooed them both on their way, then turned his attention to other passengers now that they were moving in the direction he wanted them to go.

“I dropped it,” Gao groaned, grabbing seat backs to steady himself as he shuffled down the aisle.

Tang stopped dead in the aisle, blocking his way. His voice was deadpan, deflated. “What do you mean, dropped it?”

“The powder,” Gao said. The squat man was on the verge of tears. “It was very cramped in there. I removed the lid carefully, just like you showed me, but the plane began to jump around. It’s cramped in there…. Anyway, I dropped it.”

“Wait.” Tang’s chest tightened. The walls of the plane seemed to close in around him. “You lost the powder?”

Gao nodded, hanging his head. “Most of it spilled out when the batteries hit the floor.”

Tang found it difficult to see. He could hardly think. “Could we sweep it up?”

“I tried,” Gao said, stricken by guilt. Nervous blotches mottled his skin from his neck to the top of his head, visible under the short stubble of his haircut. “The rubber tile on the floor is porous, made with tiny lines and cracks for drainage. The powder sifted away before I could retrieve it.”

Tang could do nothing but shake his head. Gao, who barely understood the gravity of what had happened, was already beside himself with guilt.

Another flight attendant in a red sweater stalked up the aisle from the galley, herding them back to their seats.

Tang nodded meekly, belying the turmoil in his gut. He shuffled forward like a condemned man, not even trying to dodge the knees and elbows that blocked his path, ignoring the protesting grunts of other passengers.

His brain was racing by the time he made it back to his seat. “Let me think,” he said to Gao. “We will speak with Ma Zhen when this stops. There is always a way.”

Gao gave a somber nod. “I am sorry, my friend,” he said. “Truly.”

Tang shooed him away with a tight smile, the best he could muster under the circumstances. “We will speak to Ma,” he said again, because he did not know what else to say.

Back in his seat, Tang buried his face in his hands. He pressed against his eyes until he saw shooting lights and felt the welcome, calming pain.

Could it all be lost so easily? They had all left letters implicating the Chinese government in the attack. If left alive, they would all look like fools, until they were hunted down and killed for their parts in the useless conspiracy. He sighed, resigning himself to living his remaining days in shame. It made sense. This was the fickle Allah who had taken his daughter.

Lin glanced at him from her seat next to the window, perfectly silhouetted against the beam of light pouring in from the thin air outside. She’d become animated again — like she was on some kind of happiness drug. She tilted her head, and then reached to touch his arm. Her tray table was open and on it was a card drawn in the hand of a child — it said “double happiness.”

Tang almost screamed when he saw it.

“What is this?” he said in rapid Mandarin. It didn’t matter if they could understand him or not, the other passengers recognized a man chiding his wife in any language. They looked away in embarrassment.

The stupid little guizi had come to bother Lin once again, stirring up old thoughts and pain. Double Happiness, indeed. Tang ground his teeth with the anger of a helpless man. If he could not bring down the plane, he would strap what was left of the explosive to the little girl’s back. That would punish her for the pain her antics were causing his wife.

Lin sat quietly, waiting for him to calm down.

He decided to keep Gao’s clumsiness to himself. In her present condition, Lin would see it as a sign. Instead, he ignored his wife’s new mood and stared forward, toward the stairs. There had to be another way.

The cockpit doors lay on the level below, at the bottom of the stairwell. Surely the PETN alone would be enough explosive by itself to breach the flight deck. But even if they were to get through the reinforced door, there was the strong possibility that at least one of the crew had a pistol.

Tang was not afraid to die. He was, in fact, resigned to it. But he did not want to waste his life by giving it prematurely — without bringing down the aircraft.

By the time the turbulence settled to a low rumble, Tang felt as if a bleeding ulcer might kill him. He was just about to resign himself to failure when the two business-class flight attendants began move back and forth in the galley two rows ahead. The smell of beef and pasta began to drift down the aisle. Dressed in bright red aprons, one woman prepared silver and glassware, while the other pulled tray after tray out of the warming oven. Machinelike, she removed the aluminum foil cover from each meal and threw it in a plastic recycle bag before passing the tray to her partner.

The tiniest crystal of an idea began to form in Tang’s brain.

He checked the time on his phone. The monstrous Airbus traveled at nearly 600 miles an hour. They would cross into Russian airspace in a little over an hour; a few minutes after that and they would be over land.

He needed more time — but to get it, he would somehow have to make the airplane turn around.

There was another chime and the captain’s voice blared over the speaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “This is Captain Rob. I apologize for that choppy air. Sometimes that happens out here over the Pacific. We’ve done a little checking with a couple of other flights ahead of us. It looks like we’ll have smooth flying for the next few hours.

No, Tang thought, the next few hours will be anything but smooth.

Chapter 46

Jacques Thibodaux rumbled up on a big BMW motorcycle twenty-five minutes later. He backed the bike into a parking spot in front of the used bookstore down the block from the bar. Joey Benavides and his young protégé were still inside finishing up what looked to be their last beer.

The streets were beginning to hop as government workers, congressional aides, and lobbyists poured out of the Adams Morgan district to return to work after lunch. Many were likely to return for happy hour, then be back in their offices again by seven or eight that evening — continuing to work for another three or four hours. It was a sobering thought that many of those running the government relied on so much liquid inspiration.

The hulking Marine swung a leg off his motorcycle and ripped an enormous and unashamed fart.

“Speak to me, oh, Toothless One,” he sighed to himself.

Bowen chuckled. It was impossible not to like this guy.

The Cajun’s black leather jacket hung open to reveal a tattered AC/DC BACK IN BLACK T-shirt. His jeans were faded and frayed at the cuffs from being just a little too long at the heels. The patch over his eye seemed to add inches to his already enormous bulk.

He took Bowen’s hand in a giant paw and drew him to his chest to give him a hearty pat on the back — the brotherhood hug. Bowen was no small fry but he felt like a toy in the Marine’s grasp.

As a deputy marshal he’d made a habit of sizing people up. There were those he could control by swagger alone. Some he knew he would have to lay hands on, while others might turn violent and needed a two-by-four to the head in order to bring them into line. Some were too dangerous even for that, and required a high-power rifle from very far away.

Jacques Thibodaux, a man who surely tossed around small cars and yanked trees up by their roots for sport, fell squarely into the last. Bowen noticed a dark red raspberry on the big man’s forehead over his good eye — and found himself wondering about the “other guy.”

Thibodaux saw the concern on his face and touched the wound with his fingertip. “Bedroom accident.” He grinned.

Fearing Benavides might come out at any moment, Bowen briefed the Marine quickly, highlighting the fact that Ronnie Garcia had asked for his help.

Thibodaux rubbed a hand over his square jaw, taking it all in.

“You want to get him off somewhere by hisself and ask him a few questions?”

“He’s with another guy, but there were two sets of keys on the table so I’m thinking they came in separate cars.” Bowen nodded across the street. “There’s a Metro police substation over there, so it’s not optimum.”

“That don’t matter.” Thibodaux smirked. “We’ll just watch which way your guy goes and follow him. You kick him in the nuts and I’ll drag him into the alley so we can chat.”

“Or,” Bowen said, “I can play back a little of the recording where he implicates his boss in the torture of a high-ranking US official.”

“Your call,” Thibodaux mused. “But he’d probably rather get kicked in the nuts.”

Benavides said good-bye to his young friend and then began to jostle his way through the crowds that mingled in front of Madam’s Organ. The kid turned right and, thankfully, Joey B turned left, away from the police station. He wasn’t drunk, but chose his steps carefully like someone who knew he had a pretty good buzz. He carried his keys in his hand, moving toward a silver Audi A8, wagging his head as he walked as if still singing his own mighty songs.

Bowen fell in behind him as soon as he left the restaurant. Thibodaux hung back a few steps.

“Joey,” Bowen said, stepping in before Benavides could unlock the Audi. “Got a minute?”

The ID agent turned a little too fast at the intrusion, teetering so he had to catch himself on the roof of the car. The tail of his white shirt hung half out of navy Sansabelt slacks. He held a chubby hand up to his face as if to ward off a blow or shield his eyes from a bright light. Three gold rings adorned stubby sausage fingers.

“Do I know you?” he said. He rubbed his waist with the other hand, obviously trying to remember what he’d done with his pistol. Bowen had seen it earlier, sagging in a loose sheepskin holster on the man’s left ankle. When caught unawares, having a gun in an ankle rig was akin to not having a gun at all.

Thibodaux moved up behind Bowen. “Afraid you’ve never had the pleasure, cher,” the Marine said. “But we know you. How about we all have a seat in your car and, you know, get to know each other?”

“I know one thing,” Benavides said. “You’re not getting in my car.”

“Au contraire, my brother,” Thibodaux said. He nodded at Bowen. “My friend here happens to be in possession of a recording you’re gonna want to hear.”

“How do I know you’re not going to kill me?” Benavides said.

“I can’t speak for my friend,” Thibodaux said, “but if I aimed to kill you, you’d be a greasy dot on the sidewalk already.”

Bowen stepped in closer and held up his phone. A quick replay of Joey B’s own words convinced him to unlock all the doors and slump behind the wheel. Bowen sat in the passenger seat. The big Marine folded himself into the back, behind Benavides.

“What now?” Joey asked, hands rubbing the sides of his head like he was getting a migraine.

Bowen half turned, his left arm running along the back of the seat between Benavides and his headrest. He held the phone in his right, between them. The recording played on, describing the treatment of a defenseless older woman at the hands of common thugs. Benavides closed his eyes when he heard his own voice connecting Agent Walter with the incident.

Bowen turned off the recording and returned the phone to his jacket pocket.

“Do you know why most people aren’t very good at boxing, Joey?” Bowen said.

“No,” Benavides scoffed. “What the hell difference does that make?”

“Because they worry too much about their teeth.”

Bowen grabbed a handful of Joey B’s greasy curls, yanking back just enough to make the moron pull against his grasp. As soon as he felt the tug, Bowen went with it, changing directions and slamming Benavides’s face into the top of the steering wheel again and again. Teeth shattered against the hard plastic wheel. At least two fell in a series of tiny thumps against the rubber floor mat, like coins slipping out of a pocket.

“Sthopppp it!” Benavides screamed. Blood poured from his burst lips. “What do you want from me?” He held up both hands, showing that he didn’t intend to fight back.

Bowen shoved him sideways. He wiped the hair gel from his hand on the back of the calfskin seat. “Come on, Joey,” he said. “I just helped out your boxing career. Now you don’t have to worry about so many teeth.”

“Whath the hell?” Benavides said. He sounded like he had a mouthful of marbles. “Do you know who I work for?”

“Wait,” Thibodaux said, grimacing. “Don’t tell me you’re with ID.” He shot a fearful glance at Bowen. “We’re done, brother. They’ll arrest us for sure now, steal our clothes, and send this jackass in to rape us…” He cuffed Benavides on the back of the head with a hand the size of a pie pan. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Of course, we know who you work for, cochon.”

“Why are you doing this?” Benavides whimpered. “I… I… don’t even know you guys…” Each breath brought a wincing gasp as he sucked air over the freshly broken teeth.

“Waaa,” Thibodaux mocked. “I don’t even know you guys.” He looked at Bowen, telling him it was his turn.

“Where is she?” Bowen said. The “tell me or I’ll kick your ass” was implied.

Benavides gulped. “Look, guys. I—”

Thibodaux cuffed him again. “I swear, Joey…” A slap from the big man was the equivalent of being hit in the head with a baseball.

“Where?” Bowen repeated.

“Bethesda,” Joey said. “A secure wing of the psychiatric hospital.”

Bowen shot a glance at Thibodaux, who raised the brow on his good eye.

“Makes sense,” the Cajun said.

“Are they going to take her in front of a judge?” Bowen asked.

Benavides braced himself for another blow from Thibodaux. A smear of bloody drool dripped from the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know.” He choked back a sob. “I’m just a grunt. I do what Walter tells me to. He’s the one running the show.”

“I guess your boss wouldn’t be too happy to hear you’re blabbing your head off in a bar,” Bowen mused.

Benavides slumped even farther in his seat, defeated. “He’d kill me.”

“Okay,” Bowen said, “Walter doesn’t need to know anything. As long as you keep me informed about Director Ross.”

“That’s all?”

Thibodaux loomed over the backseat. “Hell no, that ain’t all,” he said. “Both hands on the wheel and hum quietly to yourself while I make a call. Don’t be listenin’ in. That’ll get you killed.”

Benavides looked as though he’d been shot. “I can’t help but hear if you talk sitting back there. Can’t… can’t you just step out of the car if it’s a secret call?”

Bowen stifled a chuckle as Thibodaux pressed the phone to his ear and swatted Benavides in the back of the head. “I told you to hum.”

Joey B began to hum something unrecognizable — far from the mighty songs of himself he’d been crooning earlier.

Thibodaux hit him again. “Would you shut up,” he snapped. “I’m on the phone.”

Bowen had to look away to keep from laughing.

Dazed and confused, Benavides leaned his forehead on the steering wheel, bloody lips emitting something in between a sob and a hum.

“It’s me, sir,” Thibodaux said in the backseat. “Yes…”

Bowen wasn’t sure who the Cajun was talking to, but it was someone he trusted. Thibodaux ran down the specifics of the conversation with Joey Benavides — who hummed louder every time his name was mentioned.

“Yes, sir,” Thibodaux said after he finished his report. He listened intently, nodding and making just enough noise so the other party knew he was still on the line. “I understand, sir,” he said at length. “No, I agree. It has to be done. We’ll take care of it.”

“What has to be done?” Benavides sobbed, unable to contain himself. “You don’t have to do anything…”

“Ahhh.” Thibodaux tilted his head to the side and leaned over the seat. “Somebody’s been listenin’ when I told them not to…”

Benavides deflated like an empty balloon.

“Here’s the deal, Joey B,” Thibodaux said. “Turns out Director Ross will be moved today. You’re gonna call me and tell me where they’re takin’ her.”

Benavides groaned. “I’m not approved to know that kind of thing before it happens.”

“Well go and get your ass approved,” Thibodaux whispered. “Because if you screw me around, I’m gonna come to your house and mess up your shit.” He leaned in so his eye patch was almost touching Joey B’s cheek. “And I don’t mean your stuff. I mean your actual shit. Your house will be covered in little tiny bits of what was once you. Understand?”

Benavides nodded quickly, forehead wrinkled like his head was about to explode. Unintelligible whimpers gurgled from his throat.

“I’m done here,” Thibodaux said. “Being near this guy makes me feel like I might catch PMS.”

Bowen looked at him.

“Puny Man Syndrome,” Thibodaux said.

Bowen gave a slow nod. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.” He raised a brow at Joey B. “Not a word to your bosses about our meeting.”

Benavides dabbed at his split lip. “What do I tell them about what happened to my face?”

“Not our problem,” Thibodaux said. He flung open the rear door.

“Run your car into a tree on the way home,” Bowen offered on his way out. “Tell them you fell asleep at the wheel. I got a feeling they’d buy that.”

Thibodaux leaned down, looking in the window with his hand to his face, thumb and little finger extended to look like a telephone. He grinned like they were old friends. “Call me,” he said.

Chapter 47

Quinn had only meant to close his eyes for a moment, but the massive adrenaline dump from the day before had taken a heavy toll. More even than the physical stress, hours of worry over Mattie and Kim had eaten away at Quinn’s reserves. Once on the plane, he felt relatively safe, and allowed himself to relax before his body shut down entirely. He’d all but passed out after Mattie had returned from visiting her new friend, leaving her to watch over him while she read Lemony Snicket.

Quinn had always been athletic, climbing mountains, running track, and boxing from the time he was a boy. He’d learned, even then, that when in peak condition, the mind and body could do amazing things. In China and Japan, he’d witnessed feats of skill and stamina that seemed superhuman. The Air Force Special Operations pipeline taught him that human limits went far beyond the wildest imagination of most — but there was always a price. Reaching those limits required huge expenditures of energy — and with that came the eventual need to recharge. No matter how tough and well-trained a person was, at some point, body and brain needed a break.

Roughly an hour after Quinn had closed his eyes, he became aware of someone in the aisle beside his seat.

Willing himself back to consciousness, he sat up to find Carly the flight attendant standing above him. Her hand resting on the back of his seat, lips tight, she looked down as if she was afraid to disturb him. Her blond hair had lost the perfection of before, more disheveled, as if she’d been on a run or just gotten up from a nap.

Quinn coughed, rubbing the grit of sleep from his eyes. His head ached and he felt as if he’d swallowed a cup of sand. He wondered how long she’d been standing there and chided himself for allowing her to hover over him at all. That kind of lapse could get a man in his line of work very dead.

Carly forced a smile, probably for Mattie’s sake. She cast a quick glance toward the rear of the plane. “May I speak with you a moment?”

Quinn was instantly awake. Flight attendants didn’t summon passengers out of their seats for no reason. He half turned in his seat, expecting to find a couple of ham-fisted government agents waiting for him at the bulkhead, ready to slap the cuffs on him. There was no one there but an elderly woman who disappeared into one of the lavatories.

He looked at Mattie. Her nose was still buried in her book. “Hey, kiddo, you be okay for a minute?”

She shook her head without looking up, the way Kim did when she was exasperated about something — which was usually him. “We’re on an airplane, Dad,” she said. “Where am I going to go?”

Quinn looked at Popeye, who was snoring soundly next to the window. Malleable wax plugs stuffed his ears. “Okay.” He smiled, mussing her hair. “I hear you. But do me a favor and lose the attitude.”

Mattie gave him a thumbs-up to go with her snaggle-toothed grin. “I hear you,” she said.

The seat belt sign came on with another porcelain chime. Captain Rob’s firm voice warned everyone of bumpy air.

Quinn looked up at the attendant, nodding to the light on the console above him. “Shouldn’t I…?”

She gave a slow shake of her head, the kind of shake a doctor uses when he’s telling someone their loved one didn’t make it out of surgery. “The captain knows I need to speak to you.”

Quinn flicked the latch on his seat belt and stood to follow the attendant down the aisle. Rather than stopping to talk when they reached the open area behind the bulkhead lavatories, she kept walking, moving with a purpose toward the galley and lounge area at far end of the aircraft below the curving stairwell that led to the upper deck. Carly didn’t just want to talk. She wanted to show him something.

The Airbus A380 was designed for long voyages of relative luxury, where passengers could get up and move around. As such, the aft section of the plane was furnished as a comfortable lounge, complete with mood lighting, a magazine rack, and leather couches along both sides of the airplane. A row of vending machines with everything from electronics to perfumes was situated at the rear bulkhead — in the event someone couldn’t do without a new iPhone or bottle of eau de toilette before they landed.

Carly turned abruptly when she reached the curved wall at the base of the stairwell. A thick velvet rope, maroon, like those used in theaters and banks, cordoned off the bottom step.

