State of Emergency

CHAPTER 65

Quinn lay flat on his belly in the shadowy haze of a jungle morning. He ignored a beetle half the size of his hand that scuttled through the dead leaves in front of him. They’d risen well before dawn, braving possible booby traps and venomous creatures, knowing Borregos would want a pickup as close to daybreak as possible. Clouds of steamy fog hung here and there among the various layers of canopy. Two troops of monkeys, apparently angry at the intruding airplane, screamed from opposite ends of a grass runway. Night birds gave their last few shrieks before sunup. Egrets and other early birds squawked and flitted in the branches.

Aleksandra lay beside him, green eyes burning a hole in the foliage. Dense cover had allowed them to get within a few meters of a wooden supply shack off the side of the dirt runway hacked out of the jungle.

His initial assessment of eight men looked correct. Borregos stood at the aft of a Cessna Caravan supervising two younger men as they struggled to get a long green footlocker into the swinging cargo door. An older man, bald and much thinner than the drug lord, stood at the tail of the plane.

“The Bone Mother,” Aleksandra whispered. “We cannot let them leave.”

“I don’t intend to,” Quinn said, eyes darting around the narrow clearing.

The professor’s face was visible leaning against a forward window in the aircraft. Apart from the four at the aircraft, four more of Borregos’s men stood guard, each taking a corner and facing outbound into the jungle. The one nearest Quinn was less than thirty meters away, to his right. A Kalashnikov clutched in his hand, he looked capable enough, peering into the wall of foliage in front of him. He wore sunglasses, so it was difficult to see which way he was looking. On his belt was a Glock pistol with a set of extra magazines, much like a police officer would wear on duty. A rectangular pouch on his left hip, opposite his pistol, held extra magazines for the rifle. The long sleeves of his camouflage uniform blouse were rolled neatly over muscled forearms.

Quinn took a quick moment to study the other three. All were similarly armed; two looked much younger and one had a full beard with black hair that stuck out from under a green Castro-style cap. None were as squared-away as the professional soldier to Quinn’s right. This one was the type to clean his weapon every night and practice weekly because he enjoyed the smell of gunfire.

Quinn didn’t want a man like this shooting at him while he worked and the only way to see that didn’t happen was to take him out at the beginning.

He cocked his head toward Aleksandra, keeping his eye on the soldier. “Five rounds against a squad of eight well-armed men,” he said. “I’ll need two for what I have in mind. You take the other three along with this.” He gingerly slid the grenade from the booby trap out of the length of bamboo, keeping his hand around the compressed spoon. “We need to get this under the plane. I’ll get into place and cover you. You count to sixty and start shoot—”

The Caravan’s single Pratt & Whitney engine began to whine to life, the prop slowly catching up to the spinning turbine until whirred contentedly.

“Better make that twenty,” Quinn said, already scuttling backwards.

Her mouth hung open. “You only have two bullets.”

“And I hope that’s one more than I need.”

Quinn moved quickly through the brush, thankful now for the rising whine of the aircraft engine. The three other guards looked back and forth at each other in the orange light, eager to give up their posts and make a run for the plane. But the professional soldier stood fast, manning his station until properly relieved.

In order for this to work Quinn needed the soldier DRT — dead right there. He’d seen too many fighters on both sides of a battle absorb a great deal of lead only to keep fighting long past the time they should go down. He needed a target that would ensure that didn’t happen.

The moment Aleksandra fired her first shot Quinn rose up from the vines and bushes, approaching from the side, moving obliquely. The soldier spun toward the racket, bringing his rifle to bear and firing as Quinn moved up behind him less than five yards away.

Intent on firing his weapon at the threat to the aircraft, the soldier never heard the real danger padding up behind him. Ten feet out, Quinn let the front sight of his pistol float over a spot at the base of the man’s skull. He squeezed the trigger twice, using both rounds.

Borregos’s soldier fell in the peculiar corkscrew motion of someone shot in the brainstem, one leg folding before the other did. Quinn dropped the empty 1911 and was on him before he hit the ground. He scooped up the rifle and let the soldier fall away, leaving himself clear to engage the other guards. He was relieved to see one of Aleksandra’s shots drop the guard with the beard and Fidel Castro hat.

A man on the plane leaned out to pull up the boarding door. Quinn sent him tumbling onto the ground with two quick rounds to the chest. Incoming fire from one of the other sentries sent Quinn diving for cover as the pilot spun the Caravan and threw on the power, causing it to gain speed quickly since it was five people lighter than expected.

Quinn returned fire carefully, counting his shots and expecting the weapon to run dry at any moment. For all his professional demeanor, the dead soldier had used up much of his magazine in the first full-auto burst to protect the Caravan.

Scanning over the top of the rifle sights, Quinn tried to figure out what Aleksandra was doing with the grenade. A booming concussion answered his question. Shrapnel screamed through the air, rattling through the jungle leaves. For a split second a blossom of black smoke and falling debris obscured the Caravan’s tail.

To Quinn’s horror the plane kept rolling unaffected by the blast or the rounds. Aleksandra continued to engage the two surviving sentries while Quinn focused on the rapidly departing Caravan. With the engine pointed away he aimed for the thin walls of the fuselage, hoping to throw enough rounds into the avionics to stop them. If he was lucky he’d hit the pilot. Two rounds later, he was empty.

The plane continued to roll, picking up speed with every yard down the grass strip. It was airborne in a matter of moments, banking hard right to get beyond the trees. Quinn ran for the downed soldier, ignoring the bullets that thwacked the dirt at his feet as he grabbed for a fresh magazine on the dead man’s belt.

Aleksandra silenced the last sentry with a commandeered rifle at the same moment the Caravan disappeared over the treetops.

Quinn stood in the middle of the clearing wrapped in stunned silence. He held the freshly loaded Kalashnikov to his shoulder, though there was nothing to shoot at but air. By degree, the shrieks and chatter of the jungle crept back to normal as if the gunfight had never happened and Borregos’s plane had not just flown away carrying a five-kiloton atomic bomb.

CHAPTER 66

Movement along the edge of the grass strip caught Quinn’s eye. When he went to investigate, he found the man who’d fallen out of the plane was still alive.

Quinn’s first round had hit him in the chest, but the second had gone low, entering the back of the knee as he tumbled down the boarding stairs. He lay in the grass with his leg turned unnaturally underneath his body. Dark eyes had sunken into deep sockets as if the life was seeping out from behind them. His chest heaved in ragged breaths.

He didn’t have long.

Quinn turned to Aleksandra. “Ask where they’re taking the bomb.”

She did, prodding his wounded leg with her toe to get his attention.

“Laa! Laa!” he cried. No, no.

Quinn looked down, shocked. He was speaking Arabic.

“Who are you?” he asked in Arabic.

The wounded man looked up, blinking his sunken eyes.

“Allahu Akbar,” he sighed with his last breath, the sound of air seeping out of flattening tire. God is great.

