“Turd Touchin’ Cloth, l’ami. My protein and oatmeal shake is scootin’ through me quicker than I’d reckoned on. I need to take a tactical dump before you get me involved in some hellacious gun battle.”
Gunnery Sergeant Jacques Thibodaux was Corps to the core. A square-jawed, thick-necked fighting machine, he’d been recruited to Win Palmer’s Hammer Team along with Quinn. Like Quinn, he now operated as an OGA, an other governmental agent, working under the guise of Air Force OSI. The Marine still couldn’t get used to the idea he was detailed to the Air Force, a branch of the service he generally referred to as Wing Waxers-or worse.
Rather than answer, Jericho looked to his left, giving Thibodaux a thumbs-up. He pointed with his gloved hand to a little “stop and rob” convenience store just off the 495/270 interchange going toward Rockville. Their helmets were outfitted with sophisticated communications gear that connected via securely scrambled Chatterbox Bluetooth, but he hated to clutter up his head with talk while he was riding unless it was an absolute necessity.
Quinn activated the turn signal with his thumb, then glanced over his right shoulder to take the lane. An elderly couple in a red Hyundai sedan slowed, and then veered to fall in behind him rather than pass. A dark blue minivan laid on the horn when the old folks cut them off, but the move allowed Quinn room to move over as surely as if they were running a blocker car. Quinn watched the terrified face of the gray-haired woman in the Hyundai’s rearview mirror. She kept both hands on the wheel, eyes glued to the road ahead.
Quinn waved a thank-you and chuckled to himself. He and Thibodaux wore black leathers and rode big, aggressive motorcycles. It was obvious they were wanton killers, on the hunt for an elderly couple in a Hyundai to murder. He had basically the same effect whether he was on a motorcycle or not. It was a feral look he’d been born with and it drove Kim crazy.
Quinn needed fuel anyway so he pulled in to wait behind a guy with a trailer full of lawn equipment and three five-gallon gas cans. He stayed on the motorcycle but took off his helmet and kangaroo-leather gloves. Jacques all but vaulted from his bike and trotted inside the little convenience store to take care of his Tango Tango Charlie.
The day was warm for late September and Quinn unzipped his jacket to let in some air. The recirculating coolant was great, but Quinn found he liked fresh air when he could get it.
Once the lawn guy was finished, Quinn rolled his bike forward and put it up on the center stand. The BMW’s 1200cc motor didn’t exactly sip gasoline, but the beast sported a nine-and-a-half-gallon tank that gave it long legs for a motorcycle-and let it live up to the Adventure designation. Unlike filling up a car, Quinn found he had to keep a careful eye on the nozzle to keep a geyser of gasoline from shooting into the air once the tank was full. He took his time, feeding a little gas slowly while he looked around the parking lot.
He had never been one to relax completely when he was in public, but the attack by Farooq had made him even more watchful.
Three Hispanic kids in their late teens put fuel in a tricked-out Dodge Neon at the next island of pumps, in front of Jacques’s bike. They made fleeting eye contact with Quinn, mumbling something in Spanish about his bike. All were dressed in baggy jeans and covered with tattoos that identified them as members of MS-13-Mara Salvatrucha-a brutal street gang springing from El Salvador who earned their bones with robbery, rape, and murder. A paunchy kid wearing an open flannel shirt over a white wifebeater gave Quinn a curt nod, eyeing the Beemer and sizing him up.
Jericho nodded back. Too much attention could instigate a fight, but ignoring the guy completely would have been seen as a sign of disrespect.
One eye on the gangbangers, Quinn watched a rusty blue minivan pull in from the service road. It creaked to a stop beside the coiled air hose off the wooden privacy fence at the edge of the parking lot. It continued to idle. The driver, a heavyset man with dark, thinning hair and a wad of tobacco the size of a golf ball in his jaw, got out and kicked the back tire. Another man came around from behind the van, stopping for a moment to talk to the driver, who’d bent down as if to study the tire. The second man was bigger than the driver, with a close-cropped head of bleach-blond hair and aviator Ray-Bans. Both men wore loose-fitting western shirts-the sort that made it easier to hide a pistol.