A second flight attendant with silver hair in an elegant updo had parked herself immediately around the corner with her back to the bulkhead. She faced the stairs, blue eyes locked forward, as if on a target. Quinn recognized someone standing guard when he saw her. He gave this new attendant a polite nod, which she returned mechanically, saying nothing.

Carly clasped her hands in front of her, bringing them up to her mouth, as if she meant to pray.

“I need to ask you something.” She spoke around her hands. “Are you a cop? Because you look like a cop, and you handle yourself like a cop. I’ve been doing this job for twelve years, and I think I can tell if someone’s a cop. You have one of those faces, you know?” She finally took a breath.

“I am,” Quinn sighed. “In a manner of speaking.”

“I knew it.” Carly chewed on her knuckle. Opal-pink nails dug into the back of her fists. She glanced at the other attendant. “I told you, didn’t I, Natalie?”

“Yes,” Natalie said, deadpan, eyes still aimed on the stairs. “You said he was a cop.” If she was impressed by Carly’s insight, she didn’t show it.

Before she could get to her point, a stern-eyed woman wearing lumpy black yoga pants that were several sizes too small pushed her way through the curtains at the bulkhead. She had a boy of four or five in tow and they were headed for the stairs.

Natalie perked up at the sound of her approach, turning to intercept her. “I’m sorry. The stairs are closed,” the attendant said. “And the captain has turned on the seat belt sign. I’m going to have to ask you to return—”

“I don’t feel any bumps.” The woman in yoga pants crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “And besides, how can the stairs be closed? It’s not like you can break a flight of stairs.”

“Ma’am,” Natalie said, through a tight smile. “Return to your seat.”

“Well.” The woman gave a sarcastic wag of her head as she spoke. “That is exactly what we are trying to do. My son wanted to look around your fancy airplane. We came this way so he could use the restroom.”

“You’ll have to use the front stairs,” Natalie said.

“I don’t see why—”

“Go the other way,” Quinn said. His voice was barbed with the pointed ambivalence of a man who’d ended people’s lives. He had never hurt a woman just for being rude, but Yoga Pants didn’t know that.

“This is going in my TripAdvisor review!” the woman said. “I can assure you of that.” She drew her son to her like a shield, thankfully, Quinn thought, covering the most offending portions of her yoga pants.

Once the woman had stomped away, Carly turned her attention back to Quinn. “See what I mean,” she said. “You sounded like you would have slammed her on the floor if she’d refused your order.”

“I should have slammed her because of those hideous tights,” Natalie said, still deadpan.

“Okay,” Quinn said. “Before someone else comes back and challenges any authority I don’t actually possess, tell me what is it you need.”

Carly let her hands fall to her sides. “You held that rolled motorcycle magazine like a club when you were boarding. And you handled your idiot seatmate like someone who’s used to tough situations.” Her eyes played up and down, studying him, as if she was still trying to convince herself she’d made the right decision. “And the way you interact with your daughter… I told the captain you were a man we could trust.” She lifted a beige handset off the rear bulkhead and extended it toward Quinn. “He wants to speak with you.”

Quinn sighed, taking the phone. This couldn’t be good.

Rob Szymanski’s voice came across the line. He didn’t sound nearly as upbeat as he did over the intercom. “Mr… Hackman, is it?” the captain said, using the name on Quinn’s passport.

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said.

“Carly thinks you’re some kind of police officer. Is she correct?”

“She is,” Quinn said. “Air Force OSI.” There was no point in lying. There was obviously something going on that made the crew think they needed someone with law enforcement experience.

“Very good,” the captain said. “An old ROTC buddy of mine is the OSI detachment commander in New York. Maybe you know him.”

“Dave Fullmer,” Quinn said. “He was one of my instructors at FLETC. He’s a good man.” FLETC was the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.

“Yes, he is,” the captain said, apparently convinced now that Quinn was actually an OSI agent. “Listen, I’ll just cut to the chase. Carly brought you back there because we’ve had a murder on board.”

Quinn’s breath caught like a stone in his throat. He’d expected that they might want his help with an unruly passenger. “You mean an unattended death?”

“No,” the captain sighed. “Well, yes. SOP says I’m not allowed to open the cockpit door under these circumstances, but from the way they describe it to me, we’re pretty sure it’s a murder, throat cut, the whole nine—”

“Just a minute.” Quinn cut him off. “Do you have the killer in custody?”

“No, I—”

Quinn dropped the handset, letting it fall against its cord without another word. He shouldered his way past a dumbfounded Carly, and ran back up the aisle, scanning for threats as he went.

Mattie was too short to be visible over the back of her seat, but he sensed something was wrong when he was still five rows back. The guy with the Popeye chin was gone. Quinn picked up his pace, shoving aside errant knees and elbows as he rushed down the aisle. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid as to leave her alone.

He nearly collapsed when he reached their row and saw her kneeling beside her backpack at the foot of her seat. She’d finished one Lemony Snicket book and, being too small to reach her bag, she’d unbuckled her seat belt and climbed down on the floor to get another from her backpack. It had been impossible for Quinn to see her until he was right on top of their row.

He ignored the glares of surrounding passengers when he not only snubbed his own nose at the seat belt sign, but told his daughter to get up and accompany him to the back of the plane.

“Bring your book,” he snapped, a little more harshly than he should have.

Mattie followed without a word.

Though Quinn had been deployed or absent on assignment through fully half of Mattie’s short life, she was smart enough to know when the time for joking was over. She walked obediently behind him, sensing somehow, even at this tender age, that there were things more important than seat belt signs.

Quinn got her situated on the couch along the wall nearest Natalie the guard. Carly was still on the phone with the cockpit. She passed the handset to Quinn.

“What was that all about?” the captain snapped. “I’m in the middle of telling you about a murder and you walk away?”

“Captain…” Quinn took a slow breath. “I’m not willing to leave my daughter unattended when there’s a killer free on the plane.”

“Right,” the captain said. “I understand. Look, I have to be honest with you. The FBI will be pretty upset that I’m breaking protocol and having someone else investigate this murder before we get back. But, as you said, I’m not happy about a killer running around on my airplane. If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate a professional pair of eyes on the body. Maybe there’s some clue that will lead us to the killer right away. I’d come out and give it a look myself, but after something like this, I can’t even crack the door until we land.”

“OSI doesn’t pull lead on homicide investigations,” Quinn said. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Very well,” Captain Rob said. “I’m not too keen on landing in Russia with a dead body on board. Take a look and get back with me quickly. I’ve got some decisions to make and I got about fifteen minutes to make them.”

“Roger that,” Quinn said. He was at once worried over Mattie’s safety and excited at the prospect of the hunt.

“It… I mean he’s around the corner,” Carly said. She nodded at the stairwell that curved upward in a slow arc to the second level. A pool of yellow light washed down the polished teak, spilling onto the maroon Berber carpet of the lounge. “Your daughter can sit right here at the bottom without seeing too much. You should be able to keep an eye on her and still see what you need to see. I’ll help you watch her.”

“Thank you.” Quinn nodded. “That will work.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t think about the danger before,” Carly said. “It was pretty stupid of me to leave her sitting there by herself, considering.”

“No worries,” Quinn said, pausing as Carly moved the rope barrier to one side. “Tell me, what was it really that made you think I was a cop?”

“You remind me of my dad,” she said, holding out her hand to motion him in.

“Your dad was in law enforcement?”

“No,” she laughed. “He was a news correspondent for the wire services. We lived all over the world. Anyway, he had a laminated saying on his computer that was something like: ‘Every man is sometimes tempted to cut throats,’ or something like that.”

Quinn smiled in spite of the dead body ten feet away. “It’s a Mencken quote,” he said. “He was a journalist like your father. ‘Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.’ ”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Carly said. “When I first saw you, that’s what came to mind.”

Chapter 48

President Hartman Drake leaned back in his chair with a phone pressed to one ear. His bowtie was crooked. His face was still flushed from his recent workout, which, McKeon knew, included a certain amount of exertion with Barbara Wong. The attractive Navy ensign was the only female in the room and now stood at the end of the desk with a second handset, acting as interpreter. President Chen spoke excellent English and she was only there in the event the conversation reached a more nuanced level. Both countries, after all, had the means, and lately the will, to see each other reduced to glowing piles of ash.

The President nibbled White House M&Ms as he spoke, snatching little handfuls from the bowl on his desk and dropping them into his mouth during the conversation. McKeon could not help but think that for someone who was so concerned about his physique, the man ate a great many M&Ms. President Chen Min of the People’s Republic of China was on the other end of the line and must have heard the crunching.

McKeon stood behind the President, arms folded, looking out the window. David Crosby, Drake’s chief of staff, stood by the main door, his body obscuring the view of the peephole the President’s secretary — and anyone else who happened to be standing beside her desk — used to check on the status of meetings in the Oval Office. Two admirals and five generals — with more stars among them than two colonial flags — crowded onto the small spot of carpet between the sofas and the President’s desk. Secretaries Watchel and Filson were on opposite sides of the situation and the room. Apart from the President, no one sat.

“…I’m sure you do, Mr. President,” Drake said around a mouthful of red, white, and blue M&Ms. “But it would be helpful to take a little more of a worldview on this. I… No, I completely understand…. It saddens me that you feel that way… No, I have made my decision.”

Drake hung up the phone and grabbed another handful of candy.

“He’s pretty pissed,” Drake said. “Gave me a rant about our relationship with what he called the ‘illegal government of Taiwan’ and our treaties with Japan over the Senkaku Islands. A lot of saber rattling, but that’s it so far.”

A buzz ran between the military leaders. Filson gave a bellicose nod and Watchel bit his tongue to keep from saying “I told you so.” McKeon had hoped, but not expected this would push China over the edge. The more independent leaders who’d taken over after Mao might have fired a missile directly after hanging up the phone. They had been able to command, where the current leader had to consult. McKeon understood the realities and planned for them.

“Andrew,” the President said to Secretary of Defense Filson. “Have your guys monitor the situations in the South China Sea as well as Japan…. Hell, just keep an eye on China.” He turned to the Secretary of State. “Tom, get in touch with our embassy in Islamabad and let’s get these Uyghur sons a bitches back in a Pakistani prison where they belong.”

Crosby stepped up and whispered something in the president’s ear. He was a pasty man who looked as though the pressures of the job were eating him alive — but he’d been the keeper of Drake’s dirty laundry since his time in the House. There was really no one else who could do it.

Drake took a deep breath. “Seems I am needed in the Roosevelt Room.”

Wong’s eyes flashed momentarily toward the president, looking, no doubt, for some sign of appreciation for their earlier time in the gym. When he gave her none, she tucked the white dress cap under her arm and squared her shoulders. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Thank you…” Drake consulted the name tag on her uniform. “Ensign Wong.”

She addressed the rest of the heavy brass in the room, and then excused herself before she started crying. Drake had that effect on women — a fact that kept his chief of staff perpetually busy fending off civil suits and blackmail threats. At least Crosby thought he was fending them off. Ran, McKeon’s Japanese friend, had done the heavy lifting, sorting out many of Drake’s women before they even hit Crosby’s radar.

JFK and Bill Clinton were his heroes, but the Warren G. Harding White House made their liaisons seem like college indiscretions. Drake had outdone them all in his first six months in office. If things continued as planned, Drake would have a great deal in common with the twenty-ninth president.

The baby-faced Marine Corps sentry posted outside the West Wing did not acknowledge Ran when she walked by, but three uniformed Secret Service officers and two plainclothes agents nodded in turn as she walked down the colonnade toward the Rose Garden. Armed with pistols and expandable batons and radios on their belts, these agents stood by with a twitchy hyperawareness that made them jump at the click of a cicada. Counter-snipers patrolled the roof and some of the agents carried small submachine guns on hanging harnesses under their jackets. It had been nearly half a year since the assassinations, but security personnel, from the president’s bodyguards to the uniformed mounted DC Park Police who patrolled the Capitol on horseback, still operated as if they were under immediate attack. Staffing in and around the White House had tripled. Ran had to stifle a laugh at all the precautions since the greatest threat to their way of life was sitting inside the Oval Office. If these men and women knew what their precious POTUS was up to, they would kill him themselves. Ran had certainly thought about it.

Ran viewed everyone she met as a possible opponent whom she would eventually have to crush. She had vague recollections of a mother who was pretty, but essentially soft and flawed. From the time she was old enough to walk, her father had drilled into her an exactness of spirit, a focus that cut through weaker souls and saw them for what they were — nothing. She’d killed her first human being before she was six — a boy two years older than her. He had sneered when he saw he was fighting a girl — and then vomited up his own blood when her dagger had pierced his belly. One of her father’s counselors, a lusty wrestler with rippling muscles and an ego the size of the sea, made advances on her when she was thirteen. He fell to her sword like rice stalks before a fire. She’d counted at first, seen the faces in her dreams, but by the time she was twenty, there were too many.

The fact that she wore no ID badge hanging around her neck was a sign of her importance. Virtually everyone working or visiting the West Wing wore a color-coded badge identifying their work status and clearance level. Only four people were exempt: POTUS, VPOTUS, David Crosby, and the Vice President’s special advisor, Ran Kimura. The fact that she was included in that list caused no small amount of jealousy among staffers.

Ran stopped at the east door off the Rose Garden. Through the rippled glass, she watched several generals from the Joint Chiefs spill out of the Oval Office into the main corridor. The Vice President stood at the threshold with the President’s chief of staff, having a heated discussion about something. She watched as Crosby’s posture softened. He nodded, as if caught in some hypnotic spell. The man didn’t like McKeon — no, Ran thought, that wasn’t strong enough. Crosby despised McKeon, seeing him as usurping the power of the presidency. But those feelings melted when the two men were together. That’s the way it worked with Lee McKeon. He had a way. An inexplicable force that twined its way into your good sense, into your strategy and will, and made you think you were the most important thing in the world.

At first glance, it was impossible to see how a tall, gawky skeleton of a man with dark skin and deep-set eyes ever got elected to public office. His Pakistani blood gave him the features many Americans saw as a personification of the enemy — and yet, each speech saw hundreds more followers jumping on board his political machine, writing checks and donating time, because Lee McKeon, the Chindian underdog with the Scottish name, looked like a very tan Abraham Lincoln and entranced others as surely as the mad monk Rasputin.

Ran had seen the power of his presence firsthand, two years before, when he’d talked her out of killing him.

Chapter 49

Quinn turned to check on Mattie one last time before venturing closer to the body.

She peered over the top of her new book, craning her head in order to sneak a look up the stairs. She had inherited his curiosity for anything that smelled of adventure and danger — even if she was only seven.

“Stay put, you,” Quinn said. “There are some things you just can’t un-see. Got it?”

“I know, Daddy,” Mattie said, sounding decades beyond her years. “I’ve seen them.”

Her directness took Quinn’s breath away. She was definitely his daughter — and he was pretty sure that was not something she’d put on the plus side of her ré-sumé in the future.

Quinn was nearly fourteen when he’d stumbled upon his first body — a hunter who’d frozen to death in the Talkeetna Mountains north of Anchorage. The bears were in hibernation and he’d found him before the wolves did. But pine martens and weasels had begun to nibble away at the man’s hands, leaving nothing but finger bones hanging from the frozen cuffs of a wool shirt that was oddly clean. They radioed the troopers and watched when a ski plane landed in a snowy clearing among the gnarled black spruce. The plane looked barely large enough for the pilot, a tall man with a blue uniform and thin mustache. The Quinn brothers and their father helped the trooper stuff and cram the body into the airplane, frozen in a seated position, where it sat, staring blankly at the back of the trooper pilot’s head as he took off for Anchorage. There was no blood, no guts, nothing but emptiness — and bones where fingers should have been. Quinn’s conscious mind found the experience more reverent than traumatic, but the skeletal hands of that first dead man had shaken him awake from his dreams many times over the decades since.

Violent brushes with evil men already gave Mattie plenty of cause for nightmares. Quinn knew from hard experience that these things had a way of adding up. “Stack-tolerance,” they called it. At some point, the mind couldn’t handle any more. The last thing he wanted to do was put her near another grisly murder scene while she was still young enough to be reading Lemony Snicket.

“That’s how we found him.” Carly’s voice pulled him back to the present.

Quinn moved slowly, searching step by step for any clue before he put his foot down. Apart from a cascading pool of blood and the lifeless body draped across the stairs, the polished teak was remarkably clean.

Early in his OSI career, before he found a natural home in counterintelligence, Quinn put in some time in Criminal Investigations — known as “Crim.” He helped local authorities and the FBI with several homicides where Air Force personnel were involved, both on and off base. Two cases had been robberies gone bad, but most were crimes of passion. In all cases, clutter and chaos ruled the day. The scenes were in shambles.

Even at first glance, Quinn could tell this was no crime of passion. The killing had been quick and precise, by someone who knew exactly what they were doing. It all had to have happened in seconds, while the victim was alone on the stairs, without alerting the other passengers above or below. When done by an expert, assassinations — something with which Quinn had a certain amount of experience — very often appeared as sterile as an operating room.

Still four steps below the body, Quinn squatted to get a better look. The dead man lay facedown, legs trailing, arms above his head, as if he’d been trying to climb the stairs on all fours before he died. He was white and looked to be in his early forties, with a receding hairline and a sizeable spare tire around his waist. A well-worn leather penny loafer hung from the toe of one foot. A gray polo shirt, the back of which was oddly clean for the amount of blood on the stairs, bunched up around his armpits, exposing his back and belly — as if the killer had attempted to lift him off his feet during a struggle.

Quinn looked over his shoulder, checking in on Carly. “You okay?”

She nodded quickly, mouth clenched tightly as if she was trying not to throw up. “I’ve just never seen anything this gruesome before.”

Quinn took a deep breath, wishing he could say the same.

There was a bizarre obscenity in looking at someone who’d died a violent death — especially when that death had come at the hands of another. The dead could not turn away or cover their own nakedness. Investigators, for a time at least, were forced to leave the bodies exposed and twisted, frozen in their final moment of terror. Worse than that, the sight of such a scene drew in the unprepared, making them ponder too long and too hard on the short distance between life and death.

Carly stood behind him, hands at her sides. Her twitchiness disappeared now that she was certain Quinn was going to help.

Still squatting, Quinn studied the curvature of the wall above the body, where the victim would have been standing when he was killed. A swath of blood spatter, four feet wide, flecked the white plastic in tiny specks of red. There was a notable vacancy in the pattern, where someone or something else had blocked the path of the spray.

Quinn glanced back at Carly. “Don’t you carry some nitrile gloves for cleanup in case someone gets airsick?”

“I’ll get you some.” She ducked back down the stairs, apparently happy for the chance to step away from the gore.

“And a camera,” Quinn added. “Something better than a phone if you can find it, with a good flash.”

Quinn stepped up next to the void in the blood spatter and found, as he suspected he would, that it was roughly the shape of his shoulder. He bent at the knees to make the comparison, which put the person who’d been standing there when the victim’s throat was cut at around five-seven or five-eight.