“Damn you stupidly shit!” Aleksandra attempted to curse in English, kicking the man again in frustration.

Quinn touched her arm.

“Let’s think,” he said. “This guy is an Arab and there were Yemeni AQAP reps at the party where you and I met. Borregos was there as well, but I’m betting this guy’s people picked the target. Borregos is a narcotics smuggler… probably moving the bomb for a share in the profits.”

Quinn stooped to search the dead Arab’s pockets and found a satellite phone. He pressed the power switch and held his breath as it cycled. As he suspected, they’d been in the jungle long enough the battery was completely spent.

“Dead,” he said, holding up the phone so Aleksandra could see it.

“There is a small generator beside that building,” she said.

None of the other guards had a satellite phone or a charging cord, but there were a handful of tools and a few spare aircraft parts in the shed. It took over four hours of scrounging wire and other materials to jury-rig a charging cord that would attach to the satellite phone’s battery — and another two to get the generator chugging long enough to give the phone enough juice to make a call.

It was nearly noon by the time Quinn was finally able to connect with Win Palmer. He had no idea how long the battery would last and uncharacteristically told the boss to shut up and listen as soon as he answered. He gave Palmer a CliffsNotes version of the past few hours’ events.

“I’ll take some photos of these guys with my phone and text them to you as soon as we get a signal,” Quinn said. “We could use an extraction for two ASAP. In the meantime, I suggest you get Diego Borregos’s photo out to every law enforcement agency within two hundred miles of the border.”

“I’ll get someone to you right away,” Palmer said, pausing. The sound of clicking computer keys dominated the line. “Bo is stable, by the way,” he said while he typed. “And Thibodaux is too damned stubborn to take it easy until we know for sure about his eye.”

“Thanks for the update,” Quinn said, relieved. “I wonder—”

“How long is the strip there?” Palmer spoke before Quinn could ask any more about Bo.

Quinn looked from one end of the grass field to the other. “Maybe twenty-five hundred feet,” he said. “But I got forty feet of jungle canopy rising up right off both ends of the runway.”

“Twenty-five,” Palmer inhaled sharply. “That’s awfully tight for anything fast enough to get to you anytime soon and big enough to carry you both… ” His voice trailed off giving way to more clicks of the keyboard. “Okay, I think I have something,” he said at length. There was a long silence, followed by a resigned sigh. “Hope you don’t get airsick.”

CHAPTER 67

Quinn recognized the high-pitched whine of the Cessna A-37B before it screamed over the treetops, rolling slightly so the pilot could get a better look at the cramped jungle runway. The twin GE turbofan engines gave rise to the aircraft’s nickname of the Tweety Bird or Super Tweet — but Quinn had always agreed with those who called it a six-thousand-pound dog whistle. All but mandatory in just about every South American coup since the 1970s, the A37 had a slender tail and broad, tandem cockpit that gave it a toady look. Bulbous tip-tanks hung at the end of each Hershey Bar wing. A seven-round rocket pod was attached to the pylons on either side, midway between a second set of fuel tanks and the fuselage. This one was painted olive and brown and bore the red and white flag of the Peruvian Air Force.

“We are supposed to leave on this flying tadpole?” Kanatova scoffed as the little jet made another low-altitude pass. It skimmed the trees, low enough Quinn could clearly make out the pilot as he turned his head back and forth, planning his landing — and his eventual takeoff — in such cramped quarters.

Two minutes later saw the squat aircraft banking over the treetops, minus the external fuel tanks that had been under each wing. Engine whining, airbrake deployed, it settled in over the grassy strip and rolled to a stop with a nearly two hundred feet to spare. Both Quinn and Kanatova plugged their ears as the twin turbofans — little more than kerosene-burning sirens — pushed the little jet to the end of the field and finally spooled down.

A short, bantam rooster of a man with broad shoulders and stubby legs to match his airplane flipped up the bubble cockpit cover and climbed out. He wore a green Nomex flight suit and a flight helmet with a dark face-shield.

He peeled off a Nomex glove and extended his hand.

“J. C. Fuentes,” he said with only the slightest of Latin accents. Black hair hung across his forehead in a Superman curl. “Fighter Squadron 711 of the Peruvian Air Force. Are you Señor Jericho Quinn?”

“I am.”

“Very well then,” Fuentes said. “Climb aboard and we’ll get under way. My orders are to fly you to Talara at once.”

Aleksandra looked at the cockpit, then turned to the pilot. “There are only two seats.”

Fuentes shrugged. “I am lighter on fuel now. It will be tight, but you are small enough we can fit you in on Señor Quinn’s lap. Unfortunately, neither of you will be able to wear a parachute.”

“Then do not crash,” Kanatova said, giving the jet a sullen frown.

“As you wish.” The pilot smiled. “I will remove crashing from my list of things to do today.”

Aleksandra wrinkled her freckled nose, not amused.

Quinn worked his way into the Super Tweet’s right-hand seat, one leg on either side of a control stick matching the pilot’s. He was surprised to find the low sidewalls made him feel as though he was sitting on rather than in the plane.

“It’s interesting to see the Peruvian Air Force here in the middle of Bolivia,” he said, buckling in.

“Your friend Señor Palmer is our friend Señor Palmer.” Fuentes held Kanatova’s hand as she stepped gingerly into the aircraft. “He made a call to my commanding officer and my commander made a call to me. It is simple really.”

“But Peru?”

“Bolivia is landlocked.” The pilot shrugged. “My government has an agreement to give her access to our seaports. In return, she is friendly to us at times such as this when we need a little favor.”

Quinn put his arms around Kanatova, resting them on her thighs to keep them out of the pilot’s way. Though spacious for two pilots, shoehorning three into the cockpit wasn’t anywhere in Cessna’s specs. Quinn found himself hyperaware of the rudder pedals at his feet and the array of controls just asking to be bumped or flipped in the close confines of the cockpit.

“I used the extra tanks to get here from my base in Arequipa.” Fuentes nodded toward the wings once he was seated. “I have enough fuel to get you to Talara in time for your connecting flight.”

“What sort of connecting flight?” Quinn asked. Oppressive heat and humidity closed in around them and he was anxious to get into the air.

“I honestly do not know, señor.” Fuentes buckled his seat belt and turned before putting on his helmet. “I only know Señor Palmer wants you back in the United States as soon as possible. I am left to assume that, whatever it is, it will be extremely fast. Now, if you will excuse me, I must figure out how to make this airplane jump off the ground like a helicopter.” He pulled on the helmet, then pushed a button in the console to bring the Plexiglas bubble down over the cockpit.

Fuentes had plenty of swagger. He’d been able to set the plane down in the narrow jungle gash without a problem, but taking off with the added weight of two more people would prove much more difficult. He’d need every bit of his swagger — plus a healthy dose of skill and luck.

