have.
“He’s all by himself at the turnout,” she spoke into the radio.
“Good,” Bobby came back. Nona could hear the engine of their van roaring in the background. “We’ll take him where he sits.”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay, sweetie?” Quinn watched a maroon Sentra drive by with a wild-eyed blonde behind the wheel.
“We’re fine, Daddy. Mama says to tell you hello.”
Quinn closed his eyes and sighed. “I sorta thought she was mad at me.”
“She is.” Mattie giggled. “Way, way mad. But I’m not, so she said I could call you.” Her voice grew softer. “She says you’re not coming home for a while.”
Quinn had taken fists to the nose that hurt less. For a moment, his throat was too tight to speak. He slumped forward, resting on the handlebars. “Yeah,” he said. “I have some important things to take care of at work…”
“Important like those men who shot Miss Suzette?”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Kind of like that.” She was awfully smart for a six-year-old.
“Okaaaay,” she said, putting on her mosquito-whine. “As long as it’s that kind of important.”
“Can I talk to Mom?”
“She says she’s busy.”
“What’s she doing?”
Mattie giggled again. “She’s busy staring at me.”
“Okay,” Quinn said. “Tell her hi for me.”
“Miss you, Daddy. You’re my besty…”
Quinn ended the call and sat, thinking. In the past when Mattie called, he’d suspected Kim may have put her up to it. Not this time. Watching your daughter snatched off the stage was bad enough. And then having your ex- husband literally butcher someone in your lap, it was enough to make anyone snap.
He’d seen the look in her eyes-a resolve stronger than he’d ever seen before. Maybe their marriage really was over…
Quinn started the bike and pulled back onto the empty road. He tried to press the thoughts of such finality from his mind, thinking instead of Veronica Garcia as he leaned the growling GS into a series of smooth S turns along Rock Creek Park.
Though new to the anti-terrorism business, the Cuban woman understood very well what he was doing. The woman had a look deep in the crystalline amber of her eyes that at once startled and intrigued him. He’d caught a glimpse of it the moment they’d first met at Arbakova’s home, and then saw again during the interview with Jimmy Doyle.
Outwardly, she was cordial enough, knew the right things to say and the right moments to say them. She was intelligent enough to keep up her end of the social contract when it came to niceties-but deep down, in a part of her brain most people don’t like to acknowledge, there was a darkness-a darkness that made her an extremely dangerous human being.
Quinn knew that darkness all too well. He saw it every day when he looked in the mirror.
“He’s moving again,” Nona Schmidt whispered, half relieved that they weren’t taking him on the road.
“Don’t lose him,” Bobby said, agitation buzzing in his voice. “We’re nearly there. We’ll get him when he stops again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Q uinn had never eaten at Cubano’s, but the heads-up display on the GPS inside his helmet visor brought him in like a guided missile. His stomach growled louder than his motorcycle by the time he made the turn off Georgia Avenue. It was a popular place and he had to park the bike halfway down the street in front of another restaurant. He unzipped the Transit jacket and pulled the tail of his black polo shirt over the Kimber ten-millimeter. Resting in the Galco inside-the-pants holster, the pistol would be invisible to all but the most experienced observer. Temperature-regulated or not, eating supper wearing a leather jacket on the warm fall evening was bound to draw more attention than he wanted. As was his habit, he let his elbow graze the butt of his pistol, reassuring himself. It calmed him to know the gun was there.
Garcia had found a table outside on the raised patio out front, separated from the street by a short rock wall and metal fence. She waved him over, virtually bouncing with excitement at showing off her favorite restaurant.
Quinn caught the eye of a waiter with a thin black mustache and a loose white guayabera shirt as he trotted up the steps. “I’m with the lady over there,” he said, pointing at Garcia with his raised motorcycle helmet.
Pungent smells of garlic and peppers mixed with grilling chicken. The sweet odor of plantain frying in butter enveloped him like the warm, fleshy hug of a buxom aunt.
“Of course, senor,” the waiter said, showing him to the table.
Quinn ordered a Diet Coke and pulled out a chair across from Garcia. To her credit, she’d chosen a table against the outside wall-a wall to protect his back. Kim had always known to give him the “gunfighter seat” when they went out to dinner. She made fun of him, but she did it.
The evening was warm and Garcia’s tan suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair beside her. Black hair hung thick and loose around the shoulders of a sleeveless blouse of iridescent blue. Cloth and curls shone like a butterfly wing in the low rays of an evening sun. She’d taken the time to freshen up with a new coat of plum lipstick. The color was perfectly suited to her caffe latte complexion-a fact not lost on Quinn.
“Sorry it took me so long,” he said, taking in the lay of the land as he sat down.
Nearly every table was taken both on the patio and, from the looks of things through the double picture windows, inside the restaurant as well. An older couple chatted at the table to Quinn’s left, closest to the door. Both looked like academics with sensible, stand-around shoes and ratty cotton dress shirts frayed at the collars and cuffs. The slender man spoke to his enraptured female companion in hushed tones about past sailing trips to Havana and how much trouble they would be in if anyone in the U.S. government found out. Just beyond the conspirators, three tables had been pushed together for a birthday party. The blue-haired matron had the seat of honor, surrounded by her large Cuban family.
“Looks like a nice place.” Quinn stuffed his Held kangaroo hide gloves inside the Arai. He hung the leather jacket, with Yawaraka-Te inside, over the adjacent chair.
Garcia reached to touch the helmet, running her finger over the crossed war axes dripping candy-apple blood. “Interesting art,” she said. “I like.”
“Frank Frazetta.”
“Ahhh.” Garcia’s full lips drew back in an easy, plum-colored smile. “The Death Dealer…”
“Amazing.” Jericho chuckled. “I knew I liked you.”
Garcia leaned across the table, folding her hands in front of her breasts as they pressed against the edge. “My father was a toe-the-party-line Russian in Fidel’s Cuba. He was supposed to be anti-American in all things-but get this…” She looked to her left and right as if to make sure no one was listening in on her secret. “He taught me to be a closet Molly Hatchet fan. His favorite albums were that one with the Death Dealer… And what was it? There was a guy with a red beard and a bloody axe…”
“ Flirtin’ with Disaster.” Quinn shook his head in disbelief. She was dangerous and had good taste in music.
Garcia’s eyes played up and down, studying him. “I’ll bet you were the kind of kid who had Meat Loaf posters all over your walls. I mean, since you ride and all.”
“Would have, but my mom didn’t care for the blood-dripping warriors. She drew the line at half-naked women on motorcycles.” Quinn sat back in his chair, taking a deep, slow breath.
“I can’t imagine someone like you coming from a demure sort of mother,” Garcia said, still eying him intently.