Carly returned a few moments later with a pair of blue gloves. Quinn hung the camera around his neck, and then slipped the gloves on with a snap. He took photos from every angle, noting the way the man was positioned, the spatter and the blood that pooled on the polished wood beneath the body, before overflowing and dripping down the riser to the next step.

Moving up beside the victim, Quinn stooped to take close-ups of the wound in the man’s neck before he moved him. Whatever it had been, the weapon was sharp, maybe a piece of glass. A deep gash began under the dead man’s left ear, severing both the carotid and jugular before continuing around to open his windpipe.

“So,” Quinn muttered to himself. “You’re right-handed.”

“Pardon?” Carly took a tentative step forward, watching where she put her foot to avoid stepping in blood.

“Our killer is probably right-handed.” Quinn pantomimed grabbing someone from behind and drawing a blade from left to right, as much to get the movement in his own mind as to demonstrate to the flight attendant.

The wound was deep enough to expose the grotesque white of vertebrae and glistening cartilage. Quinn knew from experience that it took someone with a substantial amount of upper-body strength to hold even a small victim still while inflicting this much damage.

After he’d taken far more pictures than he’d ever need, Quinn passed the camera back to Carly. He fished the wallet out of the dead man’s back pocket and flipped it open.

“Aaron Foulger,” he said, reading the man’s driver’s license. “From south Anchorage… There’s about five hundred bucks cash US and roughly…” He thumbed through the bills and did some quick math in his head. “About two grand worth of 5,000-ruble notes.”

Quinn found a faculty ID for the University of Alaska and passed it back to Carly, along with the wallet. “Have Natalie get somebody to check and see if he’s traveling with anyone. Don’t make contact if he is. Just let me know one way or the other.”

Carly ducked away long enough to use the interphone and find out Foulger was traveling alone. She studied the ID and looked up at the body from her vantage point on the gentle arc of the staircase below Quinn. “Why would anyone want to kill a UAA professor?”

“We’re looking for opportunity, means, and motive,” Quinn said. “Our killer had opportunity when he caught Foulger alone on the stairwell.” Quinn nodded toward the gash in the dead man’s neck. “He had access to some sort of sharp blade, which should theoretically be difficult to come by on a commercial aircraft. I’m guessing it was a piece of glass — maybe a broken wine bottle or something. Anyway, the blade, along with the strength to employ it, gave him means.”

Quinn scanned the body again to see what he’d missed. “What I’m not seeing is motive.” He bent to study the dead man’s hands. “There’s a good chance the professor was a target of opportunity. If this was preplanned, I can think of a dozen better places to kill somebody than in the stairwell of a crowded airplane.”

Carly gave him a weak smile. “You know it doesn’t calm a girl to know you can think of a dozen better places to commit a murder.”

Quinn ignored her, instead working through the odds that someone would risk committing a murder at this exact spot with five hundred potential witnesses.

“Too big a chance that you’d get caught here,” he mused. “Why not wait for him in his house, wire his car to explode, slip something in his coffee? If it just had to be up close and personal, you could even cut him like this when he’s walking past a blind alley in downtown Anchorage.” Quinn paced back and forth on the stairs. “He lives up on the Hillside, not five hundred feet from Chugach State Park. It would be nothing to set up a sniper nest and pop him while he was out walking his dog…”

“Again with the creepy stuff,” Carly said. “You just rattled five ways to kill a man right off the top of your head.”

“Yeah.” Quinn shrugged. “I guess that is a little scary.” He resisted the urge to explain himself further.

Carly cocked her head to one side, pondering. Her long hair hung down, away from her shoulder. She wrestled with her thoughts for a moment before looking up at Quinn.

“What kind of sick person murders a random passenger on board an airplane?” she said.

Quinn took a deep breath, thinking through the ramifications of his theory.

“Somebody who wants a diversion,” he said.

Carly’s eyes narrowed. “A diversion from what?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he said. “It’s still only a theory.”

Quinn stepped down to the base of the stairs so he could talk to both Carly and Natalie and do a quick check on Mattie.

“How many people in the crew?” Quinn asked.

“Twenty-two flight attendants,” Carly said. “And the two up front in the cockpit. We don’t pick up the relief pilots until Vladivostok.”

“Twenty-one,” Natalie corrected. “Stacy Damico called in sick.”

“Okay,” Quinn said. “From this time forward, every attendant needs to find a buddy and stick with them. A murder is too big an incident to keep buttoned up. Word will spread quickly, if it hasn’t already. There’ll be a lot of uncomfortable questions that no one will be able to answer. My advice is to keep up service.”

“To keep people calm.” Carly nodded.

“That, and to give us eyes moving around the aircraft,” Quinn said. “Let the others know right away. Everyone moves in twos.”

He picked up the phone on the bulkhead, reporting his findings to the captain. He spoke in whispered tones so as not to reach Mattie’s straining ears and give her more than she should have to handle.

Ninety seconds after he hung up, the massive Airbus dipped her wing, and began a slow bank to the right. The pilot was taking the plane back to Anchorage.

Quinn felt the white-hot gush of anticipation that came before a conflict. Someone on this plane had cut the throat of a complete stranger to divert attention from something else — a bomb, a hijacking. Quinn didn’t know what, but it was something bigger than murder.

Chapter 50

The actual act of killing happened more quickly than Tang had anticipated. One moment he stood at the top of the stairs, ensuring no one interrupted Gao while he did his work — and the next Gao was there, tiny droplets of blood on his face and neck. There had been no thump, no groan, no scream. Tang didn’t know what he’d expected, but it seemed to him that bloody death should come with some sound. He was still processing when he returned to his seat. Lin knew nothing about the murder and, though they had planned to kill everyone on the plane from the moment they boarded, he kept this death to himself. He would keep the entire secret, until the last possible moment.

Still, many years of marriage made it impossible to hide the concern in his face.

“What has happened?” she asked.

“We are going to try something different,” Tang said. He could see the corner of the recycle bag sitting on the floor of the galley just two rows ahead. There were ninety-six seats in business class, ninety-six meals, ninety-six sheets of aluminum foil. He hoped that would be enough.

“Different?” Lin stared at him, head tilted to one side, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “I find it difficult to believe you would change your mind so easily.”

“I love you,” he said, voice tight and plastic — surely she noticed that. “I am ready to make necessary sacrifices.”

Tang looked away under the heavy burden of her gaze. He checked his watch for something to do. “I must go,” he said.

She took his arm, leaning in close so as not to be heard by other passengers.

“I will not detonate the device,” she said.

“You will not have to,” he said softly. “I told you, I am making some sacrifices because of my feelings for you.”

Red-and-white uniforms seemed to be everywhere — but any minute there would be even more. He waited for the business-class flight attendant to move down the aisle on her rounds, then grabbed the recycle bag and whisked it into the lavatory. Once behind the safety of the locked door, Tang spread the foil dinner covers out flat, then worked feverishly to rip each sheet into smaller pieces until he had a pile of silver confetti that filled the small sink. The entire process was simple, but it took time, time Tang knew he did not have.

Word of Gao’s bloody handiwork spread among the cabin crew like a grass fire. Those that didn’t go all the way to the back went as least as far as mid cabin, to see for themselves if the rumors were true. While they were looking aft, Tang used the opportunity to slip down the front stairwell with his shirt stuffed full of foil strips. He ducked around the corner to the espresso bar, which was now empty but for the single attendant.

The seat belt chime sounded and the slender man in a crisp red vest nodded politely when he saw Tang. “Can I get you something, sir?” he said. “I’d be happy to bring it back to your seat.” The tag on his vest said his name was Paxton. He had the youthful eyes of a man with lofty dreams, who was only here serving coffee for a time while he worked out his road to somewhere bigger and better.

Tang nodded toward the bulkhead separating the espresso bar from the front of the aircraft. “I cannot be certain,” he said, “but I believe I saw a child go through that door.” Tang stepped closer to the edge of the semicircular bar, resting a hand on the rich leather edge as if to steady himself.

“What door are you talking about?” Paxton said.

“That door around the corner.” Tang pointed toward the cockpit. “By the stairs. It looks as though someone must have left it open. I’m not sure where it leads…”

“Dammit,” the attendant said. He wiped his hands with a bar towel.

“What is it?” Tang asked, though he already knew what it was. “Some kind of coat closet?”

Paxton shook his head. “It’s a rest area for the crew,” he said. “A little girl, you said?”

“A boy.” Tang made up the story as he went. He wouldn’t need it long. “He had a teddy bear.”

“Thank you for letting us know, sir,” the attendant said, coming around the bar. “But I need you to sit down.”

Tang followed on the attendant’s heels. “I heard someone was killed,” he said, grimacing as if the very words were distasteful.

Paxton looked over his shoulder as he punched the code into the cipher lock. “Sir,” he finally said, “do me a favor and sit down.”

All the seats were aft of the espresso station, so Tang had the attendant alone as soon as they made it to the corner.

When Paxton turned around to descend the ladder into the crew rest area, Tang kicked him in the face.

Tang jumped into the darkness. He assumed all personnel had reported topside as soon as they’d learned of the murder, but there would surely be an intercom. He moved quickly before Paxton could cry out for help.

The only light came from an orange strip of ribbon that ran along the ceiling of the small cabin and gave off little more than a faint glow. The rest area was hardly more than a narrow aisle with three sets of bunks on either side, and the two men had little room to fight. Tang didn’t need much. He’d undergone months of physical training during police academy — and though he was far from the strongest or quickest in his class, he was certainly more experienced than the hapless flight attendant.

Paxton outweighed him by at least thirty pounds and had a much greater reach — but Tang doubted the young attendant had ever seen real violence. Rather than fight back, the young man tried to get away, fleeing toward the ladder and the brighter light above.

Tang pushed him the way he was already trying to go, but redirecting his head into the hard plastic upright of one of the bunks. It was a stunning blow that sent Paxton reeling. Tang grabbed a handful of hair and slammed the dazed man’s head again and again into the sharp plastic edge. The flight attendant went limp at the first blow, but Tang took him with both hands and bashed his forehead against the upright until the man’s eyes rolled upward, glassy and lifeless. A trickle of blood ran from his ear.

Tang wrestled the body into the bunk farthest from the hatch and covered it with a blanket. By the time anyone had a chance to look for him, the plan would either have worked or failed miserably. Either way, it wouldn’t matter.

Tang climbed back up the ladder and opened the door a crack to find Ma Zhen standing outside. Lin was behind him, just as he planned, though she knew nothing of the dead man below. Ma’s intensity frightened her from the first time she’d met him. Her face was creased with worry until she saw Tang on the other side of the door.

“What is happening?” she whispered. “The other passengers are saying a man has died.”

“I have heard the same thing,” Tang said. “Hurry, I will explain.” He turned to descend the ladder, knowing that she would follow, but half hoping she would not.

Ma came down behind her, carrying the coffee grinder he’d stolen from the espresso stand. He reached around Lin when they were at the bottom of the ladder, crowding her as he handed the grinder to Tang.

“What are you doing?” She looked over her shoulder at Ma, then back at her husband. “Dalu?”

“I am sorry, my love,” Tang said. “But you must understand…”

Lin’s jaw dropped when she realized what was happening. Ma Zhen looped a charging cord from his computer around her throat, hauling her backwards. He was taller by six inches and easily lifted her tiny body off the floor. The intensity of the attack pulled her blouse to one side, exposing the tender flesh of her collarbone. Ropelike veins on her slender neck swelled above the biting electrical cord as if ready to burst. Her eyes flew wide. Tiny hands clawed the air. Hands that once caressed him reached out, trembling, pleading for help.

When it was done, Ma let her body slide to the ground. Even in the shadows, his face was bright from the frenzy of killing. He dropped the cord and wiped his hands on a pillowcase from one of the bunks.

“I did my best to make it quick,” he said.

Tang’s eye began to twitch. It was impossible to erase Lin’s final look of betrayal from his memory. But that could not be helped. Ma did what had to be done. Lin had agreed to die. That was the plan since they had met the man from Pakistan. She had even embraced the idea. Tang told himself that this was quicker, perhaps, he thought, even less cruel since she would not have to pull the trigger. Death had freed her from the awful state of confusion brought on by the little guizi bitch. The child would pay for forcing him to take such drastic measures.

Ma put a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you all right, my brother?”

“We have to hurry,” Tang snapped. The killing had to be done, but that did not keep him from hating the man who did it. “Go and see to the others.”

Ma paused, dark eyes still frenzied. “She… she was to detonate the device.”

“I am aware of our plan.” Tang draped a flimsy airline blanket over his wife’s body. “Go and tell the others we are back on track.”

Eager to move toward his own end, he found an outlet for the coffee grinder and some pillows to muffle the noise. He dropped a handful of the aluminum foil strips into the grinder and turned it on.

Ma Zhen steadied himself on the edge of a bunk as the plane dipped suddenly, beginning a slow 180-degree turn back toward the United States.

“Will you take her place?” the young man asked. His hands shook from the aftermath of killing.

“You will have that honor,” Tang said, staring at his dead wife. “This is a large aircraft. There is always a chance that there will be a few survivors. I will make certain the guizi child is not among them.”

Chapter 51

Bowen drummed his fingers on the armrest of a stolen concrete truck and tried to get his head wrapped around the situation. Thibodaux had commandeered the thing from a construction site in Silver Spring, reaching under the chassis to disable the GPS as if he swiped concrete trucks several times a week.

Bowen had followed in his Charger to a strip mall north of the Beltway, next to some new construction so they wouldn’t seem so out of place. The government car, or G-ride, was parked in front of a beauty salon a few spots away where Bowen could keep an eye on it while Thibodaux filled him in.

“Well, cher,” the Cajun said. “I guess now is when you decide if you’re in or out.”

“What the hell?” Bowen shook his head. “I think we’re up to three felonies apiece already.”

“And the night is young,” Thibodaux said.

“Whatever,” Bowen said. “I’m in.”

“Fair enough,” Thibodaux said. “I’ve been given approval to bring you into the fold, so to speak.”

Bowen said nothing, so the Cajun continued.

“Here’s the way this’ll go down,” he said. “An army three-star named Lucas Hewn is about to conduct a surprise inspection of the mental health ward at Walter Reed Hospital. It’s well known that certain high-value prisoners are being held there. General Hewn wants to make certain everyone is watching their P’s and Q’s, so to speak, and ensure we don’t have ourselves another Abu Ghraib. Anyhow, he’s loyal to us and understands the urgency. One of his staffers is a known IDTF snitch. He’ll leak it that there is about to be an inspection. If they’re keeping the director naked and threatening her with rape, Walter is bound to want her moved before the general can talk to her. If Joey B does his job, we’ll have enough time to set up and grab her when they move.”

Bowen thought for a moment before he spoke. “You’re talking about grabbing a federal prisoner during transport?”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, cher,” Thibodaux said.

“Look,” Bowen said, “that could be some of my friends conducting this move. What if there are guys involved in the transport that aren’t a part of this whole secret government takeover thing?”

Thibodaux shook his head. “You ever move an ID agent’s prisoners before?”

“No,” Bowen said.

“There ain’t no clean end on a turd,” Thibodaux said, looking like he wanted to spit. “I understand the need for secrecy and all, but these guys are beyond dirty. You heard what they did to Garcia.”

“Okay,” Bowen said, convinced, but easing into it. The cab of the concrete truck seemed to be closing in around him. He’d done a lot of iffy things in his life, but nothing close to this. “I understand Ross is the director of the CIA, and there’s no doubt she’s being treated badly. But if what you say is true, so are a lot of other high-level people. There’s got to be something else about her you’re not telling me.”

“Now you’re trackin’.” Thibodaux smiled as if he was happy Bowen had figured out some clue. “How much do you know about our new president?”

“Garcia gave me her thoughts on the matter,” Bowen said. “I hate to say it, but it sounds reasonable.”

“Good,” Thibodaux said. “Because you’ve just been inducted into a secret group committed to bringing them down. General Hewn, Palmer, Garcia, me, and a shitload of others are in it up to our necks right along with you.”

“Wait, wait, wait…” Bowen shook his head. “You’re telling me you guys are planning a coup?”

“What we’re planning to do,” Thibodaux said, “is cut their damn heads off.”

“You mean figuratively,” Bowen said.

The Cajun shrugged. “Remains to be seen,” he said. “And don’t go all flabbergasted on me. Joey B laid out exactly what’s going on. You want men like him and his pal Walter running the show? Because there’s a hell of a lot more where they came from. This ain’t the America I know.”

“And Director Ross?” Bowen asked again. “Where does she fit into this?”

“She’s part of us,” Thibodaux said. “It’s not like we have group meetings or anything, but she and Palmer were working through several scenarios, so she’s pretty much up to speed on everything — names, plans, you know, shit that will get us all killed if she gives it up.”

Chapter 52

“So,” Carly said when the captain finished his 180-degree turn and the airplane was pointing back out over the Bering Sea. “Just under four hours until we’re back in Alaska. You think we can find the killer by then?”

“We’re going to try.” Quinn bit his bottom lip, his mind racing.

There was no way this killer was working alone. He would need accomplices to make sure other passengers were kept away from both the upper and lower decks in the moments while he murdered Foulger. Anything else would have relied too heavily on luck. No, there was more than one actor out there. It was the only thing that made sense.

See one, think two, he said to himself. The philosophy had kept him alive on more than one occasion when others wanted him DRT: Dead Right There.

“I’m a doer, Mr. Hackman,” Carly said, momentarily startling Quinn with his alias. “Looking for clues on a dead body is a good start, but tell me what we have to do next.”

“First, we’re going to look for blood.” Quinn kept his voice low so Mattie couldn’t hear the gory details. “Whoever killed Foulger took a big hit of spray.”

“You don’t think he would have wiped it off by now?”

“I’m sure he would have tried,” Quinn said. “No offense, but it’s hard to wash all the soap off your hands in those little airplane sinks. The human heart pumps a lot of blood under substantial pressure. It has a tendency to go in unintended directions when something gets cut.”

“Something else in which you’re an expert?” Carly said, looking a little sick to her stomach.

“You might say that.” He nodded. “Anyway, we’re looking for a guy with blood on his left shoulder.”

Carly leaned around the bulkhead so she could look up the aisle. “So we just walk up and down trying to find someone with stained clothes.”

“I’d have the other flight attendants keep an eye out,” Quinn said. “But chances are our killer is wearing dark colors or someone would have pointed him out by now. Blood might be impossible to see with the naked eye. There are, however, devices that can pick it up, even on dark fabric.”

Carly gave an exasperated sigh. “We’re seven miles up in the sky,” she said. “You have one in your carry-on?”

“Not exactly,” Quinn said. “But I’ve been looking for a reason to show off for my daughter.”

It took ten minutes for Quinn to gather the materials he needed and bring them back to the couch below the stairwell.