Quinn pulled Aleksandra closer in an effort to make them both as small as possible during the dicey takeoff. The smoky odor of the jungle clung to her hair.

Fuentes brought the turbofan engines to whining life, standing on the brakes as the entire plane began to shake and tremble, trying to move. When he appeared to be satisfied that all the instruments on the console were reading correctly, he released the brakes and let the plane jump forward, hurtling down the narrow strip. The jungle loomed ahead, dark trees growing quickly as the end of the bumpy runway screamed up to meet them. Three fourths of the way down, with less than five hundred feet to spare, he tugged back gently on the stick.

The little jet leaped into the air, engines screaming. Without warning, Fuentes fired two missiles at the trees in front of him. Each left its respective wing-pod with a hissing shriek. The little jet flew straight through the rolling ball of flames and black smoke.

“Did you do that to clear the trees?” Quinn said, surprised at the tactic.

Fuentes flipped up his dark visor, chuckling. He appeared relaxed now that they were safely in the air. “No, señor.” He grinned. “Far too much peace lately. I do not often have the opportunity to fire missiles.” He banked the airplane hard, coming around again over the little strip. “I think I will shoot a few more and give the drug lords a little surprise the next time they try to land.”

CHAPTER 68

Marie held the baby tight to her chest. She kept her back to the corner, her knees drawn up defensively. Lourdes stood across the room beside the doorway to the kitchen, swinging the hook and chain in front of her like a hypnotist’s watch. Bright red lipstick formed a wicked smirk across the darkness of her face.

Pete perched at the edge of his recliner. The lustful stare in his eyes said he was about to profit from something bad.

“It’s time to play our little game,” Lourdes said, speeding up the chain to make it whir through the air.

Marie shuddered. She was past the point of being sick. There was nothing left to throw up, nothing but worry and despair. Pressing her back against the wall, she pushed to her feet. “I’m not going to make this easy,” she said, amazed at the calm in her own voice.

Lourdes’s eyebrow twitched, rising to disappear beneath the stark black line of her bangs.

“Funny enough,” she said. “Pete and I had a wager that you would wet yourself when the time came.”

Pete stood up from the recliner, folding his arms across his chest. “And it just so happens that I win,” he said, leering at Marie. “You are braver than she thought you’d be. And that means you and me get to spend a little quality time together before…” He chuckled. “Well, you know.”

Lourdes leaned against the wall, yawning as if she was bored.

Pete shot her an annoyed glance.

“What? Are you gonna stay and watch?”

Lourdes threw up her hands, wagging her head. “Very well, I will take the worm for his walk in the woods and come back for Mommy after I am finished with him… ”

Jacques Thibodaux sat on the frozen ground with his back to the toolshed, a scant fifty feet from the back door of the red brick farmhouse. A stubby MP5 hung around his bull neck on a single-point sling. His Kimber rested comfortably on his right thigh so he’d have easy access while wearing his ballistic vest. A heavy patch, matching the rest of his black clothing, covered his right eye.

Palmer had wanted him to sit this one out, but he’d argued that a one-eyed Marine was worth two and a half mortal men and sitting out a mission was not in his skill set.

Palmer grudgingly agreed, assigning Emiko Miyagi and Ronnie Garcia to round out the team because of their experience working together.

Though she was rarely his fan, Miyagi had been the consummate professional from the start. Since Thibodaux had tactical command of the operation, she took direction as though he’d been her boss for years. Each had spent the last ninety minutes creeping up on the house, wearing white parka smocks and pants over their tactical gear so they would blend in to the snow. Kneeling just to the right of the back door, Miyagi had already placed two small charges of C-4 in the jamb and now knelt just to the right, MP5 around her neck, her finger on the detonator.

Ronnie lay belly-down in the snow beside Thibodaux, her eye pressed to the night-vision scope on an M4 assault rifle. Her razor-sharp intellect and tactical savvy made her a perfect third person for the team.

Thibodaux held an iPhone his hand, tilting it back and forth to maneuver a tiny, unmanned aerial vehicle next to the dusty living room window. Known as a Dragonfly, the UAV was not much larger than its namesake. It was intuitive to operate, using the phone’s gyro technology to control pitch, roll, and yaw and sliding a thumb up or down to climb or descend. A micro camera and laser microphone relayed video and sound back to the Bluetooth headsets of all three operators.

None of them liked what they were hearing.

“I won the bet fair and square,” Pete said. “You have to give me some time with her.”

“You will have plenty of time to do what you need to do,” Lourdes scoffed. “Make certain you are finished with her before I return—”

“Stop it!” Marie hissed. “No one will touch my baby while I’m alive.”

Pete smirked, unbuckling his belt. Lourdes laughed softly. She let the hook and chain slither from her hand to the floor, then took a black revolver from behind her back. Her face fell into a pinched frown.

“Make no mistake, my dear. We will touch whatever, whenever we please,” she said. “Shall I explain to you how this will go? First, I will shoot you in one knee. While you flop around in pain, thinking it cannot possibly get any worse, I will shoot you in the other knee for good measure. I will then allow you to experience that pain for a few moments before I very gently and against your hopeless sobs, peel the little worm from your pitiful grasp.”

Marie breathed in short pants. She and Simon were dead, that was a given — but how they died was not yet written. She’d do what this evil woman didn’t expect. She’d take the fight to her, force her hand, and take away the fun of torment.

The crash of breaking glass took a moment to register. Out of habit, Marie shielded Simon from the sudden noise. Lourdes turned toward the sound. Pete held up his pants with one hand, reaching toward the recliner for his pistol with the other.

A half second later the room exploded in a brilliant flash of light. A sudden woofing bang shook the paint off the ceiling and rattled the dishes in the kitchen. A series of muffled pops filled the smoky room. Blinded by the intense flash, Marie was vaguely aware of someone standing in front of her, shielding her from the events unfolding only a few feet away. As her vision began to clear, one of the biggest men she’d ever seen came into focus.

A black patch covered one eye.

Emiko Miyagi blew the door an instant after she tossed the weighted flash grenade through the living room window. Thibodaux rolled through the opening, peeling left to cover the woman and her baby while Garcia and Miyagi engaged the two bad guys. The idea was to take them alive if possible. Peter De Campo had gone for his weapon, forcing Garcia’s hand. A string of nine-millimeter rounds to his chest from her MP5 dropped him instantly. He was thought to be a minor gun thug hired by Zamora strictly for this part of the operation, so was likely to be of little help regarding Baba Yaga.

Lourdes Lopez was a different story. Her name popped up in government databases almost as often as Zamora’s. Though she hadn’t been with him in Florida, the two appeared to be a team. Miyagi saw to it that she was taken alive — barely.

Her first two shots had taken out the sullen woman’s knees. Two follow-up bursts destroyed each elbow.

“We are in America!” Lourdes screeched writhing on her back in a pool of blood. “You cannot just let me die.”

