“Oh, my mom’s an Alaska girl through and through,” Quinn said. “She could fillet a halibut, field dress a moose, and birth a baby all the same day-but she’s awfully tenderhearted. I supposed that sort of thing skips a generation.
Garcia still leaned forward, pressing against the table. “Mr. Palmer said you were a boxer at the Air Force Academy.”
“I dabbled.” Quinn shrugged. He would have to talk to Palmer about the depth of information he disclosed. “I did okay.”
Garcia wagged her tan finger. “Okay? I hear you won the Cadet Wing Open your senior year and came in second the year before.”
Jericho pressed an index finger to his nose, showing the lack of cartilage that went along with repeated blows to the face. “Those statistics are true, but as my kid brother is so fond of pointing out, if you come in second in a boxing tournament, it means you got your ass kicked at least once.”
Suddenly uncomfortable with so much personal talk, Quinn cleared his throat and picked up a menu. “So, what’s good here? You mentioned something called moros and…”
“ Moros and cristianos — spiced black beans and rice.” Garcia picked up her sunglasses from the table and began to toy with them. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Moors and Christians. You know, like black people and white people…”
“I’m so hungry a big bowl of that sounds good.”
“It’s a side dish.”
He shut his menu and pushed back from the table. “I need to hit the head. Surprise me. Something spicy sounds good for the main course.”
Garcia’s full lips parted as if to speak, but in the end she only smiled broadly, keeping her thoughts to herself.
A half a block up the quiet street in the parking spot directly behind Quinn’s motorcycle, a windowless white van sat in the evening shadows cast by the Mi Rancho restaurant. Nona Schmidt slouched behind the wheel and watched as her boyfriend, her brother, and her Uncle Frank walked under the blue awning and through the double glass doors into Cubano’s. She’d abandoned the Nissan around the corner. Her job was to pull up front with the van when she saw the men drag Quinn outside. She never considered the idea that they wouldn’t be able to handle him.
He’d gone in only seconds before. Probably to use the can. The Mexican woman-Scott called her the Spic Chick-still sat at their outside table. She looked like she was his date. Quinn was supposed to be dangerous, but Nona didn’t fret over that. She’d seen her boyfriend fight mixed martial arts in Corbin, Kentucky. He’d whipped the everlovin’ ass of everyone who came into the octagon-actually broke one guy’s arm in four places. He was sure enough capable of beating the crap out of some bike-riding dude who was past his prime.
Nineteen years old, rawboned, and handsome, Scott Brady was tough as they came. And, every bit as important to Nona as his muscles, he had nearly perfect teeth. He’d have no trouble with Jericho Quinn, who, with any luck, would have his pants down when they shot him.
It seemed such a waste to Nona, but after the mess at the gas station, the boys had decided not to bother with a Taser. The plan was for Scott to take out both his knees with a. 22 pistol. Scott said if the guy bled to death before they got him back to the compound to interrogate, well, that was his own damn fault.
Nona bit her lip. She hoped it didn’t come to that too awful soon…
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The overpowering scent of hand soap and toilet deodorizer hung in the men’s room, where Quinn stood along the side wall at the single urinal. The air conditioner blew full force and condensation beaded on the chilled chrome pipes. His mind was occupied with the pleasant image of Veronica Garcia’s purple lipstick. To his right was an empty toilet stall. Behind him and to his left was a double porcelain sink.
The three men filed in one behind the other. They gave off the energy of men in a rush, but had to slow down in the cramped space.
The hair on the back of Quinn’s neck stood on end as soon as they came through the door. The one in the lead, a muscular kid in a white T-shirt, was nearly on top of him by the time the door swung shut behind the last man in line. There was no time to go for a weapon.
Sidestepping away from the urinal, Quinn closed the gap on the first attacker. He trapped the kid’s wrist with both hands and forced his stainless pistol back against his belly. Keeping his hands centered and low, Quinn lunged forward with the full force of his legs, snapping the wrist and causing the kid’s finger to convulse on the trigger. The gunshot was deafening against the steel and tile of the restroom. The kid’s eyes went wide, blinking in disbelief at the blossoming red stain on the belly of his T-shirt.
A half second later the next man in line hit Quinn in the side of the head with a staggering left hook. His fist felt like a blow from a chunk of granite. Quinn shoved the bleeding kid out of the way, lunging for but missing the pistol as it clattered to the tile floor.
He kept his feet, throwing up a quick elbow to fend off another powerful hook. This guy was older but must have had some boxing training. He rained down blows as quickly as Quinn could block them. Dazed, Quinn saw nothing but fists, each coming fast on the heels of the last.
Roaring like an enraged bear, Quinn drove forward, shoving the older attacker backwards.
“Get off me, Uncle Frank!” the kid behind him yelled, smashed between the door and his companion.
Quinn pummeled Uncle Frank’s midsection, keeping him pressed back against the guy behind him, buying time while his mind went into overdrive. All he needed was a moment to get to his own gun. He was in good enough shape; in most fights, the other guy tired out in a matter of seconds.
This wasn’t going to be one of those fights.
Uncle Frank rolled sideways, absorbing Quinn’s punches as if they were mosquito bites. Given the fresh opening, the younger man behind rushed forward, reaching with both hands for a takedown. He wasn’t near the fighter his Uncle Frank was and Quinn met him with a fierce head butt for his trouble. He bellowed, spewing a spray of blood out the newly formed gap where his nose met his brow.
Uncle Frank tried a snap kick, but Quinn moved just in time, avoiding a crippling blow to the side of his knee. The kick hit him in the thigh, sending a wave of nausea through his gut. He exhaled hard, blocking a haymaker from Frank, while he kicked out to fend off the snot-blowing kid. It was like shooing away gnats inside a closet. No matter what he did, they kept coming.
Ronnie Garcia watched the three men disappear through the front door. The leader, a young man wearing a white T-shirt and faded jeans, carried a folded newspaper. The other two, similarly dressed but with more hair, followed closely on his heels. None of them looked the type to bring their own reading material into a restaurant. There was something about the way the men held their mouths that told her they were up to no good.
She’d spotted the white panel van about the time Quinn went inside. There was a girl behind the wheel, and though Ronnie couldn’t make out her features, she felt sure she was involved.
To prove her point, Ronnie stood up from the table. Holding her cell phone to her ear, she pretended to be having an animated conversation and pointed directly at the van.
An instant later, the van’s lights came on. Panicked, the girl backed into the car behind her, then sped forward, crashing into Quinn’s motorcycle. Beefy as it was, the BMW GS was no match for the heavy van. Metal groaned and sparks flew as she dragged the bike along the pavement, before turning sharply to speed away in the other direction.
Jericho’s bike was a twisted heap of metal-but if Garcia was right, that would be the least of his problems.
She reached the front door in three quick bounds. She flung it open to run headlong into their waiter. The tray of Diet Cokes crashed to the ground. He apologized profusely with his words, but his dark eyes cursed Garcia’s clumsiness to the last drop of his Latin blood.