Quinn recognized the vehicle as the same van the elderly couple had cut off in their little red Hyundai. His mind began to work through the possible scenarios, none of them good. They must have circled back from the next exit. He watched the men for a few moments, alternating his attention between them and the tattooed gangbangers to his right.
As he replaced the filler cap he noticed his windscreen was filthy with bug guts. Thibodaux was taking his own sweet time inside, so he decided to give it a once-over before they got back on the highway.
He reached around the concrete post next to the gas pump for the squeegee as the passenger from the minivan began walking toward him.
People with ill intent had a look about them that was impossible to hide. Quinn’s eyes flicked to the gangbangers at the nearby island. They were dangerous men, each with at least one gun and probably an assortment of blades. But their mouths gaped half-open as they went about the business pumping gas and wiping down their little car. On the other hand, the bald man with the Ray-Bans had set his jaw like he was biting on a stick. He stared at the ground as he walked, conspicuously ignoring Quinn to peer up every few steps to maintain target acquisition.
The potbellied driver got back in the minivan. Brake lights reflected off the wood fence and there was a loud clunk as the transmission slid into gear.
Quinn reasoned that the guy in the sunglasses wasn’t going to try and kill him. He could have done that from the window of the van. No, this would be a classic snatch and grab. There would be a couple more in the van, ready to fling open the door so Ray-Ban could shove him inside. Quinn had used virtually the same technique many times to pick up high-value targets from danger areas in Iraq.
He bent on the opposite side of his motorcycle as if checking the oil. Ten feet out, Ray-Ban’s right hand darted behind his back, coming back up with the unmistakable yellow and black of a X26 Taser.
Quinn stayed low, behind the bike, pretending to be oblivious to the oncoming attack. Ray-Ban moved closer, obviously hoping to dart Quinn while he was still kneeling. The minivan crunched across the gravel, moving in for the grab. The side door slid open with a loud, metallic thunk.
Quinn rose to his full height as the van pulled alongside the pump, crowding the surprised gangbangers. A man in a black ski mask leaned out the open door as the van rolled, one hand hanging on to a seat belt, intent on grabbing Quinn when he went down. A second man, also wearing a mask, stood next to the other holding a black assault rifle attached to a nylon sling across his chest.
Quinn swung the squeegee like a war hammer as Ray-Ban raised the Taser. The cover man inside the van panicked, bringing up his weapon to unleash a deafening string of machine gun fire. Bullets smacked the pavement, zinging into the air. The grab man in the van screamed something unintelligible and shoved his gun-wielding partner sideways.
Quinn’s squeegee hit a home run and Ray-Ban’s jaw gave way with a satisfying crack. He crumpled, never feeling the rounds from his partner’s machine gun that struck him low in the spine. As he pitched forward, the twin darts from his Taser buried themselves into the lead gangbanger’s pudgy belly. Both men hit the ground at roughly the same time, Ray-Ban dead from friendly fire, the gangster writhing in pain as fifty thousand volts coursed through his body.
Quinn rolled, keeping his BMW between himself and the oncoming van. He came up again in a low crouch, firing his Kimber at the open door. He squeezed off four snap shots. At least one of them hit the gunman, who let the rifle fall against its sling. The wounded man slouched, pounding on the driver’s headrest, and screamed: “Go, go, go!”
The minivan careened out of the parking lot, bald tires spewing a plume of angry gray smoke. Thibodaux exited the store at a run, dropping protein bars and water bottles as he took in the sight of the ambush.
“You all right, l’ami?” the Cajun said, his own pistol now in his hand. He eyed the gangbangers, who were helping their wobbly leader to his feet.
“I’m fine.” Quinn knelt beside the dead Ray-Ban. “I’m not sure what that was all about, but they wanted to get me in the back of that van.”
“You recognize him?” Thibodaux toed the dead man’s face with his heavy riding boot.
Quinn shook his head. When he stood up he had the man’s wallet in his hand. It contained a Virginia driver’s license. “Walter Schmidt,” he read. “Mean anything to you?”