Miyagi stood over her for a long moment, her smooth face emotionless. At length, she knelt to apply four windless-style tourniquets, one over each bicep and another above each knee.

Thibodaux gathered a trembling Marie and her baby in his big arms, attempting to shield them from all the bloodshed. The sight of little Simon made him think of his own boys.

Marie pushed him away so she could see.

“I need a hospital,” Lourdes moaned, looking fearfully at the tourniquets. “If you leave these on me without attention I will lose my limbs. I will be helpless!”

Miyagi nodded, a tender smile on her lips.

“As a matter of fact, you will,” she said. “But in this life one must often depend on the kindness of strangers.”

Marie reached up to touch Thibodaux’s arm.

“Matt?” she asked.

The Cajun shook his head. “We’re still looking for him. I need you to think hard and tell us anything you might have heard that could help us find your husband and the men who have him.”

Marie nodded toward the hallway. “We talked on the computer every day until… a few days ago. I’m not sure how many. They all run together.”

“You’re one smart lady,” Ronnie said. She cleared the chamber of Pete’s pistol before slipping it in her waistband. “The photo you texted to your cell phone gave us the GPS coordinates that led us here.”

Marie brightened. “So Matt figured it out.” She kissed Simon on top of his head, tears flowing in earnest now. “Daddy figured it out,” she said. “Did you hear that, buddy? Daddy saved us.”

“Your pathetic husband,” Lourdes coughed. Her low groan carried across the room like a bad smell. “He was not the kind man you thought him to be… ” she gasped, vindictive even in defeat.

Miyagi grabbed the hateful woman by her collar and propped her roughly against the wall. Her useless arms flopped to her side, starting a fresh flow of blood and bringing a bloodcurdling wail.

“How’s that cruelty thing working out for you now?” Thibodaux shook his head in disdain. “Karma’s only a bitch when you are one your own self.”

CHAPTER 69

Landing gear squawked on the tarmac an hour and ten minutes from the moment the little green jet jumped from the dense Bolivian jungle.

As small as Aleksandra was, her hips dug into Quinn, cutting off his circulation and jamming him against the Spartan cockpit. Thankfully his legs had fallen asleep halfway into the flight.

Fuentes flipped open the cover during the back-taxi, allowing in a warm but welcome ocean breeze. A squad of six crewmen in green coveralls swarmed the aircraft as the screaming engines wound down.

On the tarmac, Quinn checked his phone and found he had six missed calls from Palmer. Kanatova took out her own phone, but Quinn shook his head.

“I’m not sure it would be a good idea for you to call your people on this,” he said, bracing himself for the onslaught of nails and knees he’d received at Zamora’s party.

“The battery is dead.” She shrugged, handing the phone to him. “Take it if you wish, but you needn’t worry.”

Quinn believed her sincerity, but took the phone anyway. He checked the battery, then gave it back to her.

She took it, smiling. “All we have been through and still you do not trust me.”

Quinn shrugged. “You would do the same if this was unfolding in Russia.”

There were dozens of spy apps available to turn almost any smartphone into a bug. But it was much easier than that. Turning on the auto-answer, then deactivating the ringer and vibrate functions transformed an ordinary cell phone into an inconspicuous listening device. Any operative would know better.

Aleksandra slipped the useless phone in her pocket and sighed. “I would never call my people on this. They would take a week to get a plan together and another to receive the levels of approval needed to implement the plan — and that’s if they wished to become involved.”

Quinn gave her an understanding smile and pressed the speed dial for Win Palmer.

The national security advisor began talking the instant he picked up. “The photo you sent came through a half hour ago. Quantico’s already got a hit through facial recognition. Tamir Mukhtar, a soldier they believe is attached to al-Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula under Yazid Nazif.”

“Nazif,” Quinn mused. “That makes sense.”

“And here’s the most interesting part,” Palmer said. “Nazif has a cousin who drives a cab in Houston.”

“I’m assuming FBI has eyes on that cousin?”

“In the next hour Houston, Texas, will have more feds than oilmen,” Palmer said.

“Targets?” Quinn asked, then mouthed, Houston, Texas, to Aleksandra in an effort to mend fences from his earlier showing of mistrust.

“The Martin Luther King Jr. parade is less than four days out,” Palmer said. “It’s on par with the Rose Bowl parade in size — a juicy target. Listen, a Bone left Abilene two hours ago. I spoke to the pilot personally and told him to put a boot in his bird’s ass. Expect him on the ground in…” He paused, doing the math. “Less than ninety minutes. I want you and the Russian in Houston helping out on the search as soon as possible.”

“Roger that,” Quinn said. “We’ll be ready.”

Officially known as the Lancer, the B-1, or B-One, was often called the Bone. Officially, it could reach speeds of Mach 1.25—over nine hundred miles an hour. At that rate they would make the trip from northern Peru to Houston in three hours and change.

“Call me back when you’re in the air,” Palmer said and ended the call without another word.

Quinn turned to Aleksandra, who tapped her toe on the tarmac beside Fuentes, the A37 pilot.

“May I offer you a place to wash up and something to eat?” Fuentes looked back and forth between the two of them. “We have excellent facilities here on base.”

“That would be welcome.” Quinn nodded. “I wouldn’t mind a glass of water that didn’t come out of a length of bamboo.”

Aleksandra smiled, her freckled nose crinkling in a way that belied her ruthlessness. “I could use a quick shower, even if I have to put these dirty clothes back on.”

“I am sure we can find something for both of you,” Fuentes said.

Quinn glanced at the Aquaracer on his wrist. “Lead the way, sir,” he said. “But we’ll have to hurry. Our ride will be here before we know it.”

CHAPTER 70

Yazid Nazif, his surviving two men, and Matthew Pollard poked their heads out of a two-mile tunnel under the Rio Grande River and into the outskirts of Laredo at approximately the same time the United States attempted to slam the door on the border. Luckily for Nazif, the United States had miles of border to patrol and only so many resources. The problem was they seemed to have brought all of these resources to bear at once. Green and white patrol vehicles threw clouds of dust on every back road. Military jets streaked overhead as if an air show was in town. Helicopters and specialized Predator drones with sophisticated camera pods loitered along a corridor formed by the river and an imaginary line thirty-five miles to the north.

Diego Borregos had remained in Mexico, reasoning that the U.S. Marshals held several warrants for him and his presence would only add to the likelihood of their capture. He sent his nephew, Carlos, to negotiate the crossing. Though Carlos was only in his twenties, Borregos assured Nazif that the young man was extremely loyal and could be trusted above anyone else to always “do the right thing.”

A Suburban with a Halliburton oil company logo was waiting outside the self-storage unit where the tunnel emerged to carry them and the bomb north, along the Interstate 35 frontage road toward San Antonio. Twenty-seven miles northeast of Laredo, the Suburban slowed and turned off the pavement, bouncing down a dirt track. Pump jacks rose and fell on either side of the road like giant, bigheaded ants.