As with any operation, his first priority was security. He posted Natalie at the bulkhead, facing forward so she could keep an eye on both aisles. There was a calmness to her demeanor that he supposed came from having seen it all over her years of flying. Quinn put two more flight attendants in the passenger lounge above, to make sure no one could sneak up on him while he worked. He left the body where it was.

Both Carly and Mattie stood beside him watching intently as he knelt in front of the couch and spread everything out on the tan leather cushions. Natalie sacrificed her small digital camera to the cause. Carly commandeered a DVD of the movie Titanic from a passenger. There was a roll of clear packing tape from the first-class galley, two malleable wax earplugs from his Popeye-chinned seatmate, and a set of tiny screwdrivers another flight attendant used for repairing her eyeglasses. The most difficult thing to find had been a blade — an item Quinn was rarely without on the ground. He ended up making do with a case knife from the first-class galley that was at least sharp enough to carve the filet mignon.

He pressed the power button on the camera, saw the battery was fully charged, and then turned it off again. Using the minuscule screwdriver, he removed the six screws that held the back in place and passed them to Mattie so they wouldn’t get lost — and so she would feel useful. The lens assembly was easy to find, but before he touched it, he located a blue insulated cylinder that resembled a stubby double-A battery. Two wires protruding from the base were soldered to a circuit board.

Careful not to touch the wires, Quinn pried the top of the cylinder upward with the point of his screwdriver. He bent it back and forth against the solder until it broke free, leaving two quarter-inch leads attached. He took one of the wax earplugs and used it to cover the wires before handing it to Carly.

“Careful,” he said. “That’s the flash capacitor.”

She smiled. “Like Back to the Future?”

“That’s a flux capacitor,” Mattie said, grinning that she’d gotten the joke.

“No kidding,” Quinn said. “Be careful with it. It powers the camera’s flash. There’s enough electricity stored in there to knock you off your feet if you make contact with the wires. You now have what we call a field expedient stun gun.”

Carly pinched the small metal cylinder by the insulated sides and held it away from her body. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“You don’t have to be that careful.” Quinn took it back and held it in the palm of his hand. “It won’t bite you unless you give it a shove and push the wires through the wax. Put it in your vest pocket. You might be glad you have a weapon if things get hairy.”

Quinn checked his watch and then turned his attention back to the camera. Four more tiny screws allowed him to access the CCD, or charged coupled device, that was the brains of a digital camera. He lifted it out carefully to find what he was looking for.

“Wow,” Mattie whispered as if she was in church.

Quinn used the tip of the smallest screwdriver to lift the tiny square of glass far enough so he could get his fingers around it. He held it up to the light, turning it back and forth so it changed from green to shimmering purple, the colors of an oil slick on water.

“What is that?” Mattie leaned in, peering at the jewel-like treasure.

“It’s an infrared light filter,” Quinn said. He was never one to dumb down a conversation for his daughter’s sake. “It keeps the regular pictures from getting all hazy. When we take it out, the camera will let in light that we can’t see with our eyes.”

He used the tip of his thumb to measure the size of the interior lens assembly, and then set the camera aside. Ripping a piece of the clear packing tape, he stuck it to the media side of the DVD and smoothed it with a tissue from the lavatory. He was careful to keep his fingerprints off it as best he could. Once he’d burnished the tape enough that he was satisfied there were no air bubbles underneath, he began to peel it back, a millimeter at a time. A metallic layer of gold-colored film from the back of the disk came up fixed to the sticky side of the tape. It took a few minutes with the case knife, but he was finally able to saw out a square of the material the size of the little IR filter.

He used his thumbnail to rub off just enough of the foil backing along the edge of the tape that it stayed in place when he pressed it to the lens assembly.

Natalie’s curiosity got the best of her and she craned her head to get a better look from her security post by the bulkhead. “How can you take a picture now?” she asked. She frowned as if she disapproved of this science project when there was a murderer on the plane. “Won’t the foil get in the way?”

Quinn took the screws one at a time from Mattie and began to replace them as he explained. “With the filter gone, it will be too bright inside the plane to get a good image,” he said. “We need something to block out as much of the visible light as we can. They make special filters for this sort of thing, but we have to use what we have on board. The black ends of developed photographic film, the inside of an old computer floppy disk—”

“That’s a funny word,” Mattie said. “What’s a ‘floppy disk’?”

“Never mind,” Quinn said, tightening the last screw on the back of the camera. “You’ve heard of infrared light, but you don’t know what a floppy disk is…. It makes me feel old, but I guess they were before your time.” He held up the camera. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve got to get back to work. How about you go on and read some more of your book?”

Mattie skulked to her seat. She stared out the window, thinking, no doubt, of building her own infrared camera. She was like that.

Quinn walked back to the stairwell and turned on the camera. Thankfully, he hadn’t damaged the fragile lens mechanism during the process of his hack. The focal length had changed when he’d removed the glass IR filter so the focus was slightly off. But other than that, the device worked perfectly. The dark teakwood stairs showed up a ghostly gray in the LCD screen while the blood looked like pools of black ink around the body.

Carly’s mouth hung open in amazement when he showed it to her.

“That’s incredible,” she said. “How do you learn stuff like that?”

“A misspent youth.” Quinn shrugged. “I learned the stun gun thing with my brother during a break from college.”

Carly started to laugh, but her eyes locked on the dead body. The success with the camera had taken her mind off it for a moment, but the stark reality of death came flooding back.

“What now?” she whispered.

“Now?” Quinn said, holding up the camera. “Now we go hunting.”

Chapter 53

Virginia Ross stood naked and very much alone in the corner of the empty concrete room. She’d always envisioned cells as being smaller, but this one was cavernous — big enough to add to the heavy weight of insignificance brought with it. The echoing expanse of the place only made her feel more naked than she was. Closer walls would have been welcome friends.

Apart from the institutional stainless-steel toilet with a water fountain and small sink at the top, there was nothing else in the room, not even a privacy screen that was common in modern prisons. No bed, no chair — even the table where Agent Walter had questioned her had been taken away, presumably because it gave her something to hide behind.

Until she’d been dragged off to this secret hellhole, no man had seen Virginia Ross out of her clothes since her husband had died. She’d never been svelte, even in college, but the very thought of intimacy after her husband was nothing short of gruesome. She found it sobering how much emotional safety the thin layers of cloth had offered. Even the scant running shorts and clammy T-shirt had allowed her some sense of humanity. Now, even that was gone and the lily-white object of her self-doubt now glared at the cameras in full, uncovered glory.

Of course, she’d read reports of the resistance training agents endured as part of specialized units. She was well aware of how instructors systematically broke them down by taking away anything that made them human. But reports could not come close to the abject terror of a fifty-four-year old woman when the three men marched into her freezing cell and ordered her to hand over the last few scraps that covered her body.

Ross was a highly educated woman who held her own in debates with world leaders from some of the most misogynistic countries on the planet — but when those three men, hardly older than college frat boys, backed her against the concrete wall and sneered at her nakedness, she’d babbled like an infant. A slap would have stunned her less.

Ross read somewhere that the more civilized a person was, the harder they took certain forms of interrogation. It made logical sense, but logic flew out the window when dimpled nakedness was exposed to the stares of leering men. She’d lost control of her bladder, setting her captors to cackle at her predicament.

She’d wanted to ask for a towel but, she, who just hours before had commanded the most powerful intelligence organization on earth, found it impossible to open her mouth and speak.

The men had fanned out like wolves, ready to rush in and grab her. Ross could hear blood rushing in her ears. Tears poured down her cheeks. Her throat was so tight she was certain she might choke to death at any moment.

The apparent leader of her tormentors, a pasty thing with greasy black curls and a gold chain on his neck, took a half step forward. He towered over her, using his bulk for intimidation.

“Boo!” he said, his face just inches from hers.

Ross recoiled as if she’d been punched. The men all shook their heads as if they were disgusted. They left her alone — shaking, naked, and vulnerable, but untouched.

She was standing with a shoulder tucked in the corner, forehead leaning against the wall, when she heard the metallic click and whir of the cell door. Agent Walter walked in carrying a thick file folder tucked under his arm. He was wearing a different suit, brown but just as wrinkled as the gray one. Two men in gray coveralls followed him, carrying a rusted set of bedsprings. They set the springs inside the door and then ducked out for a moment, to return with two stainless-steel chairs. One chair had a padded seat. One did not. Both shone like mirrors under the bright light of the cell.

Agent Walter said nothing of the rusty springs, leaving Ross’s imagination to run wild about their purpose. After checking to make sure there were no more instructions, the two helpers left Walter to his work.

Ross tried to squeeze deeper into the corner when the heavy steel door slammed shut.

“Looks like you found the only hidey-hole you could.” Walter chuckled, nodding toward her corner. His voice rattled around the room like a pebble in a tin can, grating on Virginia Ross’s nerves and making her want to scream. She bit her tongue, resolving not to give him that satisfaction.

He shook his head when she didn’t answer, still laughing under his breath. “I’ll have to suggest we move to circular rooms. That way you people won’t have anywhere to run.” He flipped the padded chair around so he could sit looking across the back, staring at her as if she were an animal in a zoo.

“I assume you’ve taken a polygraph before,” he said.

Ross held her breath. She wanted to act indignant, but when one’s appendectomy scars were showing, haughtiness was a difficult thing to muster.

Walter’s chin rested on his hands along the back of the chair, muffling his voice. “It’s a simple question, Virginia.”

“Of course, I have,” she said. “Many times. I want to know why I can’t have my clothes.”

“You’ll have to earn them back,” Walter said. He reached in his suit pocket and pulled out a small wad of white cloth. “But, as a sign of good faith, I brought you this.” He pitched the cloth on the ground like it was a treat and she was a dog he was trying to lure closer.

She took a tentative step toward him, stooping quickly to snatch up the gauzy scrap. It turned out to be a robe like some women wore over their swimsuits on the beach. Several sizes too small and made of thin, nearly transparent cotton, it barely reached the middle of her thighs. She had to hold it closed in the front, but it was still a welcome gift.

“Thank you,” she said, angry with herself the moment she’d uttered the words.

All business, he nodded to the other chair, five feet in front of him. “Go ahead and sit,” he said.

“I’d prefer to stand.”

“It wasn’t a request,” Walter said, his voice dripping with contempt.

Clutching the robe shut with both hands, one at her breasts, the other just below her bellybutton, Ross maneuvered herself into the chair so she didn’t have to face him directly. She shivered as her skin touched the cold metal.

“Anyway,” he said, once she was seated. “About the polygraph. I have some questions we need to go over beforehand, you know, to make certain you are aware of what we’ll be asking you.”

Agent Walter opened his manila folder. He began with a series of rapid-fire questions about her education, where she’d lived, her family, the date and cause of death for both her husband and her daughter. He touched on, but never delved deeply into, CIA operational issues. Everything he mentioned was already widely known and a matter of open source. The questions went on and on, more like some sort of word-association test than any quest for information.

Ross sat with her legs crossed. The flimsy robe covered her as long as she held it shut, but added little to her modesty. Movement meant exposure and exposure meant Walter would win. So, she remained frozen in the same position, eyes locked on the agent’s dowdy flap of hair. Ten minutes into the conversation, her lower back screamed for relief. Five minutes later, her legs were numb from lack of circulation. It was hard to judge time in the windowless cell, but she’d always had a fairly accurate internal clock. As best she could tell, she’d been without sleep for at least a day and a half.

Dizzy with fatigue, she burned a great deal of energy just trying to control her terror. It took Ross half an hour to realize she was sitting in a specially designed interrogation chair. Though nearly impossible to tell from looking at it, the front two legs were almost an inch shorter than the back ones. Unlike Agent Walter’s chair, this one had no padding and the seat had been polished to a high gloss. Even in the chilly cell, stress and fear induced great droplets of sweat to roll down Ross’s back and buttocks, adding to her embarrassment and slicking the stainless-steel chair. With her legs crossed, all her weight was on one foot against the floor in order to keep from sliding out of the seat.

Forty minutes into the questioning, she couldn’t help herself and planted both feet on the ground. Hiding behind clenched eyes, she arched her back to relieve the pain. She jumped when she heard the door buzz open.

The two men in coveralls had returned. Flanking the door, they stood at parade rest and waited for instructions.

Agent Walter bent his neck from side to side, groaning as if he was the one in pain. He closed the folder and dropped it in his lap.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

She stared at him, fearing he was only going to toy with her again.

“You’ve lost a considerable amount of weight, but I assume you still enjoy food.”

“My stomach couldn’t handle anything right now,” she whispered, staring at the tiny hairs on her thighs. She, who would have tugged the hem of her skirt down if even an inch of her knees peeked out, was talking to this man while looking at the hair on her thighs. The world was a very strange place.

The faint click of shoe leather on tile caused her to look up as the two men took up positions on either side of her.

She followed Walter’s gaze to the rusty bedsprings against the wall. She’d wondered when he’d get around to them.

“Are you familiar with the word parrilla?” he asked. He gave a cursory nod to the men, but they seemed to know already what to do.

Ross began to hyperventilate as they grabbed her cruelly by each arm and dragged her on her heels to the springs. She’d never seen one in action, but could only imagine what the man had in mind for the metal frame. Time seemed to unhinge in her head. Oddly, she was more concerned that her robe had fallen open than she was about the rusted metal. She watched in horror as Walter rose from his chair and walked toward her. The men held her arms, but her legs were free. She wanted to kick out, to smash her heel into Walter’s smirking teeth, but her feet felt anchored to the concrete floor.

“Parrilla is Spanish for grill,” Walter said. Methodically, he handcuffed her wrists to the rough corners of the bed as it leaned against the wall. Stepping back, he waited while the men did the same to her ankles. She turned her face away and shut her eyes, fighting the urge to scream.

“Pinochet found grilling with electricity on a parrilla such as this to be quite effective in getting his point across,” Walter explained as though they were walking through a museum. “I believe agents of your own black ops department employ something similar from time to time — unofficially of course. Crude but very effective.”

Ross caught her breath. “You haven’t asked me anything important.”

Her eyes darted around the room, looking for an electrical outlet. The cell spun as she tried to make sense of what was about to happen.

“I have a small generator when the time comes,” Agent Walter said, reading her mind. He reached inside the pocket of his suit jacket and produced a small syringe. It was white, with an orange cap like the ones used by diabetics for insulin. Ross turned her head as he brought it to wave under her nose. A tiny bit of amber fluid formed a drop at the end of the needle. She caught a whiff of vinegar.

Heroin.

Agent Walter sighed. “I made a little stop on Fourteenth Street on the way in to work today,” he said. His face was close enough now that she could smell the odor of cheese on his breath. “Did you know dealers give their product brand names?”

Ross gagged.

“The stuff I brought you is called White House, as a matter of fact. Funny, eh? Amazing what ten dollars buys you these days. They say it’s five percent pure…”

Ross struggled in vain against the metal cuffs, wrenching a knee and jerking at her arms until she thought they would rip out of their sockets. The men stood back and let her thrash, faces impassive as if they were waiting for a car to finish filling up with fuel.

She sank against her restraints, her body sagging on the metal frame. “We both work for the same government.…”

Walter reached to touch her neck, stroking it tenderly, and then pressing a thumb against her flesh to get the vein to bulge.

“What do you want?” Ross sobbed, though she knew the answer all too well. It was only a matter of time before she gave in. Everyone did.

She felt a sharp prick of pain as Walter slid the needle into her neck.

He released his thumb. “It’s time to relax, Virginia. You will find this part more pleasant than anything you could possibly imagine.”

White-hot liquid coursed into her bloodstream, pooling, it seemed, behind her eyeballs. Tremors of euphoria flowed down her shoulders, shooting through her arms and pulsing in her hands. She was keenly aware of each individual toe, ringing like tiny bells. Her knees, her elbows, her ears, and even her hair crackled with static warmth.

There was a muffled sound of the cell door opening, then footsteps slapping the tile. Ross was vaguely aware of a new voice speaking in hushed tones.

“When?” she heard Walter say.

“They’ll be here within the hour,” the new voice said.

Ross gave a fleeting thought to opening her eyes, but decided it was just too much effort.

Agent Walter erupted in a flurry of violent curses, roaring at the newcomer.

“How long have you known about this?” he screamed. “Would it have killed you to get off your ass and tell me before I shot her up?”

Virginia Ross took a deep breath, feeling the cozy warmth course through her body, causing her belly to pulse as if she was in the passionate embrace of a lover. She realized she was naked and rough men stood over her, one of them screaming about something. She couldn’t remember who he was, and found she no longer cared.

Chapter 54

Quinn had no conventional weapons since he was on a commercial aircraft — but he didn’t intend to work empty-handed. He’d watched an older gentleman a few rows ahead of him stow a wooden cane in the bin over his seat and asked Carly to take Natalie with her and borrow the cane. Waiting for them to return, he sat down on the leather sofa by Mattie and thought about what he’d do with her. It set his nerves on edge to even think of letting her out of his sight again, but bringing her with him while he walked up and down the aisles looking for a killer was not an option.

She’d seen him fight before, so that wouldn’t be the worst of it. Fights rarely went as planned. He was fairly certain he’d be able to take gain control quickly, but in the close confines of the cabin, there were simply too many variables — especially if Mattie was just a few feet away.

Even if the digital-camera hack worked perfectly and he was able to find the killer splattered in blood, an accomplice could be seated nearby watching and waiting, unidentifiable until he started killing people. A little girl made for a ripe hostage. The killer might have a weapon. He’d certainly had one earlier and used it to great effect on the stairs. The entire plane was a lit fuse, with all the passengers on edge and unpredictable.

Grabbing someone in the tight quarters of an airplane added an enhanced level of danger. Movements were subtle in close-quarters battle and often could not be seen with the natural eye. They had to be felt. When it came to joining a fight, Quinn very literally went with the flow. There was no way of knowing what he’d have to do to win the fight and the thought of his little girl seeing that side of him again chilled him to the core.

“Got it,” Carly said, bringing Quinn out of his thoughts when she and Natalie returned to the rear of the plane. She handed him the cane and three white plastic restraints airlines used on unruly passengers.

He passed the cane to Mattie while he fed one end through the other on each of the thick plastic cuffs so they formed large loops that he’d be able to zip tight quickly around a prisoner’s wrists. He tucked the “loaded” restraints into his waistband.

Taking the cane back from Mattie, he held it in both hands and flexed it against his knee, testing it for strength. A simple wooden design with a shepherd’s crook, it seemed plenty strong for his intentions. He removed the rubber grip on the bottom and picked up the digital camera.

He turned to Carly. “Do you still have that capacitor?”

“I do.” She took it out of her pocket and passed it to him quickly, happy to get rid of it.

Quinn held it out toward Natalie on his open palm. “I’d appreciate it if you’d look after my little girl for a few minutes. Anyone gets near her, scream your head off and jab them with the wax end of this. The wires will push through and give them a good shock. I’ll be here before they’re back on their feet.”

