“Can’t say that it does,” Thibodaux mused. “But, he’s got a face only his mama could love. Bet he’s got a record for all sorts of evil doin’s.”
Quinn tucked the wallet inside his jacket and zipped it up. “I’m not too keen on waiting around for the coppers on this one,” he said, imagining all the time it would take to explain things. Since going to work for Palmer, both men had taken a more liberal view of what and what not to report to the local constabulary. “Palmer wants meet us right away. You okay if we don’t wait?”
Thibodaux rolled his eyes. “I’d prefer it if we didn’t.”
“Good enough, then,” Quinn said. “Give me a sec.”
He walked over to where the gangbangers huddled around their pallid leader, who was now propped up at the door of the Dodge Neon. He spoke with them quickly in hushed tones. The fat one nodded and they shook hands like old friends. Quinn turned to walk back toward the store.
“Where you goin’?” Thibodaux yelled. He gave his GS an impatient twist of the throttle. “I thought you said we were outta here, brother.”
“We are.” Quinn grinned, hooking a thumb toward the wobbly gangbanger. “I just gotta grab the surveillance tape and get some cash from the ATM. I promised Hector I’d pay him three hundred bucks if he’d dump the body for me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Quinn briefed Palmer as they rode, letting Thibodaux watch his back, in case the blue minivan had a partner. The Cajun was linked in to the call via the Chatterbox.
“We’ll do some checking into your guy,” Palmer said. His voice was oddly distant for someone who’d just learned one of his men had been ambushed. “How far out are you?”
“Not far at all,” Thibodaux came back. “Be there in fifteen if we don’t get hassled by the Man.”
“I’ll clear the way for you with the state police. Just get here as soon as you can. Don’t know if it’s connected to your recent adventure, but we’ve got two more bags.” Palmer ended the call.
Quinn dropped the bike into fifth gear and began to work his way in and out of traffic. The towering GS flicked easily for something that was a two-story building of the motorcycle world. Still riding on the adrenaline of the attack, Quinn had to force himself to stay off the throttle. He opened his face shield a crack and let the cool air wash around him-calming and exciting at the same time.
When someone asked him why he rode, he often told them, “The same reason a dog sticks its head out the window of a moving car.”
“Two more dead guys?” Thibodaux shook his square head in disbelief. He straddled his bike as he peeled off his gloves. Every rider had a system of order to remove their gear. Jericho was helmet, and then Held Phantom kangaroo-skin gloves. Thibodaux was gloves, then helmet. Towering over six-four, the Marine could straddle the BMW GS Adventure and still flat-foot the ground with both feet. Broad shoulders and a back that resembled a pool table strained at the leather jacket, dwarfing the tall motorcycle. His hair was cut high and tight with just enough in front to call it a flattop.
“Palmer says two,” Quinn grunted, still thinking about the dead man who’d tried to shove him in the moving van. He’d seen months of action working outside the wire in Iraq, but an ambush was a difficult thing to shake off- particularly after the recent attempt on his family. There was no way they were connected. Walter Schmidt and Farooq were worlds apart when it came to causes. Still, Quinn didn’t believe in coincidence.
He pushed away a nagging thought and hung his helmet on a hook below his right handgrip. Airbrushed war axes, their blades dripping in blood, stood out brilliantly in the sun on each side of the gray Arai.
He swung off his bike and maneuvered it up on the center stand. The drive out front of the modest white brick house was made up of crushed oyster shells, not the best footing for a motorcycle. He and Thibodaux had found a spot of packed clay at the edge of the ratty grass yard to park their bikes. Over three decades of riding had seen him dump more than one bike because of soft parking. The protruding engine heads on the warhorse GS were protected by brushed aluminum covers and if the bike tipped, the crash bars and aluminum luggage boxes would absorb much of the damage if it did fall. Still, the powerful motorcycle had several new additions courtesy of DARPA and he took special precautions to make sure he didn’t walk out to find her lying on the ground.
Once the bike was parked to his satisfaction, he tugged off the reinforced Sidi riding boots and slipped into a more comfortable pair of black Rockport chukkas. He could ride in them if he had to, but running in the heavy Sidis could be a problem.
Both men nodded to Palmer’s limo driver. As the president’s national security advisor, Palmer rated a small Secret Service detail of his own. His driver, a special agent, stood with his head back, soaking up the fall sun beside a black armored limo. Arnold Vasquez was not as tall as Thibodaux, but the muscles and Sig Sauer pistol under his loose suit coat made it clear he had been hired for more than his ability behind the wheel. As fellow Marines, he and Thibodaux had hit it off immediately. Each time they met it was a contest to see who could bark semper fi first and loudest.
“Uuurrrrah!” Vasquez snapped when Thibodaux made his way around the limo. “Hey, Captain Quinn.” The Cajun was a brother in arms; Jericho, as an Air Force officer, was worthy of little more than a polite nod.
“Urrah, Arnie.” Jacques grinned. “How you been gettin’ along, beb?”
“Fine, fine,” Vasquez said. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “The boss is inside with Bodington and Ross.”
Quinn raised an eyebrow at that. “FBI and CIA Bodington and Ross?”
“The very same.” Vasquez nodded.
“Don’t tell my child bride,” the big Cajun mused. “But I always thought Virginia Ross was sorta cute from her photo. Too cute to be the boss of the CIA, that’s for damned sure…”
Agent Vasquez rolled his eyes and leaned in, as if with a secret. “ Mucho jamon por dos juevos, buddy,” he said. “That don’t show up in no press photo…”
Quinn understood the words, but not the colloquialism. “ Mucho jamon?”
“Too much ham for two eggs,” Thibodaux chuckled. “Guess Arnie’s sayin’ the director of the CIA is a little easier to jump over than walk around…”
The kid slouching just inside the half-open front door had an unruly mop of sun-bleached hair and an attitude that made him look like he’d only just graduated from his skateboard to a government job. He lowered mirrored Oakley sunglasses to give both Quinn and Thibodaux the once-over. Black motorcycle leathers and the hard-put gazes of men who had seen more than their share of extreme violence had a way of earning them scrutiny from the authorities.
At first glance it was impossible to tell if the young sentry was FBI or CIA.
“You superheroes looking for someone?” Skater Boy said. He stepped up to block their way, holding up the flat of his hand as if it was a bulletproof shield.
“FBI,” Thibodaux whispered, turning to give Quinn a pained look. “No doubt about it.”
Quinn couldn’t help but smile. “Air Force OSI,” he said. During his freshman “doolie” year at the Air Force Academy he’d learned to deal with overbearing people by picturing a red dot in the center of their foreheads. It was a trick he’d failed to mention during all his psychological interviews. “Special Agents Quinn and Thibodaux here at Mr. Palmer’s request.”
“Let’s see some ID.” Skater Boy snapped his fingers in the overly officious way of one new to the world of badges and guns and a little drunk on the terrible cosmic power.
Quinn sighed, imagining the red dot at the bridge of the kid’s nose. He reached for his creds when a familiar voice cut the silence from a long hallway to his right.
“Let them through, Reagan.” Palmer stepped out of an alcove at the end of the hall. He wore khaki slacks instead of his customary suit. The sleeves of a starched white shirt were rolled up to his elbows.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.” He handed Quinn and Thibodaux each a pair of blue nitrile gloves to match the ones on his own hands, then dismissed Reagan the skater boy with a curt nod.