“There is a CBP check station two miles up the Interstate,” Carlos said, punching a number into his cell phone.

Border Patrol aircraft still roared back and forth overhead.

“And you have a plan to get us around it?” Nazif asked, his voice tight in his throat.

“Of course.” The boy put the cell phone to his ear. “It is time,” he said. “Very well. ’Sta bueno.” Ending the call, he turned to look back, smiling broadly.

A minute later and the skies were quiet.

“What happened?” Nazif whispered, craning his head to look out the window.

Carlos snapped his fingers. “The United States government is not the only organization with drone aircraft. You would be surprised at the rapid response when such a thing speeds across the border at low altitude from Mexico. The trip wires and radar alarms near the checkpoint on State Highway 83 ten miles west of us just went crazy. We should have a few minutes of freedom from their increased oversight before they return. If the normal balloons see us, we will just look like oil field workers coming and going about our daily chores.”

Carlos ushered them into a concrete pump house partially hidden by feathery green mesquite trees. Under a piece of greasy plywood on the floor they found a ladder leading down into a second tunnel. The boy waved his hand in a flourish of pride.

“My uncle’s men posed as oil field workers for over a year to dig their way around it.” He smiled. “Our services are well worth any price, no?”

Nazif gave a curt nod. He supposed that being a relative of a drug lord as powerful as Diego Borregos made the boy feel free to act so flippant. He glanced at the Omega on his wrist. It was almost seven. “You will stay with us until we reach my brother?”

“Of course, señor,” Carlos said. “I will accompany you as far as Austin.”

“We won’t be going to Austin,” Yazid said, thinking better of it the moment he did.

Carlos cocked his head to one side. “Perhaps my uncle was mistaken,” he said. “I was told you were going to Austin.”

“Plans change,” Yazid said. “But you will still transport us to San Antonio?”

“We will be there before midnight.” Carlos nodded. “Did not my uncle tell you? I may always be counted on to do the right thing.”

The tunnel, complete with lighting and an electric handcart, emerged inside another well house a mile past the Border Patrol checkpoint. A second Halliburton vehicle, this one a battered white Suburban, idled in the sparse trees. Yazid’s men loaded the footlocker in back and threw a blue tarp over it before piling inside.

Carlos took the front passenger seat.

An F16 fighter screamed overhead, flying west as the dusty Suburban merged into traffic on Interstate 35. A helicopter crossed a quarter mile behind them, skimming the treetops. Two Border Patrol sedans raced south in the oncoming lane, headed for the checkpoint.

“We were lucky,” Nazif whispered, repenting his lack of faith even as he uttered the words. He mouthed a prayer of thanksgiving. “There is no God but Allah… ”

Carlos looked over his shoulder, grinning at all the noise.

He waggled his eyebrows up and down, Groucho Marx style. “My uncle makes his own luck.”

Yazid’s heart leaped when he saw Ibrahim waiting at the wheel of a rented Penske van beyond a row of idling semi trucks. They were so close now. The event held by Sacred Peace Church would have been a decent target with ten thousand spectators, but the blast would be partially contained. Ibrahim’s research showed the parade in Houston would provide for at least double the immediate casualties and an untold number of those exposed to radiation. If Allah willed it, and Baba Yaga was as powerful as they had been told, the death toll could reach a hundred thousand as paradegoers packed along the route.

Yazid climbed out of the Suburban with a full heart at the blessings that had gotten them this far. He’d only gone a step when he realized something was incredibly wrong. Ibrahim stared straight ahead, unmoving. A hiss from the shadows behind a nearby tractor trailer caused Yazid to turn. His mouth fell open when he saw the two men standing there.

He shot an angry glare at Carlos, who’d hung back to wait beside the Suburban. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I am very sorry, señor.” The boy shrugged. “But as it turns out, the ‘right thing’ was to tell him where you planned to meet.”

CHAPTER 71

The B1 Lancer did a turn and burn, stopping only long enough to pick up its two passengers.

Quinn was surprised to find Major Brett Moore in command of the aircraft. Moore had been an assistant physics instructor at the Academy when he was a brand-new captain and Quinn was a cadet. A tall man, dressed in the green flame retardant flight suit pilots called a “bag,” his dark hair was beginning to gray at the temples. He’d been quite a boxer during his days at USAFA and followed Quinn’s success throughout his Academy career.

The two shook hands and the pilot showed them onboard, anxious to get underway.

“You’ve dropped off the radar, son,” Moore said, helping Quinn and Aleksandra get settled in the two weapons systems officer seats in a compartment the size of a phone booth, six feet behind and slightly above the cockpit.

Quinn smiled. “You warned me how OSI types were. ‘Got their hands in all sort of secretive mojo,’ isn’t that what you said?”

“And here you are proving me right,” Moore scoffed. “This bird burns sixty thousand dollar bills every hour her fans are turning. By my estimation that means I’m giving you two a four-hundred-thousand-dollar taxi ride home from whatever you’ve been doing down here. Not to mention the fact that the president’s national security advisor called me personally and ordered me not to spare the horses. I’d say that qualifies as secretive mojo.”

Moore handed each of them a helmet and headset. He pointed to the array of instrumentation on the console in front of the weapons system officers’ seats. “You can make encrypted calls with this.” He pointed to a touch-screen keypad. “Just put us on mute if you need to discuss your secret-agent shit. But don’t touch anything else.”

A consummate pro, Moore asked no questions about Aleksandra, assuming that whoever she was, it was Quinn’s business. He turned to duck down the center hatch toward the cockpit, then looked back.

“You hear Steve Brun is finally tying the knot?”

“I did,” Quinn said, pushing away thoughts of his last conversation with Kim. “He’s invited me to be in the saber arch if I survive this mission.”

“Roger that,” Moore said, turning to go. “You’ll be there then. I’ve seen you fight. You’re too mean to die.”

With the wings swept forward, Major Moore had the Bone off the runway in a matter of seconds after he started his takeoff roll. Climbing at nearly six thousand feet a minute pushed Quinn’s stomach down like someone was standing on it. Moore leveled off three miles above sea level and kicked the plane into gear.

Quinn took a deep breath, letting his stomach settle. He shot a glance at Aleksandra. Her face hidden by the shaded face shield of her helmet, she gave him a thumbs-up and settled back in her seat. He was unsure what the gesture meant in Russia—“it’s all good” or “up yours”—but felt he knew Aleksandra well enough now that if it had been the latter she would have followed it up with a knee to his groin.

Taking a long hit on the oxygen, he put the cockpit on mute and dialed his boss.

For all Winfield Palmer knew, Quinn was dangling off a parachute over the Pacific Ocean, but he started talking the moment he recognized Quinn’s voice. There was, after all, a nuclear device headed toward an unknown target on American soil.