Natalie took the improvised stun gun. Her eyes narrowed. Her lips pursed. “I’m a grandmother, Mr. Hackman. If anything happens to your daughter, it’ll be because I’m already dead.”

“Thank you,” Quinn said, a measure calmer knowing that he was leaving Mattie with an honest human being. She’d made the only promise she was capable of keeping — not that she’d absolutely be able to keep Mattie safe, but that she would die trying.

The economy-class beverage carts were stored in the aft section of the second level, so Quinn decided they should start there. Carly pushed the cart ahead, moving up the right aisle as if to start the service in front. This drew the passengers’ attention forward while giving Quinn a reason to move slowly, scanning as he walked. He held the improvised IR camera in his left hand, dragging his leg to feign a need for the cane, which he carried in his right.

Global had advertised this new seasonal flight from Anchorage to Moscow for months, so there were few vacant seats in any of the cabins. In another time, under less bloody circumstances, Quinn would have enjoyed the cosmopolitan makeup of the flight. Japanese, Korean, and Chinese made up a good portion of the passengers. Many of them would get off in Vladivostok to catch flights to their various countries that were just short hops away. There were Siberian Yupiks, cousins of the Eskimos of western Alaska; dark-faced Turkic peoples from central Asia; and of course, Americans visiting Russia and Russians returning home.

Quinn scanned with the camera as he walked, looking for evidence of the murder, but not allowing himself to get stuck on any particular stereotype of race or ethnicity. He could be looking at a Middle Eastern man reading a copy of the Economist in the seat to his left, while someone like the blue-eyed brunette to his right stabbed him in the neck with her pen. He’d earned several scars before he’d figured out that though there were certain indicators, all threats didn’t present an evil image.

Danger did, however, have a feel — an aura that could be felt low in the gut. To the Chinese it was zhijue — straight sense. The Japanese called it haragei or the art of the belly. Quinn felt it before he’d reached mid cabin. He slowed his breathing, which, in turn, did the same to his heart rate. He popped his neck from side to side.

Even on a wide-body aircraft like the A380, economy seats were cramped. Elbows and arms spilled into the aisle, forcing Carly to plod along behind her cart, warning passengers to pull in their appendages as she went. Many of the passengers eyed Quinn as he limped by. An Eskimo man in the collar, beard, and long black robes of a Russian Orthodox priest gave him a quiet smile from his window seat. An attractive redhead to his left turned at his approach, eyeing him warily as if she didn’t believe he needed the cane. If Quinn had had a sister, he was fairly certain she would have the same look in her eye. The redhead wore jeans and a sleeveless, blue wrap-around kimono top that exposed her well-muscled shoulders. The deep color of the blouse showed almost white in the camera viewfinder and was absent of any blood. Quinn continued to scan, feeling the woman stare at him as he passed.

A stocky man in the aisle seat on the right side of the plane stretched his arms just as Carly passed with her cart. Quinn could only see a portion of his head and one shoulder, but he had closely buzzed black hair and Asian features. Thick arms filled out the black leather sleeves of a designer jacket. White in the IR camera, the left shoulder was spotted with a spray of dark spots.

Moving forward, Quinn abandoned the limp and shoved the camera in the pocket of his jeans. He studied the passengers seated around the man in the leather jacket. An older woman sat in the window seat on the same row. Members of a girls’ college volleyball team with matching jerseys took up the two rows behind him and most of the seats in the center rows to his left.

When he reached the row directly behind his target, Quinn saw the faint hint of a blood smear on the side of the man’s neck — where he would have cradled Foulger’s head while he cut his throat.

Carly was three rows ahead with the beverage cart, nearly to the center galley and bank of lavatories that divided the aft economy and mid-cabin business class. Though he’d warned her about it, Carly’s curiosity got the better of her and she looked over her shoulder to check on Quinn’s progress. Backward looks were contagious, and every passenger who happened to be watching — including the Asian man in the blood-spattered jacket — turned in their seats. What they saw was Quinn, holding the wooden cane like a club.

Quinn jumped forward, shoving the smooth crook of the cane between the man’s forearm and seat back as he came up alongside. By lowering his center and pushing the cane upward, Quinn was able to graft the polished wood up past the man’s elbow and against the armpit so it stuck toward the ceiling behind his neck. Using the stick as a lever and the armpit as a fulcrum, Quinn slapped the crook end forward with his right hand while he hauled back on the base, torqueing the killer’s head down and sideways, slamming it against the back of the armrest on the seat in front of him with a dull thud. Quinn kept the man tied up as he rebounded off the seat, torqueing the man again as soon as he had room. He pulled up hard on the end of the cane, wanting to end the fight quickly, inflicting maximum damage to the shoulder that would tenderize the killer, but leave him well enough to question. Tied up with the cane and Quinn’s arcing movement, the man was twisted out of his seat and onto the floor so his shoulders and chest were in the aisle and his legs trailed behind him, trapped between the seat rows.

The entire process took less than three seconds. By the time the killer’s nose collided with the in-floor lighting tape, the panicked passengers surrounding him sprang, jumped, and stampeded out of their seats. They got away by any means they could, putting as much distance between themselves and the crazy man with the cane as possible.

Trapped next to the window, the elderly woman on the other side of the killer merely stomped over the top of his body, stepping on his back and head as she pushed her way into the aisle. The girls’ volleyball team cleared out in all directions, screaming and shoving other passengers out of their way. Quinn looked up to see Carly being pushed over the top of her beverage cart in the panic. Juice cartons spilled. An ice bucket poured its contents onto the floor. Carly slid along on her belly, to disappear into the aisle on the other side, out of his view.

The killer struggled, but Quinn heaved up on the cane. He gambled that the man was Chinese and barked at him in Mandarin to stop moving. Chinese people were often startled to hear their language pouring so fluently from the mouth of a Caucasian, and he froze for a moment, trying to make sense of the situation.

Quinn kept steady pressure the cane while he pulled one of the plastic restraints from his waistband. Before he could get it cinched, something heavy crashed into the back of his head.

Quinn reeled at the impact, springing to his feet. He drove himself backwards into whoever had hit him as he fought off a wave of nausea. Fully upright now, he spun in mid aisle, the point of his elbow extended and looking for a target. It found one in the jaw of the redhead who’d been watching him earlier when he’d walked by.

Quinn was still stunned and his delivery was slow, allowing the woman to step back enough that his elbow slid off with little more damage than a slap. The woman’s hands came up to cover her face like a boxer. Rather than regroup, Quinn stayed committed to his original spin, stepping into a furious left hook that caught the redhead in the temple, dropping her like a stone. She fell sideways across the now vacant seats in the middle rows. A hard plastic water bottle rolled up the aisle between them, water pouring from a crack that had very likely been caused when it had smashed into Quinn’s skull.

Behind him, a shout rose up from Carly. The man in the leather jacket had regained his senses and now held the cane in both hands, high above his head like a sword. Before Quinn could move to close the distance, the attacker was slammed forward, struck hard in the back by Carly’s rolling beverage cart.

The harried flight attendant blinked at Quinn, wide-eyed. Her face was wet with spilled coffee and juice. Once perfect blond hair was plastered to flushed cheeks. Her shoulders shook so violently she had to hold on to the cart to keep her feet.

“You good?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” Quinn said, zipping restraints around the wrists of the Chinese man and then the redhead. His vision was still hazy. Waves of nausea lingered in his gut. He wondered how many more blows to the head he could take before he started seeing double — or not seeing at all.

Pulling himself to his feet with a low groan, Quinn scanned the cowering passengers. They blinked up at him from their various hiding spots around the cabin. Some looked like they were deciding whether or not to rush him. Others turned half away, eyes down, hoping not to be noticed. While those around the fight had dispersed at the first signs of the trouble, many passengers from business class now crowded together at the bulkhead to see what the fuss was all about.

Quinn could see no one else that presented an immediate threat — for the moment anyway. The dozens of other Asian passengers, many of them families with young children, took a particular interest that Quinn had beaten up one of their own, but that was easy to understand.

He held up open hands to reassure them.

“You have probably heard,” he said, catching his breath, “but there has been a murder on this airplane. I am a police officer. The captain has asked me to assist in arresting this man who we believe to be the killer.”

Hearing Quinn’s voice appeared to bring Carly’s pulse down to a manageable level. “Please, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “Take your seats. We have everything under control now. Everything is fine.” She broke into a string of fluent Russian. Quinn assumed she was repeating herself for the Russian passengers. She switched back to English again as the passengers began to comply. “That’s right,” she said. “Go ahead and take your seats. Mr. Hackman is a law enforcement officer.”

The redhead lifted her head and moaned. A white paper napkin from the floor was stuck to her forehead. “Wait a minute,” she groaned. “You’re a cop?”

She winced when Quinn took her upper arm and hauled her to her feet alongside the Chinese man in the leather jacket.

“I only ask,” the redhead continued, “because I happen to be a cop too.”

Quinn stopped. “Then why did you hit me?”

“Because, genius, you were beating the shit out of a passenger.” She squinted trying to clear her vision. “Madonna Foss, federal air marshal. Reach into the front pocket of my jeans and you’ll find my creds.”

Quinn knew she was likely the real deal when she used the word creds instead of saying “identification.” A city or state officer might say “My badge is in my pocket”; an NYPD cop would simply tell you he was “on the job”; but a fed would show you his or her creds.

The redhead bent at the waist a little to give Quinn space to retrieve the credentials from the pocket of her tight jeans. “Go ahead,” she said. “Nothing in there that will cut you.”

The Chinese man tried to yank away. Quinn gave him a hammer fist to the groin to calm him down. He sank to the armrest of the nearest seat, wheezing in pain. Quinn let him fall.

“These igmos,” Madonna Foss said. “Always forgetting they’re on an airplane with nowhere to run.” She batted green eyes at Quinn. “You going to look at my creds or not? A girl can’t wait all day for a man to dive into her pockets.”

Quinn ran a hand over the outside of her jeans. A couple of near-death experiences had taught him to treat males and females the same way when it came to security pat-downs. Professor Foulger’s throat had been cut, so he wasn’t about to take any chances. Feeling nothing but the outline of a flat wallet, he reached in and retrieved it.

Her name was Madonna Foss and she was indeed a federal air marshal. Fire-red hair was cut just above the shoulders of her wraparound blouse. Though not a big woman, she was fit enough Quinn’s head still pounded from the blow she’d given him with the water bottle.

Hands behind her back, she nodded at the credential case in Quinn’s hands. “I’m not on duty,” she said. “That’s why the flight attendants didn’t know I was on board. My fiancé is a Diplomatic Security agent at the US embassy in Moscow. I’m on my way over to see him.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said, smoothing the hair on the back of his head. “I wasn’t on duty either.”

“Listen,” Foss said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m just as kinky as the next girl, but we’re going to need some kind of safe word if you plan to leave me trussed up like this much longer.”

“Not sure we’re set up to cut them off,” Quinn said, only half joking. “But we’ll see what they have in their kit. Come on, let’s get this guy to the back so I can ask him a few questions.”

He grabbed the Asian thug by the collar of his leather jacket and hauled him to his feet again. Barking in dismissive Chinese, Quinn shoved him toward the rear of the airplane.

Agent Foss peered at Quinn through narrow eyes. “What kind of cop did you say you are?”

“The kind who’s pretty good at getting answers from guys like this.”

Chapter 55

Quinn yanked the curtain shut as he dragged his prisoner past the bulkhead that separated the aft section of the aircraft from the view of the rearmost row of seats. The passengers would be able to hear, but that could not be helped. Once at the base of the stairs, he shoved the man in the black jacket on the floor, facedown, and slipped another set of plastic restraints around his ankles. Even metal cuffs were temporary restraints at best. Quinn had escaped from enough of the plastic ones never to trust a single set of any kind.

A quick pat-down revealed a passport with the name Gao Jianguo of the People’s Republic of China. He was clean-shaven, with black hair that was buzzed short. Not a tall man, he had thick muscles, with the scarred hands of someone accustomed to physical labor.

Quinn asked a series of rudimentary questions about where he was from, his destination, and if he had any confederates on board. The twitches of Gao’s face showed he understood the questions. He would not speak a word.

Carly came back with a small set of clippers from the emergency supplies closet. The plastic cutters had hidden blades that weren’t exposed so they were worthless for anything but cutting plastic cuffs.

Mattie stood on the other side of the plane with Natalie, giving her some distance if not actual separation from the events that were unfolding.

Quinn checked the Aquaracer on his wrist. It had been nearly forty-five minutes since the pilot had turned the plane around. Whatever this guy was up to, it would be happening soon.

Free from the restraints, Madonna Foss rubbed her wrists and worked her jaw back and forth.

Quinn noticed her left shoulder drooped like a broken wing.

“Is it bad?”

She shook her head. “Not sure. I hit the armrest pretty hard when you popped me.” She opened and closed her hand, but grimaced when she tried to raise her arm. “Yeah,” she said. “That makes me want to puke. It’s broken, but I’ll be fine until we land.”

“Good to hear,” Quinn said. “Because I’m going to need your help. There is no way this is the only bad guy on board. The killing was random, but so professional it has to be some sort of diversion.”

“Makes sense.” Foss nodded. “A murder on board would make the pilot divert to the nearest US airport that was safe and secure. In this case that means turning around and heading back to Alaska.”

“Keeping us over water,” Quinn said, finishing her thought.

“You think it’s a bomb,” Foss said.

“Good possibility,” Quinn said. “But I’d keep that to myself.”

“No kidding,” Foss said, her air marshal training kicking in. “I need to discuss this with the captain.”

“Phone’s on the wall,” Quinn said. “But I’m about to start questioning this guy. If, as we suspect, he has compatriots on the plane, I need someone to keep eyes on my daughter while I’m otherwise engaged.”

“Look,” Foss said, “I can help with the interrogation, but I’m not a babysitter.”

“You’re hurt,” Quinn said. “But you seem to be good at what you do. I don’t count protecting my daughter as babysitting.”

“I’m not too hurt to help you,” Foss said.

Quinn lowered his voice so Mattie and the others couldn’t hear. “We don’t have much time,” he said. “Who knows how many others there are out there or what they plan to do. I don’t want my daughter out there with some unknown killer — but I can’t have her watching me work either.”

Foss took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. “But I’m pretty sure you broke my arm so you’d have someone to watch your kid.”

“I wish I could think that far ahead,” Quinn said. He turned to Carly. “I need you and Natalie to go get me the EMK.”

“My arm isn’t that bad,” Foss said. “Certainly nothing in the enhanced medical kit that would do me any good.”

“It’s not for you,” Quinn said. He shot a look at the prisoner.

Carly’s eyes fell on Mattie. Her face suddenly went slack. Quinn felt her tense beside him. “Can I talk to you and your daughter a second?” she said.

“You okay?” Natalie said, noticing her friend’s sudden change in mood.

“I’m fine,” Carly said, still looking down. “I just need to talk to Mr. Hackman about something. Would you mind grabbing the kit?”

Quinn followed her gaze down to the book in Mattie’s lap. It was open to the title page where she’d written her name in beautiful cursive.

Madeline Irene Quinn.

Natalie shrugged and went to retrieve the EMK while Carly followed Quinn to the other side of the plane, away from Foss and Mattie.

Carly looked him straight in the eye. “I can’t handle being lied to right now,” she said. “Any other time and I’d think, oh, you and her mom are divorced, and that’s why her name is different… but something awful is happening on this airplane and I need to know who I can trust.”

“You can trust me,” Quinn said — bold words, he thought, for a man living a lie.

Carly folded her arms across her chest and set her jaw. One part I’m-fragile, nine parts don’t-screw-with-me, it was a particular look he’d seen on Kim too many times. “Is her name Mattie Hackman?”

“No.”

“Really?” Carly let her arms drop, looking surprised at his lack of denial. “What is it then?”

“Mattie Quinn.”

“But you are John Hackman?”

“Jericho Quinn,” he said.

“But wha—”

Mattie padded up behind them. She looked back and forth to make sure no one else, including Madonna Foss could hear. “Remember when Mom was in the hospital after she got shot and we were all in her room?” she said.

Quinn nodded, looking at an astonished Carly, and then back at his little girl. He had no idea what she was about to say.

“She told me a secret,” Mattie said. She had tears in her eyes, but was remarkably composed.

“I remember,” Quinn said.

Mattie rolled her lips, rocking back and forth on her heels. She looked so much like Kim. “She said we should give you a break. You’re doing the best that you can.”

“Oh, sweetie,” he said.

She hugged his leg.

Carly closed her eyes. “Are you even a cop?”

“I’m exactly what I said I am,” Quinn said. He ran a hand over the top of Mattie’s hair, and then gathered her up in his arms. She put her arms around his neck and hugged him until she shook. “Just traveling under an assumed name.”

“With your daughter?”

“Long story,” Quinn said.

“When this is all over,” Carly said, “will you tell it to me?”

“Honestly…” Quinn gave her a tight smile. “Probably not.” He carried Mattie back over to Foss and buckled her in with her book, giving her another kiss on top of the head.

“I never should have gotten into this,” Carly said when they’d walked back to the other side of the plane.

“Asking me to help?” Quinn said, feeling a twinge of guilt for the lies.

Carly shook her head. “No, being a flight attendant. I’m scared to death of flying.”

“That is a thing,” Quinn said.

“Do you remember the shoe picture?” Carly asked, gazing into space in a thousand-yard stare.

Quinn shook his head. “The what?”

She took a ragged breath, trying to gain control of herself. “From the first time I saw it in training, I’ve had nightmares about the picture of all the shoes from KAL 007.”

Quinn put a hand on her shoulder. Now he knew what she was talking about. He’d been a small boy in 1983 when a Korean Air 747 from New York via Anchorage had mistakenly wandered into prohibited Soviet airspace while en route to Seoul. A Soviet SU 15 “Flagon” fighter was dispatched when the aircraft crossed the Kamchatka Peninsula, shooting it down over the Sea of Japan. All 269 passengers were lost. The Soviets denied involvement at first, but eventually turned over items that were found floating at the crash site. A photograph of dozens of shoes — sneakers, loafers, and pumps of all different sizes, piled on top of a plastic bag — had appeared in LIFE Magazine. Several of the victims’ families recognized them as belonging to their loved ones. Quinn had a distinct memory of his mother holding the magazine and crying — and his father’s angry words at the Russians over the incident.

Carly looked at her feet. “I don’t want my husband to find a photograph of my red Danskos in some magazine.…”

“We’re going to get through this,” he said, but wondered if it was just another lie. He couldn’t help himself and looked across at Mattie’s shoes.

Every commercial airliner is required to carry not only a first aid kit containing bandages, aspirin, and other basic supplies, but an enhanced medical kit as well. These EMKs contained the equipment that trained medical personnel from EMTs to thoracic surgeons would be able to use to treat an emergency while at altitude. There was nitroglycerin for heart issues, scopolamine patches and Zofran for acute nausea, epinephrine for shock, and several medications for pain. Quinn opened the soft duffel case and looked through the items inside until he found the diazepam.