“Bexar County sheriff’s deputies just found Yazid Nazif’s body along with that of his brother Ibrahim and two unidentified males dumped in a Penske moving van outside San Antonio. We’d sent out Nazif’s photograph in a BOLO just two hours before, so they were able to identify him right away.”

Quinn nudged Aleksandra awake, flipping the radio bug so she could hear his conversation as well.

“I’ve got Kanatova on the air with us,” he warned. “We can use all the help we can get here.”

“Very well,” Palmer said, sounding a little annoyed.

“What of Baba Yaga?” she asked.

“Still missing,” Palmer said. “Do you think Borregos double-crossed him?”

Quinn shook his head, though only Aleksandra could see him. “Makes no sense. He didn’t need AQAP to get the device into the U.S. Why drag him all the way across the border just to kill him?”

Quinn thought for a moment. “You said Nazif has a cousin in Houston.”

“The FBI’s swarming every known place associated with him,” Palmer said. “But he’s still at large.”

“How about changing the parade route?” Aleksandra chimed in. “Or canceling it entirely?”

“We’ve discussed that,” Palmer sighed. “But the moment we deviate from a normal schedule, we show our hand — and they pick another target.”

Quinn drummed his fingers on the desktop in front of him, thinking. Something wasn’t right. He thought for a full minute, the time it took the B-1 to travel nearly fifteen miles.

“Did they take any crime scene photos?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, they did,” Palmer said. I can send them to your phone if you can get a signal.”

Quinn checked with Major Moore and found that though there was no cellular signal, the plane had its own version of satellite Wi-Fi to aid in communications when loitering for hours at a time over targets.

By the time he’d switched the radio dial back to Palmer, the supersonic bomber had already transited Guatemala and sped over the Gulf of Mexico.

“Go ahead and send ’em,” he said. “We have a signal.”

“Already done,” Palmer said. “Listen, while you’re waiting — Thibodaux led the raid on a farmhouse outside Moscow, Idaho. The professor’s wife and baby are safe.”

“Are the kidnappers giving you anything useful?” Quinn asked, watching his phone for the incoming photos.

“Only a woman survived,” Palmer said. “And she’s giving us zero. Looks like they killed one of their own and dumped him in a hole they dug for Marie Pollard and her kid. Garcia took care of the only other guy. According to Jacques, it’s lucky they got there when they did. Sounds like Lourdes Lopez was Zamora’s main squeeze and she had just given up hope on him coming back alive.”

“And Boaz?” Aleksandra asked.

A twinge of guilt cut Quinn’s heart at the thought of dragging his baby brother into all this.

“He’s still in intensive care,” Palmer said. “President Clark assigned his personal physician to see to him. He’s not out of the woods, but things look positive. Your mom is already down from Alaska sitting with him night and day.”

Quinn nodded, smiling to himself. That figured. A woman who’d raised two boys like Jericho and Boaz Quinn had to be tough as a boot, but no matter what they did for a living, they were still her babies.

His phone lit up with an incoming message.

The crime scene photos were small but clear until he tried to zoom in. Quinn raised his visor to get a better look, then flipped the switch so he could talk to the cockpit.

“Major,” he said. “You there?”

Moore came back at once, voice crackling over the intercom. “Sure hope so.”

“I need to ask a personal question… ”

“Relief tube is at your feet,” the pilot answered. “Looks like a little horn.”

“I’m fine that way,” Quinn said. “I’m wondering though, an old codger like you is probably wearing cheaters to read the fine print, right?”

“Don’t you have anything better to do than pick on your elders?”

“Seriously, Brett,” Quinn said. “I need something to magnify a photo.”

“Well, shit,” Moore said. “Why didn’t you tell me my failing eyesight was a matter of national security? Heads up and I’ll toss them back.”

A moment later a pair of cheap drugstore reading glasses sailed through the small hatch from the cockpit. Quinn played them across the face of his phone like a magnifying glass. What he saw made him catch his breath.

He looked again to make certain, then passed the phone and glasses to Kanatova.

“Look at Nazif’s left wrist,” he said, tapping the face of the phone with his index finger.

“I don’t…” Her voice trailed. “I see it!” she exclaimed. “He has a tan line indicating a missing watch, but there are still two gold rings on his hand.”

“I’m betting he still had money in his pocket,” Quinn said.

“I’m looking at the police report now,” Palmer said, still on the line. “You’re right. Bexar County said this wasn’t a robbery — more like an assassination. Initial shots to the chest, then a coup de grâce in the back of the head.”

“And who do we know who assassinates people and takes something from them as a memento of the act?”

“Julian Monagas,” Aleksandra whispered. “And if he went after the bomb…”

“Then Zamora is still alive.” Quinn finished her thought.

“But why would Zamora kill the guy he sold the bomb to?” Palmer mused.

Quinn continued to scroll through the photos. “There are no photos of Matthew Pollard here. His body wasn’t found?”

“Nope,” Palmer said. “He’s MIA along with the bomb.”

“Maybe Zamora wanted a different target than Nazif did,” Quinn mused. “Anything else going on in Texas in the next couple of days?”

He heard the click of computer keys as Palmer searched the Internet.

“Son of a bitch,” the national security officer gasped. “The governor of Texas will attend an interfaith youth choir concert in the Frank Erwin Center at the University of Texas. Press release says the event will consist of children representing all faiths from around the world. It will be televised live before a sold-out crowd of over sixteen thousand… ”

“And Zamora was kicked out of the University of Texas on suspicion of rape,” Quinn said. “The events drove a real wedge between him and his father. From what I’ve seen of Valentine, he’s the type to carry a grudge.”

“Think you can get the Bureau to send a couple of guys to talk to the people putting on this show? Maybe have them postpone it?”

“Everyone is so invested in the target being Houston, it will take me hours to get ahead of the investigative inertia. It’s too late for that anyway,” Palmer said. “Curtain goes up in less than three hours.”

“Hang on, sir.” Quinn flipped the radio and spoke briefly to Moore before switching back to Palmer. “I’m just informed we can be there in two.”

CHAPTER 72

Valentine Zamora limped slightly from the bullet wound to his thigh. Nothing vital had been hit and some antibiotic under a few wraps of tape had made him as good as new. The wound had given him the perfect opportunity to slip away — and he would have stayed away but for the fickle Yazid Nazif. If he’d only kept with their original plan, he and his brother would still be alive to carry on with their jihad. But they hadn’t, so there they were, dead on the grimy asphalt, along with their dreams.

Pastor Mike Olson stood grinning like a fool at the delivery entrance on the south end of the huge, drum-shaped building. He vouched for them with the overweight security guard at the loading dock.

“You have already given us so much, Mr. Valentine,” the pastor said, shaking his head in disbelief. “May I ask what is in the box? It looks heavy.”

Monagas wheeled the green footlocker containing Baba Yaga up the ramp, a forced smile on his crooked lips. Pollard slumped along behind, looking as if he’d been whipped.

“Merely some little gifts for the children,” Zamora said, flipping his hand.

“That is a large case,” Olson said. “But there are over three hundred in the chorus. Not to seem ungrateful, but I’d hate for any child to be left out.”

“Not to worry, my friend.” Zamora put up his hand. “College savings bonds take up very little space. There will be plenty for everyone.”

“I need to check it.” The security man walked toward them. Monagas’s hand drifted toward the pistol under the tail of his sport coat. Zamora gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

“And you, Officer…?” Zamora looked at him sweetly.

“Potts,” the security guard said.

“How about you, Officer Potts? Do you have children?”

The man shook his head. “I got a nephew.”

“Is he in the choir?”

“No.”

“No matter.” Zamora gave a flip of his hand. “I’m sure a thousand-dollar savings bond would come in handy. Stop by and pick one up for him after the performance.”

The corners of the man’s mouth perked with a hint of guile. “Well, okay,” he said. “I’ll see you after the show.” He walked away whistling to himself, no doubt already making plans on how to spend the new windfall.

“My goodness,” Pastor Olson sighed after Potts had gone. “I don’t understand you, Mr. Valentine. What have we all done to deserve this kindness?”

Zamora pointed to a series of thick concrete columns under the auditorium, motioning for Monagas to put the case there. He shot a glance at Pollard, who stared back with glassy eyes. “In my experience, Pastor”—Zamora clasped his hands together and held them to his lips—“at some point, we all get exactly what we deserve.”

CHAPTER 73

Austin-Bergstrom International Airport’s tower gave Major Moore clearance for an unscheduled landing after received a direct order from FAA brass. A maroon Ford Crown Victoria bristling with antennas waited on the tarmac, just off the taxiway.

Quinn thanked the pilots for the ride and climbed out of the bomber with Aleksandra to a Texas winter evening. The western horizon still glowed with a faint orange line and a crisp twilight had settled in.

A tall man in a tan golf jacket and a gray felt Stetson stood beside the sedan. Razor-sharp creases ran up the front of heavily starched blue jeans.

“Detective Lonnie Fulton, Austin PD.” He shook Quinn’s, then Kanatova’s hand in turn. “I’m assigned to the regional intelligence unit. We just got the call an hour ago that you were coming in.” Fulton spoke with a thick Texas accent, friendly and earnest.

“How far to the Erwin Center?” Quinn asked.

“Eight or ten miles,” Fulton said. “You wanta tell me what’s going on?”

Quinn nodded toward the sedan. “You drive. I’ll explain on the way.”

Detective Fulton was wide-eyed and quiet by the time he turned off I-35 frontage road and into the University of Texas campus. On Quinn’s direction, he drove past the event center, watching and getting a lay of the land. Crowds of people milled around the entrances, chatting like good Southern folk as they worked their way in. The governor’s motorcade had been delayed with a call from Palmer but had not been given a reason why.

“He’s in there,” Aleksandra said from the backseat. “I can feel it.”

Quinn wondered if she meant Zamora or Monagas.

“Let’s park in there.” He pointed toward a secluded lot across Red River Street, behind the nursing school. He looked at his watch—6:45.

A white Crown Vic pulled in next to them, followed by two marked sedans and two more motor officers on BMW RTs. A muscular man in a tight black T-shirt and 511 Tactical khaki slacks got out of the white unmarked and stood beside the door, arms crossed and sneering at the new arrivals. Quinn had seen the type before and was amazed the man wasn’t already pissing at each corner of his vehicle to mark the territory.

Detective Fulton leaned in as they approached from their parking spot fifty feet away. Every other officer present had gathered around the frowning man as if the white sedan was a mother ship.

“That’s Tony Hawker, lieutenant over SWAT. He’s sort of an asshole, but his heart’s in the right place.”

“We’ll see,” Quinn said. He looked at Fulton’s shirt pocket. “Is that a Sharpie?”

“Yep. I was marking case files when your boss called.” The detective took out the permanent marker and handed it to Quinn.

“Listen, Detective,” Quinn said when they were twenty feet out. “Good or bad, this is going to go fast.” He took out his phone and punched Palmer’s number as he walked.

He looked at his watch again—6:47, and wondered if he’d feel the wind from the blast before it turned him to ash.

Palmer answered immediately. “Are you in place?”

“I have someone I need you to convince,” Quinn said, handing the phone to Lieutenant Hawker. The man took it and stepped away, clenching his square jaw as he listened. Palmer wasn’t above putting the president on the line.

“Okay, gentlemen.” Quinn took charge immediately, gesturing with an open hand toward the Erwin Center. “Who’s ever been below decks in there?”

A blond motor officer who reminded Quinn of a short-haired Bo raised his hand, looking sheepishly at his cohorts. “I’ve answered a couple of prowler calls,” he said.

Quinn handed him the permanent marker and nodded at the trunk of Hawker’s white sedan. “I need you to draw me a diagram.”

The motor officer looked from the permanent marker to the lieutenant, then back again. His face went as pale as the clean white trunk. “I don’t know… ”

Quinn pointed again to the car. “I need you to show me where you’d put a nuclear bomb if you were a terrorist.” He looked at his watch again—6:48. “And I need you to do it right now.”

“A nuclear bomb?” The motor officer bent over the trunk and began to draw.

“Listen up,” Hawker said, handing the phone to Quinn. “As far as I know, this guy’s full of shit and his friend called me pretending to be the president.” He looked at Quinn, jaw muscles tensing; veins — which made inviting targets — pulsed on the side of his beefy neck.

“I thought you might say that.” Quinn shrugged. “Your phone will ring again in a second or two.”

Hawker’s mouth fell open when he saw the black lines on the trunk of his otherwise spotless sedan. “What the hell, Reinhart?”

“He said there is a bomb, LT.”

“Give me that!” He snatched the marker and threw it against the curb, turning to point his finger at Quinn. “I don’t know who you think you are—”

“If you touch him I will cut off your balls,” Aleksandra hissed, her voice thickly Russian.

Quinn shrugged again praying the phone would ring soon. “Frankly, I’m surprised she hasn’t already clawed your eyes out.”

“I’m hauling you both to jail,” Hawker said. “We can sort this out there.” He reached to handcuff Quinn, but his phone rang. “Watch him,” he snapped at Fulton, taking the call.

“Yessir,” Hawker said into the phone, his entire body wilting. “No, I do not, sir… Absolutely… Mine? Right away, sir… I will—” He hung up.

Fuming, Hawker pulled the Sig Sauer .45 from his holster and passed it to Quinn. “Reinhart, the chief says to give the Russian your sidearm.”

Quinn thanked him and tucked the weapon in his belt. Identical to OSI’s issue sidearm but for the caliber, the Sig felt at home in his hand.

“Now,” he said. “I need you to pull everyone back as far as you can get.”

“How far is that exactly, smartass?” Hawker folded his arms again.