It was common knowledge that a physician on American Flight 63 had dosed Richard Reid with a shot of Valium from just such a kit after Reid attempted to ignite a bomb in his shoe on the Paris to Miami flight. His attorneys argued that the drug was what caused him to confess to the FBI when they’d landed in Boston.

Quinn was counting on it. He peeled the backing off two scopolamine patches and stuck them under each of Gao’s ears for good measure, leaving him facedown on the carpet.

“Can you watch him for a minute?” he said to Foss.

“Happy to,” she said, moving to take a position at the prisoner’s head so she’d be able to stop him if the need arose.

Quinn took Mattie aside, and knelt down beside her next to the curtain on the opposite aisle. He was grateful to be on an aircraft large enough to get her away from his interrogation.

“Daddy,” she said. “Have you ever been really scared and really excited at the same time?”

He kissed her on top of the head. “Many, many times, Sweet Pea.”

“That’s how I feel right now,” she said. “I don’t think Mom would like this very much.”

“I expect not,” Quinn said.

“Did he murder the man on the stairs?” Mattie asked.

“It looks that way.”

“Okay.” She nodded, mulling this over. Since she’d been old enough to talk, Mattie had been one to ruminate deeply on things. “I wish I could help you.”

“Someday,” Quinn said, thinking of how Kim would kill him if she knew about this conversation. “You’re a tough kid. I’m going to have you sit with Agent Foss. This is important. Okay?”

Quinn gave his little girl another quick kiss and left her in the care of a woman he’d punched in the face exactly nine minutes before. The only thing that had kept him alive over the last few years was his ability to compartmentalize thoughts about his family when things heated up on a mission. That was going to be doubly difficult with Mattie sitting behind a curtain fifteen feet away. Well-adjusted as she was, it could not be healthy for a seven-year-old to hear her father do what Quinn was about to do.

Quinn drew twenty CCs of Valium into a syringe, and then held it sideways in his teeth while he hauled Gao to his feet and slammed him back on the bottom steps of the stairs. A few feet above, Professor Foulger’s body lay ghostly pale in the pool of drying blood.

Gao groaned in pain as his tailbone impacted the hard wooden step. Quinn used the opportunity to jab the needle into the man’s belly and inject him with all twenty CCs.

“What was that?” Gao said, eyes wide now. It was the first time he’d spoken.

“Something to make you feel a little better,” Quinn said in Mandarin. “Let’s get started.”

“Your Chinese is remarkable,” Gao said, honestly impressed.

“What is your name?” Quinn asked, peering over the top of Gao’s open passport.

“You know my name,” Gao said. His speech began to slur just moments after the injection. The fire of contempt bled from drooping eyes as the powerful sedative took control of his body.

Quinn had used scopolamine combined with other drugs before during interrogations. He wasn’t sure how it would react with Valium in the long term — but the mutilated body of Foulger and the fear in his daughter’s eyes made it hard for him to care.

“To be honest with you,” Quinn said, sitting beside Gao on the stairs, as if they were old friends, “I’m accustomed to hurting people to get information. But I thought we might try something different here.”

Gao’s head lolled. He caught himself, as if startled out of a dream. He gazed at Quinn, trying to focus.

“Who are you?”

Quinn patted him on the knee. “I’m wondering that about you,” he said. “Where are you from, Gao Jianguo?”

“Shanghai,” Gao said, nodding off again.

Quinn gave the tender flesh on the inside of the man’s thigh a sharp pinch to get his attention.

“I am familiar with Shanghai,” Quinn said. “What part?”

Gao glared at him, blinking stupidly. Drool poured from the corner of his mouth.

“You know what I think?” Quinn chuckled like they were compatriots talking over a drink. “I think your accent tells me you’re from the northwest. Xinjiang maybe.”

Gao gave a silly smile, but held his tongue.

“They have good food in Xinjiang,” Quinn said. “Plov, suoman, pamirdin… I miss good pamirdin…” His voice trailed off. Pamirdin were baked meat pies with lamb, carrot, and onion — a popular halal dish. “I would walk across the desert to Kashgar if I could get good pamirdin.”

Gao licked his lips. “Pamirdin,” he said.

Quinn rested his hands on his knees, letting his gaze slide over the prisoner.

“So,” he said, “you’re not from Shanghai after all?”

Gao shook his head. “Not really.”

“I notice a little tan line on your forehead,” Quinn said. “Like you might have if you wore a Hui hat…”

“So what if I do?” Gao frowned. “Do you have something against Islam?”

“Not at all,” Quinn said. “There are plenty of Hui Chinese who have contributed much to the world.” He stooped lower to look Gao in the eye. “But you are not one of those Hui.”

“I think you pick on me because I am a Muslim,” he said.

“I’m picking on you because you’re covered in the blood of the man whose throat you cut,” Quinn spat. He softened immediately, keeping the drug-addled man off balance. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” There was no time for a lengthy interrogation — so he guessed. “We have located the bomb. You may go ahead and have a rest.”

“You joke,” Gao said. His eyes shifted to the base of the stairs, trying to lean out so he could see what might be happening. Facial tics, the dilation of his pupils — known as micro expressions — told Quinn he was on to something real. The Valium suppressed his emotions, but it did not yet mask them. Gao chewed on his tongue as if trying to hold back the words. “You have found nothing.”

“Yes,” Quinn said, giving a satisfied nod. “We have. We have your partners who helped you kill the man on the stairs. It is over, my friend.”

“It is my fault we have failed,” Gao sighed. He threw back his head. A tear ran down his cheek. “May Allah forgive my clumsy hands…”

Quinn pinched the man’s thigh again, harder this time, pulling a chunk of skin and giving it a sharp twist before letting it snap back into place. It brought on a yowl of pain, but focused the man a little too much.

He looked up suddenly, regaining what sense he had. “You know nothing.”

“I know you are not from Shanghai.” Quinn shrugged.

The key to a successful interrogation often lay as much in the things that were not said as much as the things that were. One moment Gao’s shoulders slumped in defeat, the next they began to shake. Turning his head slowly so he could look Quinn in the eye, he loosed a cackling laugh.

Quinn stood up, thinking through what to do next. He considered administering one of the epinephrine pens to bring Gao out of his stupor and question him under the added anxiety. The truth was there was no time to do this the right way — especially with Mattie sitting so close.

Carly and Natalie appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Carly’s neck was blotchy and red from nerves. Even the normally unflappable Natalie was mussed as if she’d been in a scuffle, her face drawn and stricken as if she’d seen a ghost.

Quinn stepped away just enough to keep an eye on Gao and spare them another sight of the dead body.

“What is it?” Quinn’s first thought was of Mattie’s safety.

“We found something you need to see,” Carly said.

“Does it look like a bomb?” Quinn said, hope rising. If they’d found it, they could try to disarm it — or at least put it in a spot that would do the least damage to the aircraft.

Natalie took a step back at the word. “A bomb?” she said. “No… there’s been another murder… two more murders.”

“A woman and the attendant from the coffee station,” Carly said. “Somebody killed them both. Juanita found their bodies down in the crew quarters below first class.”

Quinn motioned Carly across the lounge, farther from Mattie. He kept his voice at a whisper. “Describe the woman to me.”

Carly grimaced. “Juanita came up the stairs like she’d seen… well, two dead bodies. None of us went down there. We just came to get you.”

Madonna Foss was sweating from the pain in her broken arm, but she was still coherent and looked like she wanted to punch Quinn in the face. That was good. He needed her mad and ready to fight if she was to protect his daughter. “I need to go check up front,” he said. “You all right here for a minute?”

“We’ll be fine.” Foss put on a tight smile. “Mattie will look after me.”

“I’ll stay back too,” Natalie said. “I still have the stun gun if I need it.”

Quinn nodded. It killed him to leave his daughter, but if he didn’t stop whatever was going on up front, it wouldn’t matter who stayed back to watch her.

Chapter 56

A balding flight attendant in his mid-forties named Andre stood guard outside the door to the crew rest quarters.

“Are you the one that found the body?” Quinn said.

“No, sir,” Andre said. “Juanita found him. She’s the senior flight attendant.”

Before Quinn could ask anything else, the top of Juanita’s head came up the ladder. Ebony eyes flashed at Quinn, daring him to get in her way. She’d been affected by the dead bodies, and though on edge, did not appear to be afraid. There was a fierceness about her that made Quinn wonder if she was afraid of anything.

“Looks like Paxton was beaten to death,” she said. “The woman was strangled with some kind of cord.” Hauling herself up the ladder with one hand, she passed what looked like a coffee grinder to Quinn with the other.

Quinn passed it to Carly and stepped back, helping the other flight attendant onto the deck.

“No one else is down there?” he asked.

Juanita shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “Just poor Paxton and the Chinese woman.” She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes.

“Wait,” Quinn said. “The dead woman is Chinese?”

“I think so,” Juanita said. “I couldn’t find any ID, but that’s what I’d guess. I’ll keep watch if you want to go down and have a look.”

Carly held up the coffee grinder. “What’s this for?”

“That’s the weird part,” Juanita said. “Somebody plugged it in by one of the bunks. Looks like they used pillows to muffle the noise.”

Quinn opened the grinder and ran a finger around the sides. It came back covered in silver gray dust.

Carly looked at his finger. “What the heck is that?”

“Aluminum,” he said.

Juanita stepped away from the door leading to the crew quarters. “You want to go down and check it out?”

“No need,” Quinn said. A feeling of dread washed over him. He had to get back to Mattie. “I know what’s happening.”

Chapter 57

Baka, the derisive Japanese word for idiot, was nowhere near strong enough to convey Ran’s contempt for Hartman Drake. She stood at the back of the cramped White House pressroom and watched as the president droned on and on about his administration and what he was doing to counter growing Chinese nationalism and a legion of other threats to the United States. As if this buffoon, this mindless lothario, could do anything but chase women and admire himself in the mirror.

Lee McKeon flanked the president, a few steps to the left, hands crossed at his stomach. He was taller than Drake by half a foot, slender — almost to the point of bony — where the President was husky and, Ran knew, McKeon was brilliant where the other man was overwhelmingly dim.

Few knew the truth, but McKeon might as well have had his hand up the back of the President’s shirt, controlling him like a ventriloquist’s dummy. But that was the thing about McKeon — he was happy to be in the shadows, working as the power behind the throne. She’d asked him once, while he was still the governor of Oregon, if he did not wish to be the president. “Why waste time being the emperor?” he’d said. “When I can be the shogun?”

It was nothing short of amazing how he handled the fool — and Ran was not easily amazed. Though Drake strutted around as if he’d decided on his own to release the Uyghur terrorists in Guantanamo Bay to Pakistan where they could more easily escape and wreak more havoc against China, the idea had sprung from McKeon’s fertile mind. It was all part of his larger plan to push America and China into a devastating nuclear war.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, all his cabinet members, even close members of his West Wing staff, believed Drake was running the show. McKeon wanted it that way. He moved by suggestion and sheer force of will, rarely giving anyone more than a nod, or a word or two to nudge them in the right direction.

Drake was too shortsighted to see the larger picture. He wanted to open borders, allow members of al Qaeda, Lashkar e Taiba, and a dozen other terrorist organizations to slip through and put their little bombs in Disneyland and Times Square. But Lee McKeon was a big thinker. He’d inherited a sense of purpose and destiny from his father that the other man would never comprehend.

Under his quiet guidance, President Drake would chip away at the Chinese economy, throw the full weight of his support behind Japan and the disputed Senkaku Islands. He would start issuing a travel visa to the president of Taiwan and treat him like a head of state.

A cold war stalemate only worked if the US had someone at the helm who was willing to pull the trigger but hesitant to do so. A calculated overreaction, demanded by the American people for supposed atrocities by the Chinese government — like the bombing of an American airliner — would set off a chain reaction that would not stop until it was too late.

Lee McKeon foresaw how it would happen, and Ran had no reason to doubt him.

Chinese cyber experts would do their best to interrupt air defense systems. Ballistic missiles would be sent first, not to land- or sea-based targets, but to space, to destroy communication and military navigational satellites. The next barrage of missiles would rain down on American bases in Japan and South Korea. Chinese nuclear submarines would creep in close enough to fire dozens of Giant Wave nuclear missiles at cities along the west coast of the United States, while ICBMs arced over the North Pole toward New York, Baltimore, and Washington.

Of course, the US would not stand idly by. Theirs was the most potent and deadly air and sea war machine in the world. They would eventually “win,” but it would prove a Pyrrhic victory. Like the great empires of Persia, Rome, Babylon, and Assyria, America was unbeatable — and like all the others she would fall. When she did, Lee McKeon would be there to stomp on her dying neck.

There was something about him, about his vision, that hypnotized Ran. He made her feel like a small child, full of wonder and amazement — the way her father had done, so many years ago when he was teaching her to kill.

She watched as President Drake began to take questions from the media and imagined the time when she could use those skills on him.

Chapter 58

Tang steadied himself in the mid cabin lavatory, sifting the ground aluminum powder through the espresso sieve to remove the larger bits of foil. Rather than risk detection by staying in the crew quarters too long, he’d decided to finish the process in the lavatory.

He held up a sandwich bag containing nearly five tablespoons of the silver powder. Ma Zhen had assured him that would be more than enough, but still, he worried. Their device was so small for such a large aircraft. He agonized over the thought of merely damaging the plane and rotting in American jail where officious men would order him around all day. He might as well be back in China if that happened.

Crippling waves of doubt pressed him down, making it difficult to breathe. Hu had seen a man locate Gao in his seat as if it was known that he was the killer. This fact made Tang wonder if there were cameras on board. And if there were cameras, they might have noticed patterns in movement by now. In any case, there was some kind of policeman on board, possibly an air marshal. The way Hu described him, Tang was certain it was the guizi child’s father. That made sense. He’d had the predatory look of someone who liked to be in charge.

Tang leaned against the counter, clutching the precious bag of metal in his fist as he stared into the mirror. Bloodshot, stricken eyes looked back at him — eyes that had seen death and knew there was nothing but more of the same in his future. There was no escape when he closed them, only the vision of his wife, strangled at the hand of another while he did nothing to stop it. Tang told himself it was for her own good, to stop her suffering, end her struggle — her jihad. But that did not matter now. Reasons were nothing to a bullet in a gun. He sniffed, steeling himself for what lay ahead, and pushed open the door.

Flight attendants seemed to be everywhere when he came out of the lavatory. He’d washed his face and left it damp so it looked like he’d been sick. A balding man met him mid-aisle and gave him an up-and-down look.

“Where are you seated, sir?” the attendant asked.

“Up front,” Tang said. He let his voice tremble slightly. “Is something wrong? I heard there was a murder.”

“We’re taking care of it,” the attendant said. “Return to your seat and stay there.”

Tang nodded meekly, pressing past the much larger man. Ma Zhen had taken Lin’s seat. It was only right. He was the most righteous, the most zealous. But more than that, he understood how the bomb worked. Now that Lin was gone, he should be the one to detonate it. Tang and Hu would act as guards to make certain he was not stopped.

Another flight attendant passed — this one shorter with dark, intrusive eyes. She moved quickly, counting heads and comparing them to a list in her hand. Not being Chinese, she wasn’t likely to know if Lin was a masculine or feminine name. Tang waited until she hustled by, and then passed Ma Zhen the Baggie of aluminum powder.

Tang leaned forward in his seat, resting his head in his hands. They were so close… so incredibly close. He had to succeed now, for the sake of his wife, for the sake of their children. He had never been much of a praying man, but he listened to Ma Zhen’s whispered prayer and found solace in that.

The bomb was brilliant in that it was so rudimentary. In theory, it was much too small to do much more than punch a small hole through the skin of an aircraft as large as the Airbus. But that was the beauty of it. A small hole would be large enough for his needs.

“Your wife destroyed the detonator,” Ma said, nodding to the open backpack on the floor.

Tang’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Don’t worry, my brother,” Ma said. “I have another. I would never trust the success of this mission to a single point of failure. I must make one more trip to the lavatory.” He held a flask discreetly so other passengers couldn’t see it. He needed to mix the aluminum powder with the PETN and then fill the flasks with water — but that would take no time at all.

Tang craned his head around to look toward the back of the plane. All the flight attendants were still moving backwards, focused on their lists.

“Go now,” he said. “I’ll let Hu know to do his part.”

Ma took a deep breath, his normal frown perking slightly. “In five minutes’ time, our pain will be over,” he said. “And I will see you in Paradise, Allah willing.”

“Yes,” Tang said. “Allah willing.” But he could only think of getting to the back so he could watch the guizi child suffer the fate of his wife.

Chapter 59

Quinn stopped at the aft lounge just long enough to make certain Mattie was safe before contacting the captain on the interphone. He explained the ground aluminum powder and its probable use in an explosive device, but went into less detail about the murders since he’d not seen them himself.

Listening in on the conversation with the captain, Gao began to laugh hysterically when Quinn mentioned that one of the victims was an Asian woman, likely Chinese. Half the passengers were of Asian ethnicity so it was hardly standout news.

“Two murders,” Gao said in Mandarin, though he obviously understood English. “Two dead… Double Happiness…”

Quinn’s mouth went dry when he heard the words. He dropped the phone, letting it swing from the cord as he wheeled and grabbed the cackling man by the collar. “What did you say?”

“Double Happiness,” Gao said, quieter now but still grinning. His big head wagged stupidly back and forth as he spoke. “Lin is dead. I think double happiness is no happiness at all.”

Quinn shoved Gao backwards, letting him fall against the stairs, and ran to fling open the curtain where Mattie sat with Madonna Foss. He knelt beside his daughter.

Gao’s bellowing had been easy enough to hear. Quinn hoped the slurred Mandarin had been more difficult for Mattie to understand. The look on her face said he hadn’t been that lucky.

“Is Lin all right?” Mattie said. “I heard that man say ‘double happiness.’ That’s what I drew on the card I made for her. He said the word dead. Is she really dead?”

Quinn took her by the shoulders with both hands. “I don’t know, sweetheart. What seat is she sitting in?”

Mattie closed her eyes, trying to remember. “It’s upstairs, at the front. I remember she was two rows up from the bathrooms by the window on that side of the plane.” She pointed to the left.

“Two forward of the lavatories and galley… That would be 12A,” Carly said. “Business class.”

Madonna Foss groaned. “That’s near one of the emergency exits,” she said. “Perfect place for a you know what.”

“I already know you’re talking about a bomb,” Mattie said, shaking her head as if she had no time for secrets. “Really, Dad, do you think my friend is dead?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Quinn said. “A Chinese woman has been killed, but we’re not sure it’s her.” Blunt honesty had always been the best policy with Mattie. He nodded toward the handset. “Carly, can you get someone up front to take a look at 12A? Tell them not to make contact. Just see if anyone is sitting there.”