“Start driving now and keep going until you run out of gas,” Quinn said. “If he’s in there, this guy is apt to arm the bomb any second so he’ll have time to get away.”

“He does not know it,” Aleksandra chimed in. “But when this device is armed, it will go boom immediately.” She clapped her hands for effect, causing the young motor officer to jump. She leaned in to Hawker, blowing him a little kiss. “Too bad your chief called. You were about to touch my friend and I would have enjoyed keeping my word.”

Quinn looked at his watch for the last time.

It was 6:51.

Quinn used his OSI credentials to get past a pudgy security guard named Potts at the loading dock.

“Dammit! I knew it was too good to be true,” the guard said when Quinn described Zamora and Monagas. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “They put some sort of box in the boiler room. It’s locked though so you can’t get in.”

“How’d they get in?” Quinn said, eyeing the fat ring of keys hiding under the guy’s muffin top.

“Well, shit, I’m sorry,” Potts said, embarrassed. “I can let you in.”

“Just give me the key,” Quinn said. “Then you get out of here. He’s liable to shoot it out with us.” There was no way Quinn was going to tell this man about a bomb. He’d run upstairs and start a stampede.

Twenty seconds later Quinn and Aleksandra stood on either side of the metal door of the hall leading to the boiler room. The three hundred kids and at least fifteen thousand guests sat in the stadium only a few yards above them. The sound of thunderous applause echoed through the ventilation system.

“We need to stay quieter than the boilers,” he whispered, pulling Severance’s curved blade from the scabbard under his jacket. “There won’t be a second chance.” He left the pistol in his waistband. Aleksandra covered the door with her sidearm. She took a deep breath and nodded when she was ready.

Quinn used the tip of his blade to give the door a metallic clank, like someone knocking softly. The hollow sound of footsteps answered the knock almost immediately. A short moment later, the door cracked a hair, paused briefly as if the person on the other side was listening, then began to yawn open.

Aleksandra gasped when a hand holding a black pistol appeared in the darkness. The fat third finger wrapped around the grip of the gun bore Mikhail Polzin’s double eagle ring.

Quinn brought Severance down in a lighting fast arc, separating the gun and gun hand from its owner. Monagas staggered forward, arm reaching as if his hand was still attached. Quinn grabbed the startled thug by his collar and yanked him out, throwing him to the floor.

“The devil take you!” Aleksandra spat and shot him three times in the face.

Quinn looked up at her, gun in his hand now. “What about us being quiet?”

He did a quick peek inside the open door and found Matt Pollard standing fifteen feet away, hidden but for his shoulders and one arm. A green footlocker sat before him, its lid opened like a closet door revealing the shining guts of Baba Yaga.

The top of Zamora’s head was barely visible behind a portion of the boiler. There was not enough of a target to get a shot at either man.

“Come on out, Valentine,” Quinn shouted above the hum of machinery. “It’s over.”

Zamora threw two wild rounds toward the door. They clanked harmlessly into the heavy concrete wall.

“You?” Zamora cried, giggling. “How funny is that? How is Monagas? Well, I hope. He is quite devoted.”

“He was a serial killer with a sponsor,” Quinn said. “But he’s done.”

“You can kill me if you wish, Jericho, but Professor Pollard has already entered three of the five numbers for the code. Once the bomb is armed, there is no disarming it. Thousands will die even if you begin an evacuation now.”

“You’re right about that,” Quinn yelled. He tried to edge sideways, cutting the pie for a better shot. The Venezuelan forced him back with another volley of gunfire. “Listen to me, Valentine,” he yelled above the ringing in his ears. “Once that thing is armed, it’ll go off right away.”

Aleksandra leaned in, the side of her forehead touching Quinn’s. “Do you see the row of small silver tubes?” She nodded at the bomb.

“I do.”

“Shoot them,” she said, keeping her own gun trained on the section of pipe where Zamora hid.

Quinn’s head snapped around to look at her.

Pollard’s arm moved as he entered the fourth digit of the PAL.

“Shoot them now!”

Quinn let the front sight of his borrowed Glock float over the array of metallic tubes near the center of the bomb. Bracing for an immediate explosion — though he knew it was pointless — he fired three shots.

The rounds slapped into the soft metal, destroying a section about the size of a pack of cards — but nothing happened.

Quinn stared at Aleksandra, but said nothing.

“Trust me,” she said.

“Matt,” Quinn shouted. “Marie and Simon are fine. My friends got them out without a scratch.”

“Lourdes?” Zamora shrieked.

“I hear she’s not doing too well,” Quinn yelled. “Now come out. I told you, it’s over.”

Pollard stepped into the open and let his fingers slide along the damage caused by Quinn’s shooting.

“I can’t believe I even considered killing thousands to save my family… ” His hand hovered over the numbered wheel.

“Matt,” Quinn shouted. “Come on out.”

“I don’t think so,” Pollard said. “I’ve done a lot of thinking about this. Valentine, you’re messed up. But I’m little better than you. Some people are just too evil to be allowed to live.”

“Matthew!” Zamora shrieked.

“Tell Marie I love her,” Pollard yelled to Quinn, keeping his eyes on a cowering Zamora. His voice went quiet, barely audible. “You cruel bastard. Didn’t figure on this, did you?”

Pollard’s finger fell on the button as the Venezuelan fired. Baba Yaga gave an audible click. Quinn felt a tremendous pressure wave slam into his chest. Unable to breathe, he was vaguely aware of heat and screaming metal and the smell of singed hair… then blackness.

CHAPTER 74

Quinn woke to Aleksandra touching his face. He’d never seen her do anything so gently. Coughing, he rose up on one elbow, testing each limb and joint for broken bones. A persistent whine assaulted his ears, providing background music to the drumbeat of pain in the front of his head.

The door to the boiler room hung half off its hinges. A layer of greasy smoke curled through the room.

“I don’t know what we’ve been worried about all these years.” He coughed again, nodding at the door. “Looks to me like you Russians build some pretty poor nuclear bombs.”

Tears dripped from the tip of Aleksandra’s freckled nose as she looked down at him. “I thought…”

“So did I.” Quinn touched a large knot on his forehead, wincing. “Seriously, why aren’t we a speck of ash in crater right now?”

“Both our countries build weak links into such devices — a row of capacitors or something similar that will fail and render the bomb useless in the event of a fire or unintended plane crash.”

Quinn nodded. “And that’s what you had me shoot.”

“Correct. The initial explosive went off but was not able to trigger a nuclear detonation.” She sniffed. “The blast was localized to the boiler room… and your forehead. We will need to be decontaminated since some of the nuclear material was surely released — like a dirty bomb — but everyone upstairs is safe.”

“You know, we’ve been through a lot over the last couple of weeks,” Quinn moaned, falling back on the floor with his eyes shut. “And this is only the second time I’ve seen you cry.”

Aleksandra gently smoothed his hair. “I have only ever had two friends.”