Carly used the interphone to page Andre in the upper-deck business class and spoke with him for a short moment.

The captain’s voice came across the loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We’re approaching some extremely rough air. Please take your seats.”

Handset to her ear, Carly’s face grew pale as she listened to Andre report back.

“There’s an Asian man sitting in 12A,” she said. “And another two that refuse to take their seats.”

“Refuse?” Quinn said. “Are they arguing?”

“Ignoring.” Carly nodded. “According to Andre, one just ran down the front stairs.”

That made sense, Quinn thought. Put the bomber in the middle while they had two men guard both sets of stairs on either side of him. “Tell Andre and whoever else is up there the bomb is probably in 12A. I’ll be right there.”

Quinn kissed Mattie on the top of her head, taking a short moment to smell her hair before he looked up at Foss. “Can you keep watching her for a few more minutes?”

“Goes without saying,” the air marshal said.

Natalie stood, giving Quinn an uncharacteristic hug. Her perfume reminded him of his mother. “We’ll take care of her.”

“Thank you,” Quinn said. He gave his daughter one last kiss on the head, wondering if he’d ever see her again.

Natalie pulled Carly to her, whispering something in her ear.

“Sit tight, sweetie,” Quinn said to his daughter.

“Take the back stairs,” Carly said. “It’s quicker.”

“I would,” Quinn said. “But I need to grab something from my seat on the way.”

Chapter 60

Tang was standing just aft of the forward galley when Ma Zhen came out of the lavatory. He couldn’t see the small plastic flasks full of water and explosive, but knew the device was ready from the look of relief on Ma’s face. The men nodded, each dropping their shoulders in a half bow of respect and resignation. Then Ma disappeared behind the forward galley curtain toward what had once been Lin’s seat.

Tang looked toward the back of the plane, watching for the American girl’s father. Hu had already gone down the front stairs and was sweeping backwards on the main deck. They only had minutes left, but between the two of them, Ma would be protected.

“Hey,” a woman wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt said. “Why aren’t you in your seat?” Her voice held the suspicious edge of a mother with teenagers.

“Very dangerous man on board,” Tang said, keeping up the image of frightened passenger for a few moments longer. “Crew say he come from there.” He pointed toward the tail.

A burly man with a beard craned his neck to look behind him, and then stood. “I’m not going to sit around while someone is killing people on this plane,” he said.

“Me neither.” Another man, across the aisle and two rows back, stood as well. “What does he look like?”

A moment later, Tang had a group of six men who were spoiling for a fight. He described Quinn as best he could remember and started toward the back, leading his posse. He didn’t have much time to make it to the guizi girl. Ma would detonate the device as soon as he attached the detonator — two minutes away at the most. The angry mob gave him credibility with the other passengers as he strode down the aisle. The irony of it all made him smile for the first time in months.

Chapter 61

Bowen ended the call with a frantic Joey Benavides and stuffed the cell phone back in his pocket. They were parked in the shadows on a side road off Rockville Pike, a block from the west side of Walter Reed Military Medical Center.

Bowen had never been much of a worrier, but sitting in a stolen truck with a member of a conspiracy to overthrow the president and now bent on breaking a federal prisoner out of custody ranked right up there with the activities that had caused his hair to go prematurely gray in the first place.

It was warm out, humid in the DC way that made clothes stick to skin and the odor of the last ten passengers rise up from the upholstery of vehicles left shut up too long in the sun. The concrete truck smelled like pastrami, overripe bananas, and half a can of Axe deodorant.

Bowen wore a short-sleeve sports shirt, plaid so it broke up the imprint of his Glock, unbuttoned and open over a black T-shirt. He’d left his ballistic vest in his Charger, which was still parked back at the strip mall, but consoled himself that getting shot was about to be the least of his worries.

“They’re taking her to a ship anchored off Bloods-worth Island,” Bowen said. “Some kind of old Navy gunnery range out in the Chesapeake.”

“Cocshons!” Thibodaux pounded his fist on the steering wheel. “Don’t tell me they’re moving her by air.” He had the Marshals Service short shotgun from Bowen’s G-car between his knees, muzzle pointed toward the floor.

Bowen shook his head. “Not until they get her to Annapolis. You were right. Joey said they couldn’t get a chopper here before General Hewn shows up, so they’re taking her out by van. He says they’re gearing up now to leave in fifteen minutes, give or take. They’re running a lead and a follow. Ross will be in the middle, in a dark blue Suburban with blackout windows.”

“Good deal,” Thibodaux said, rolling his shoulders as he visibly relaxed a notch.

“So,” Bowen said, “You said we have some kind of secret weapon. I get the basics of this plan, but now would be a good time to fill me in on the little details — before Joey calls back.”

“We’re gonna keep this simple. All gross motor skill stuff—”

A flatbed truck pulled up to park directly behind them, causing Thibodaux to stop in mid-sentence. Ronnie Garcia was behind the wheel. She jumped out as soon as she’d stopped and approached Bowen’s window. A pimply kid Bowen hadn’t seen before got out of the passenger side and came up behind her. He wore black-framed glasses the military called “Birth Control Goggles” for their propensity to chase away the opposite sex. He smiled meekly at Bowen and flinched a little when he saw Thibodaux, like a puppy afraid of being smacked.

“Staff Sergeant Guttman’s a friendly,” Ronnie said, introducing the kid. “He’s helping us out with some of his tech.”

Bowen couldn’t help but smile when he saw the sultry Cuban. She wore faded jeans and a loose T-shirt that presumably covered a pistol. A Washington Nationals ball cap kept her hair pulled back out of her eyes.

“Jacques was just going over the plan again,” Bowen said. “Our guy’s going to call back with specifics of the move. We have about ten minutes.”

Thibodaux followed a soccer mom with his good eye as she rolled by in a shiny minivan. He turned back to the others when she made the corner. “I was just telling the new guy that we’re not going to get too intricate. Things will get dicey for a minute, but that’s fine. We have to go fast for this to work. Staff Sergeant Guttman will put his bird in the air as soon as we get the call—”

“Bird?” Bowen said.

“Specifically a Schiebel S-10 °Camcopter drone,” Guttman said, pushing up his glasses. He was obviously proud of what Garcia had called his “tech.” “She can fly over a hundred knots or hover in the trees until we need her. She’s got a small Starepod on her nose so I can see what she’s seeing on my iPad. Each of two hard points is equipped with a single LMM.”

“‘Lightweight Multirole Missile,’” Garcia offered as if she was used to translating military geek.

“Figured that,” Bowen said. He’d seen his share of chopper-fired missiles.

Thibodaux took back control of the briefing. “Guttman will work the drone from the passenger seat of your Charger. He’ll take out any lead and follow cars with the LMMs. I’ll pit the Suburban with Ross inside and pinch it into the curb. We put the smack on everyone inside that isn’t Ross. You and Garcia get her the hell out of there in your G-ride.”

“What if I get stopped?” Bowen asked.

“I’ll be behind you in the concrete truck.” Thibodaux shrugged. “But you’re a damned United States marshal. Wave your badge and say, ‘These aren’t the droids you’re lookin’ for.’ ”

“Sounds like you have this all worked out,” Bowen said. “Except for glossing over the part where we have a bloody firefight with the guys in the prisoner van.”

“You forgot about our secret weapon.” Thibodaux grinned. He seemed to thrive under the tension of impending battle.

“You said the drone only has two missiles,” Bowen said. “What’s its function with an assault on the prisoner vehicle after it’s taken out the lead and the follow?”

Thibodaux shot a glance at Garcia. Both smiled broadly as a red Ducati motorcycle turned off the Rockville Pike and growled up next to them. A compactly built woman in jeans and a white leather jacket dropped the side stand and swung a leg off the bike.

“That drone ain’t our secret weapon, son,” Thibodaux said. “Not by a long shot.”

Standing alongside her Ducati, the rider removed her helmet, giving her head a shake to free jet-black hair. Bowen recognized the woman immediately as Jericho Quinn’s Japanese friend and teacher, Emiko Miyagi.

Chapter 62

Captain Rob Szymanski weighed the risks of a possible explosive decompression at 40,000 feet versus keeping the altitude needed to make it to the only piece of rock between him and the western coast of Alaska if the bomb damaged an engine. He split the difference and set the bug on the autopilot to Flight Level 210 or 21,000 feet. Without turning into a lawn dart and frightening the passengers, a maximum rate of descent would get them there in a little over three minutes. The A380 was the quietest bird he’d ever flown, and being well in front of the engines, the cockpit was eerily silent but for the buzz of the electronics array and the occasional click of a keyboard.

First Officer Mick Bott sat in the right seat going over emergency procedures in a three-ring binder in his lap. A machinelike focus and bottomless levels of energy had earned him the call sign McBott as an F18 Hornet jockey in the Navy. The name had stuck and followed him into civilian life.

The captain looked out the side window, seeing miles and miles of nothing in varying shades of blue. “What’s our distance to Dutch Harbor?”

McBott looked up from his manual to consult the navigational display on the console of screens and buttons in front of him. “Two-seven-two miles southeast,” he said. “Half an hour at this speed. Next closest is St. Paul Island at a hundred and sixty miles to our east. Neither runway is set up for heavy metal this big. I show Unalaska/Dutch Harbor at forty-one-hundred feet. St. Paul Island better at sixty-five-hundred, but still way too short.”

Szymanski forced a grin. Over his thirty years of flying, he’d found smiling brought calm to situations that might otherwise melt into pandemonium. “I thought you Navy boys were used to carrier landings.”

“You know I’m game, Captain,” McBott said. “But putting this bird down on one of those little strips would be like landing a carrier on a carrier.”

“Well, alrighty then,” the captain said. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Start working through the checklist — and set the transponder to squawk 7700.”

“Not 7500?” McBott asked. A transponder code of 7500 signified a hijacking. It could not be reset or denied in the air. Once activated, they’d be forced to land at the nearest airport and would be stormed by gun-wielding law tactical teams.

Szymanski shook his head. “Not yet. Considering the state of the world right now, I’m afraid they’d just shoot us down and be done with it.”

“Squawking 7700. Roger that,” McBott said, punching in the code. “I’d say three murders and a bomb on board qualify as an emergency.”

Chapter 63

Quinn had no idea if the bomb was on a timer or would be detonated by hand. Either way, he had to get up to 12A before he could do anything about it. Since the hijackings of September 11, 2001, airline passengers had taken on a new responsibility over their own safety. Gone were the days when a lone crazy man could stand and threaten a bunch of sheep that would stay obediently in their seats. Past disturbances had demonstrated that this new passenger mentality would not hesitate to run a would-be hijacker over with the drink cart or otherwise beat him to a pulp and restrain him with belts and neckties.

The problem for Quinn was that few people on the plane knew he was one of the good guys. They’d seen him running back and forth with Carly, but nerves were on edge and trust was at a premium. Without some form of help, there was a good chance he’d be stopped and pummeled in the aisle before he even made it to the stairs, let alone the bomb.

Carly, recognizable and trusted in her red-and-white Global Airlines uniform, walked up the right-hand aisle of the aircraft, a few paces ahead of Quinn, who moved up the left toward his seat. The captain hadn’t announced an emergency but the seat belt sign was illuminated and everyone was aware of at least one murder on the plane. Now their stomachs told them the plane was diving toward the ocean. Hands reached out for Carly’s attention, wanting an explanation. She did her best to wave them off, reassuring them everything was okay, and letting them know Quinn was on their side.

The noise of a commotion came from beyond the front bulkhead by the time Quinn neared his seat. A frenzied scream of “Fire!” sent a wave of panic up and down the plane.

Quinn knew better. A fire on a plane could be catastrophic, but the smell of it would be apparent pretty quickly. This was a diversion. He stooped next to his assigned seat, reaching under the tray table to remove the pins holding the metal arm in place. The commotion grew louder and Quinn glanced up to see a tall Asian man pushing a drink cart down the aisle as fast as he could directly toward him. A simple T-shirt showed the powerful arms and shoulders of a young athlete. A determined frown creased his lips.

Quinn yanked the metal tray arm, snapping off the last two inches but giving him a serviceable dogleg-shaped club nearly eighteen inches long. Not wanting to be in the aisle or crammed against the seat back in front of him, Quinn jumped up on his seat cushion with both feet, yelling for the young couple in the row ahead of him to move to the left. They complied, cramming themselves next to the window and giving Quinn room to shove the seat back forward and step around the cart as it rolled by. The Chinese man backpedaled when he saw Quinn’s weapon, smiling maniacally as he produced a weapon of his own, a foot-long bread knife from first class. It was blunt on the end, but a middle-aged Russian man tried to grab the hijacker by the sleeve and got a quick lesson on how sharp the blade was with a deep gash that removed the top half of his ear.

Swinging the knife with his right hand, the hijacker unfurled a seat belt extender with his left, whipping the heavy buckle with great effect to strike any passengers that tried to stop him. Quinn had seen a liu xing chui or dragon’s fist used in demonstrations by Shaolin monks before. A metal weight on the end of a chain, they could burst a skull like a melon in the hands of a skilled user — which this guy apparently was.

Another passenger tried to intervene as the hijacker went by. This one was a young African American. His bearing and the way he moved made Quinn think he might be a soldier. It didn’t matter. The hijacker flicked the heavy buckle behind him, dropping the young man like a sack of sand with a deft pop to the temple.

Passengers fell like wheat before a sickle to the speed and precision of his weapons.

Quinn jumped into the aisle. The brakes on the cart had activated when the hijacker let go, causing it to stop directly behind Quinn’s seat, blocking any chance of escape. Quinn shoved it backwards with his hip, giving himself a few extra feet of room to maneuver.

Popeye’s mouth hung open. He looked like he wanted to crawl out the wall of the airplane when Quinn yanked up the seat cushion and slid it over his left arm, holding it in front of himself like a shield. The two fighters advanced on each other quickly, Quinn’s club crashing off the hijacker’s blade while the metal seat belt buckle pummeled the seat cushion shield, searching for an opening to Quinn’s skull.

Rather than taking a defensive posture, Quinn attacked through his opponent, driving him backwards. Seemingly startled by Quinn’s ferocity, the man retreated in the aisle. The soft foam of the seat cushion disrupted his timing with the makeshift dragon’s fist. Focused on the moment of battle, he lost sight of Carly until she appeared behind the hijacker, directly in his path. Quinn kept up his assault, yelling for her to get out of the way.

The hijacker feinted with the knife, hoping to draw out the club. Instead, Quinn countered with the seat cushion shield deflecting the weapons long enough to chop downward with the metal club, smashing the bones in the hijacker’s wrist and causing him to drop the seat belt extension. His wrist was badly injured, but he still had the blade.

He must have sensed Carly coming up behind him because he spun, grabbing her with the injured wrist and bringing the blade up toward her throat.

Fighting in the confined space of the aisle made any sort of strategy but direct assault nearly impossible. Over the years, Quinn had made every partner he’d ever worked with promise to come in with guns blazing if he or his family were ever taken hostage. He’d made a pact to do the same, not waiting for negotiators or SWAT teams and lengthy standoffs. Quinn had seen too many times to ignore that a lightning-fast counterattack on the heels of the first assault almost always beat prolonged peace talks. He could wait for the guy to get set with the knife to Carly’s throat and then play a little game of standoff while both men postured and Carly fought a meltdown. Or, he could go all Samson on this guy and take his metal jawbone of an ass and beat the man’s hip and thigh before he had a chance to settle.

He chose the latter — but before he could move, the sharp clap of an explosion shook the aircraft, causing it to shudder as if they’d hit another set of turbulence.

Quinn felt as if a sumo wrestler had jumped on his chest as the air was sucked out of his lungs. He exhaled instinctively, knowing there was a danger of an embolism if he held his breath. Books, napkins, and bits of clothing flew by on a great, sucking gust of wind that rushed forward in an explosive decompression. The air chilled in an instant. A thick vapor formed in the cabin, like the space in the top of a soda bottle when the lid is twisted half open. Plastic oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling, dangling like yellow ornaments amid an immediate heavy fog.

A half a breath later, the plane began to dive.

Quinn’s stomach rose up with a chorus of screams from terrified passengers. He had no idea if the pilots would be able to regain control, but decided to continue fighting until they hit the ground. He didn’t know their altitude, but guessed he had less than a minute before he blacked out from lack of oxygen. He’d performed well during hypoxia drills during pilot aptitude tests at the Academy, but naming face cards was a far cry from facing an armed hijacker.

One moment, Quinn found himself trapped in the aisle; the next he found himself in a zero-G environment, floating above the seats as his body fell at the same rate as the airplane. Kicking off the seat back beside him, he crashed into Carly, surprising the hijacker. The blade fell away as he flailed out, trying to grab something, anything to stabilize the falling sensation. Quinn peeled Carly aside and rained down blows with the tray table arm, knocking the man’s jaw out of place and breaking his other arm.

The hijacker suddenly shoved Carly on top of a row of panicked Russians and lowered his hands to his sides. A resigned smile spread across his face. The bomb had gone off. His job was done. Quinn finished him with a blow to the temple.

Frantic cries of passengers mixed with the scream of rushing wind as the cabin pressure equalized through the hole torn somewhere up front by the bomb. The fog began to clear almost as soon as it had formed, revealing the scenes of panic and terror among the passengers.

The Airbus began to rumble louder, engines groaning as the pilot picked up the nose, arresting the dive. Quinn fell in the next instant as if dropped from invisible fingers, on top of a dazed Carly.

His face against hers, Quinn pushed himself upright, searching for a free oxygen mask. With all the air flowing out of the plane there seemed to be none left to breathe. They were still extremely high where the air was thin and cold. Quinn knew he would need oxygen in a matter of seconds. No amount of physical training could keep him from passing out if he couldn’t breathe.

Behind him, above the fray of wind and terrified passengers, he heard Mattie scream.

Chapter 64

Captain Rob took a long pull from his full-face oxygen mask once he regained control of the airplane. First Officer McBott did the same.

The concussion from the bomb had knocked out flight control, sending the plane into a nosedive until Szymanski had been able to wrestle her back into submission. There were redundant automatic systems, but the bomb had damaged those as well.

Every claxon, buzzer, and bell on the console had activated at once. A computerized voice, affectionately known as “Bitchin’ Betty,” warned of a pressurization failure in the hull.

“No shit,” the captain muttered, and pushed the button to silence that little slice of noise.

Both men had their hands on the controls. Above even checking on the safety of the passengers in the back, their first priority was to make sure they didn’t fall out of the sky. No amount of knowledge or radioing for help would do anyone any good if they stopped flying the airplane.

Aviate, navigate — then communicate. It was a pilot’s mantra during an emergency.

“All engines are showing good,” McBott said, running down the various systems to make certain they were functional.

“She’s sluggish,” the captain said, “but still responding. I’m taking her on down to one zero thousand.”

His Air Force flight instructors had drilled into him the three most useless things to a pilot: altitude above you, the runway behind you, and fuel that was still on the ground. All of that was well and good until you were hurtling through the air in an aluminum tube with a hole in it — and that altitude was trying to kill everyone on board. Ten thousand feet would give him a couple of miles over the ocean to play with, but make the ride a hair less deadly.

“Flight level one zero thousand,” McBott repeated, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask. He shot a sideways glance at Szymanski. “St. Paul Island is still 141 miles off the nose,” he said.

“One-four-one,” the captain repeated. “Roger that.” Both men dispensed with any of their usual banter, not wanting to clutter up what they had to do with unnecessary words. And, Szymanski thought, depending on the size of the hole in his airplane, the odds were pretty high that their entire conversation would be played back off the flight data recorder after divers recovered it from the bottom of the ocean.

The plane shuddered again, as if to punctuate his fears. McBott’s voice came across the intercom.

“We just lost number four,” he said.

“Dammit!” Szymanski felt the airplane slow noticeably at the sudden loss of power. “Restart procedures,” he said.

“Roger that,” McBott said. “Doing it now.” His voice was strained as if he were keeping the plane in the air by sheer force of will.

The captain pulled back on the controls to raise the nose slightly. Satisfied he’d slowed their descent rate enough to keep from ripping the wings off, he flipped the switch from intercom to radio.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” he said, issuing his first emergency message roughly fifty seconds after the explosion. “Global 105 heavy—”

A second bang rattled the airplane, interrupting his transmission. A horrific clattering noise on the port side followed immediately on its heels.

“We’ve lost number three as well,” McBott said, already running through the restart procedure.

The Airbus yawed dramatically to the left as the working engines on the right wing shoved her around. It took a moment for the computers to catch up and adjust the rudder and ailerons to compensate for the asymmetrical thrust. Szymanski checked his descent, leveling off at fifteen thousand feet, knowing he might need the extra altitude to make it to a runway now that he was crabbing along on two engines. It wasn’t pretty, but they were still flying — for the moment.

Where there should have been the quiet roar of two powerful Rolls-Royce engines, there was only an eerie silence out the left side of the airplane. The smell of jet fuel permeated the cabin air, along with another odor that sent sweat running down Szymanski’s back and caused him to gag in his oxygen mask. It was the smell of burning flesh.

“Okay,” the captain said. “I have the airplane. Get on the horn and see if you can get anyone from the crew to give us a report.”

Juanita’s voice came across the interphone. She had to yell to be heard over the roar of wind. There was an incessant rattle in the background and Szymanski found himself wondering just how much of his airplane was falling off.

“The bomb took a twelve-foot section of the fuselage from front bulkhead on the upper deck to about row 10,” she yelled. “A beverage cart and part of the floor went with it. I can see down to the main deck, but I’m strapped in so I’m not sure what the condition is.”

“Injuries?” McBott said, looking across at the captain as they processed the idea that there was a gaping hole in the side of the plane.

“Five passengers on the upper deck went out when the bomb went off. I’m not sure about the main deck. Andre was standing in the aisle…” As strong and businesslike as Juanita was, her voice faltered when she spoke of the death of one of her crew. “Captain, I think he got sucked into one of the engines.”

The term was FOD. Foreign Object Debris — like birds or a human body — entering a jet engine could trash the heavy blades, rendering them instantaneously useless. But it was the beverage cart that frightened Szymanski the most. The heavy chunk of metal and cans of soda could do a number on the skin of his airplane. He couldn’t tell if the rip in its skin was making the plane shake so badly, or if it was something worse.

“Juanita,” Szymanski said. “I need you to get where you can look out at the left wing and tell me what you see.”

“Okay…”

There was an unearthly silence on the interphone as Juanita went to do as he asked. For a time Szymanski was worried that she had been sucked out of the plane as well.

“Captain.” She came back on when he’d just about given up hope. “I’m not sure, but I think I’m seeing some pretty significant cracks in the wings.”

Szymanski fought the urge to punch something. “Take the pistol,” he said to McBott. “And go back and look for yourself. I hate to put this on you, but we’ve got a decision to make and we have to make it pretty damned fast. Do we keep flying until the wing falls off and have a hundred percent chance of killing every soul on board…”

McBott nodded, finishing his sentence. “Or risk a water landing while we still have a wing.”

“There’s no such thing as a water landing, son,” the captain said. “Only crashing into the ocean. The odds are better than crashing with one wing, but not by much.”

Chapter 65

Quinn stood with his hand on the back of an empty seat at mid cabin, panting, terrified that he couldn’t locate Mattie. Carly replaced the interphone at the bulkhead and gave Quinn a breathless nod. “She’s safe on the upper deck on the other side of the plane, buckled in with the air marshal across from the rear starboard exit. Natalie thought it best to get her out of the tail section.”

“Thank you,” Quinn groaned. He’d gone to find Mattie as soon as they were at a low enough altitude to breathe without oxygen. Frantic when he’d not been able to find her, he circled back up the other aisle, making it all the way back to where he’d started.

Nearer the water now, they were experiencing severe updrafts that tossed the plane around like a rag doll. Carly convinced Quinn to buckle up beside her for a moment in the aft-facing seat along the mid-cabin bulkhead, reminding him that he would be of no help to Mattie if he was injured trying to get back to her.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain.” Szymanski’s voice came across the loudspeaker, incredibly calm under the circumstances. “We’re about sixty miles from St. Paul Island, but as you know, we’ve lost both of the engines on our left side. Everyone put on your life vests, but do not inflate them. I repeat, do not inflate them. If we do experience a water landing, an inflated vest will make it difficult to exit the aircraft…. Take a moment to look over your safety cards. Find your exits and review the brace position. If we have to exit the aircraft, remember the slides are also rafts. Your crew are all professionals. Follow their lead. Remember to assist your neighbor. I’ll do my best to get us down safely. And finally, if you are the praying sort, it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you prayed us to St. Paul Island.”

Quinn ignored the bumps and sprang to his feet. He would get to Mattie if he had to crawl.

Carly seemed to understand. She nodded as she took the handset off the wall and interpreted the captain’s message in Russian. Another crew member did the same in Mandarin as Quinn hurried toward the stairs.

Even amid the rattling bumps, a silent calm spread over the airplane as people contemplated their last few minutes of life. Some chatted with their seatmates; some held hands with people they’d only met a few hours before. Quinn passed a man who was scratching out a hasty note to his family. Others were doing the same up and down the rows.

The tail section took the worst of the bumping and threw Quinn around like he was on a carnival ride. He grabbed the handrail to steady himself as he bounded up the stairs, past the lifeless body of Professor Foulger.

The shaking on the upper deck seemed worse than below and Quinn staggered like a drunken man as he worked his way forward. He could see Mattie sitting beside Madonna Foss in the rear-facing crew seats at mid cabin. Farther forward, just past the bulkhead, and less than ten feet from Mattie, another man was on his feet and moving down the aisle. Quinn recognized him immediately as being with the woman Mattie had befriended — probably her husband, and part of the bombing plot. Quinn picked up his pace, screaming a warning to the air marshal.

Before she could react, the captain’s voice blared across the speaker.

“Brace for impact…”

A crew member shoved the Chinese man into an empty row, out of sight behind the bulkhead. Still a third of the plane away, Quinn knew he’d never make it to Mattie before they hit the Bering. He could see water out the window, blue-green and endless. Wearing a bright yellow life vest, Mattie bent forward at the waist, head down. She wasn’t crying, but intently focused on doing everything by the book, as if she were in the middle of a drill. Quinn wondered if she knew he was near. Beside her, Natalie, the flight attendant and grandmother, shouted to those around her, “Get down and stay down!”

The turbulence stopped and the plane seemed to slow, floating like a kite before Captain Szymanski’s voice came on again, still calm as if he was welcoming them on board for the first time.

“Brace, brace, brace…”

Chapter 66

Rob Szymanski took a deep breath and told himself to keep flying the airplane, no matter how terrified he was. A large crack had formed in the left wing. There was no way they were making it to St. Paul Island. If there’d been rough seas, he would have chanced it, but the great air traffic controller in the sky had seen to calm this little stretch of the Bering Sea to little more than a chop with long rollers that he hoped were spaced far enough apart that they didn’t cartwheel the airplane. If Szymanski timed things correctly, he might be able to slow down enough to save a passenger or two.

Mick Bott covered his set of controls as a safety measure, but left the flying to the captain.

Szymanski eased back on the throttle, keeping the nose up as he neared the water. “You ever hear that death was nature’s way of telling you to watch your airspeed?”

“I have heard that,” McBott said. “Looking good, Captain.” The first officer’s voice was hushed, almost reverent. If he was afraid of dying, he didn’t show it. “Airspeed is at one-eight-zero knots.”

Szymanski kept the plane above the waves, taking advantage of ground-effect as he reduced the power a fraction at a time. Green water stretched out in front of him as far as he could see.

“There are three rules to a water landing,” he said, dropping the tail. “Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”

Twenty feet off the deck, Szymanski gave the command to brace.

Chapter 67

Emiko Miyagi walked up to stand beside Garcia, giving Bowen a slight bow of her head. “Hello, deputy,” she said before looking at the others. “Are we ready?”

Bowen could see the hilt of a short sword hanging upside down under her left arm, hidden by the white leather jacket. He’d seen some strange things, but a sword in suburban Maryland — Bowen shook his head in disbelief.

“Garcia told me you’d been killed in Pakistan,” he said.

“That is not the case,” Miyagi said. She tilted her head so the hair fell away from her neck. It was shorter than he remembered it from when he’d met her in Japan, barely covering what looked like a bad sunburn that ran from her right ear to disappear below the collar of her polo shirt. “I was able to jump into a well only moments before the missile’s impact. Thankfully, all the brave men from the village ran for the hills at the first sign of attack. I remained underwater long enough for the drones that targeted me to move on, and then slipped away into the mountains before the men returned. Most people believe I am dead.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re not.” Thibodaux shrugged big shoulders.

Miyagi’s lips perked into the slightest of smiles. “We will see about that, Jacques san,” she said.

Bowen’s phone began to buzz. It was Joey Benavides.

“Showtime,” Bowen said. “Joey’s not on board any of the vehicles.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Thibodaux said, starting the truck.

The assault worked as smoothly as Jacques had predicted. Staff Sergeant Guttman guided in his Camcopter drone from the tree line, using both LMMs to reduce the lead and follow SUVs to molten metal. North and southbound traffic along the Rockville Pike was effectively blocked by the two walls of fire, allowing Jacques to plow into the front fender of the Suburban carrying Ross and drive it into the curb.

The two ID agents that bailed out of the passenger side of the vehicle were met by a very angry Japanese woman with a flashing blade. She cut them down before they could bring their own weapons to bear. Guttman sent the Camcopter diving toward the driver’s head, giving Thibodaux time to jump out of the concrete truck and finish him off with the short shotgun.

Bowen brought the Charger to a screeching stop between the two boiling fires. Garcia had the back door of the Suburban open a moment later. She dragged an unconscious Ross, dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit, back into his vehicle almost before he could throw it in park.

She beat her hand on his headrest before the door was even shut.

“Go, go, go!”

Bowen put the Charger in reverse, backing off Rockville Pike onto the residential street to the west, before whipping the wheel into a quick “bootlegger’s” turn so he was facing the other direction.

“Maldita sea!” Garcia spat in the backseat. “I was sure hoping Walter would be in that Suburban.”

The entire grab had taken less than forty seconds.

Chapter 68

Quinn made it to an empty seat, halfway to Mattie before the captain’s command to brace. His lap belt clicked into place a fraction of a second before the Airbus’s tail touched the water. A frail-looking woman beside him leaned against the seat in front of her. A quiet prayer in Russian buzzed against her crossed arms.

A collective groan rose up from the plane and the passengers as spray flew past the windows. The aircraft wallowed in the water, nose still up, metal screaming as the icy waters of the Bering Sea tried their best to rip her apart. The captain did an incredible job of keeping the huge Rolls-Royce engines that dangled from each wing up and out of the water until the last possible second. Even so, they were sliding through the water at nearly a hundred miles an hour when the plane seemed to slump. Thankfully, Szymanski had continued to work the controls, even after he’d hit the water, and the engines on both sides impacted at roughly the same time, ripping them off, but keeping the plane from flipping one way or the other.

Quinn felt as if his head and shoulders were being ripped from his body. A giant fist punched him in the belly as he was thrown against the lap belt with more force than he’d ever thought possible. He thought of Mattie and said a quick prayer of thanks that she was in one of the crew seats, and facing aft, her back to the bulkhead. He didn’t think her little body could stand being thrown against the belt like that.

The plane continued to shudder and groan as it bled off speed, turning now as the left wing dug into the water and yanked them sideways.

The impact had damaged the support structure of the second deck and it now canted sideways, threatening to fall and crush the passengers below. Cries rose up from the main deck as the plane slowed and settled into the water, wallowing with the waves. The smell of burning electronics and urine drifted through the air.

Quinn looked up to see Mattie slouching forward against her belt. At first, Quinn thought she was unconscious. He nearly wept when he saw her lift her head. Screams and the sound of rushing water from below filled his ears.

Amazingly, the intercom still functioned and the captain’s voice came across, shaken but still in control, giving the order to evacuate at all available exits.

Quinn was up and running before most passengers had even raised their heads. The Chinese man was up as well, and stepped around the bulkhead to pick up a shaken Mattie.

In the confusion of an evacuation, Natalie focused on opening the emergency door and deploying the inflatable stairs that would act as a life raft.

Foss saw the threat and grabbed for the man as he went by, but her shoulder had been knocked out of its socket in the crash. Along with her broken arm, it was impossible to defend herself against the man’s elbow to her nose as he plowed toward the now open exit with Mattie in his arms.

Whatever the man’s reasoning, he appeared intent on taking Mattie out of the plane with him. Others might think he was trying to help her evacuate, but Quinn could see the hate boiling in the man’s eyes. Over his shoulder like a duffel bag, Mattie kicked and screamed to get away. Her eyes caught Quinn’s as the man shoved his way past the other passengers gathering to evacuate and prepared to jump with the little girl in his arms.

Quinn slammed into him as he hit the slide, wrapping his legs around the man’s waist and grabbing his head like a basketball as they all three bounced and tumbled down the slide toward the water. Whatever the man’s intentions, he was no match for a father with Jericho’s skill set, determined to save the little girl he’d abandoned one too many times. Half falling, half bouncing, Quinn sank both his thumbs into the man’s eyes, ripping and tearing until he scraped bone.

The man screamed in agony, trying desperately to use Mattie as a shield as they hit the raft at the bottom of the slide and plowed over the side, still in a clinch, into the freezing water of the Bering Sea.

Shocked by the sudden onslaught of cold, the Chinese man tried to get away, but Quinn held fast, trapping Mattie between their two bodies. He took a deep breath an instant before they sank beneath the surface. Surrounded by green water, Quinn felt Mattie squirm in his arms. Fearful she’d taken a lungful of water, he pushed away with both thumbs, tearing her from the man’s weakening grasp. Heart in his throat, he kicked toward the surface.

Madonna Foss was leaning over the raft when he came up, her nose dripping blood, but reaching for Mattie with her good arm. Her fingers wrapped around Mattie’s shirt collar and she fell backwards, sloshing into the raft and the other passengers.

Quinn turned immediately, unsure if he’d see another attack. It was pointless. Lin’s husband had surely sucked in a lungful of water when they’d hit the surface.

“He never came up,” Foss shouted, extending her hand again.

“Mattie?” Quinn shouted, feeling his muscles begin to seize from shock and the chill.

“She swallowed some seawater,” Foss said, “but she’ll be fine when we get her warm.” She reached for Quinn, assisted by a large man with the fierce eyebrows of a Cossack.

The raft began to fill as more and more passengers slid down from the groaning plane, crowding around Quinn and his daughter and helping to keep them warm.

Captain Szymanski’s Mayday call was picked up by a passing FedEx 747 and relayed to Flight Following in Anchorage. The emergency locator beacon on the wounded Airbus began to transmit an emergency signal as well as their position as soon as she hit the water.

Two hours after the crash, three fishing boats from St. Paul Island, Alaska, arrived and began to take on the most seriously injured. Aircraft began to overfly the site and other boats arrived a few at a time. Scores of passengers had life-threatening injuries so Quinn and his daughter stayed on the raft and waited their turn. Jericho urged Foss to go on the third boat, but she refused.

A rusted green hulk that was a Russian fishing trawler was the seventh ship to arrive. The name of the vessel was written in Cyrillic so Quinn couldn’t tell what it said, but he recognized Carly the flight attendant riding in a dinghy deployed to ferry passengers from the damaged plane to the ship.

She waved at Quinn when she saw him, then leaned over to say something to the man at the helm of the dinghy. The man, a fisherman in a wool turtleneck and faded yellow foulies, turned the little boat toward their life raft.

His dinghy looked full, so Quinn tried to wave them on.

The driver said something in Russian. Carly shrugged, and then translated for him.

“Not sure what this means but he says your friend from Argentina said you should come with us.”

“Tell him I knew her better in Bolivia,” Quinn said, smiling at Aleksandra Kanatova’s efforts to get him and his daughter to safety. Russian spy ships often masqueraded as fishing trawlers. She must have gotten word to one that was nearby when she’d heard that the plane had turned back toward the US, fearing an incident. When she’d found out the plane had gone down, she’d dispatched it to pick up Quinn.

He passed Mattie across the gunnel to Carly, and then helped Madonna Foss over before cramming himself in among a dozen shivering passengers.

Ten minutes later, Quinn stood along the rail of the Russian ship, beside Carly and Foss. He held Mattie in his arms. All were wrapped in wool blankets given to them by the crew. The ship’s physician was seeing to a man with a compound fracture, but promised to look at Foss’s injuries next.

“You did good out there,” the air marshal said, shaking her head as she looked across the gathering chop at the mangled wreckage. “I didn’t realize what was going on until I saw you go all Hannibal on that dude.”

Quinn looked down at Mattie, who slept against his chest, and shrugged. “Man’s gotta do… Anyway, you know the rest.” He looked over the side of the ship at the Cyrillic writing to change the subject. “What’s the name of this ship?”

“Retvizan,” Carly said. “I heard someone in the crew say it was named for an old warship. Fitting, from the other things I’ve heard them talking about.”

Quinn gave a little shake of his head, but Foss saw it. “Come on,” she said. “I got ears. I know you’re not who you say you are. I don’t care if you’re a Russian spy. I’m just glad to be out of that airplane.”

A Russian crewman brought out a satellite phone, and handed it to Quinn. It was his friend, FSB agent Aleksandra Kanatova.

“Would you look at that.” He heard Carly laugh as he stepped away with the phone. “We’re all missing our shoes…”