“Mr. Palmer is unavailable. I’d be happy to take a message.”
“When would he get the message?” Ronnie bit her lip.
“Monday morning.”
“It’s important I speak to him right away. Could you have him call me?”
“I can certainly give him the message-on Monday morning.”
“Maldita sea!” Ronnie cursed. “I have to talk to him.”
“Ma’am, with all due respect, I get fifty calls a day from people who have to talk to someone here. Is this a matter of national security?”
“Yes, yes,” Ronnie said. “It is.”
“It’s always a matter of national security,” the woman said. Ronnie could almost hear her eyes rolling. “I suggest you hang up and dial nine-one-one.”
Ronnie slammed down the phone. She fell back against the pillow, catching her breath before dialing the next number.
“FBI.”
Ronnie clenched her teeth. It hurt her pride, but had to be done. “I need to speak with Director Bodington on an urgent matter-and please don’t tell me he’s unavailable.”
“Well,” the voice came back. “It’s Friday afternoon. He is unavailable.”
Ronnie wanted to scream. Her words spilled out in a breathy stream. “I can guarantee you he’ll want to talk to me,” she said. “I’m
… one of his informants…”
“Yes, ma’am,” the operator said, his voice cracking a little. “I can get you an on-call agent.”
Ronnie hung up without another word and pressed the call button at the side of her bed for the nurse. She was very near to tears, and that alone was enough to piss her off.
A bright-eyed brunette with a round, freckled face opened the door a few seconds later.
“You okay, dear?” she said, checking the heart monitor and oxygen output.
Ronnie nodded, willing herself to calm down so the nurse didn’t decide to medicate her. She had to get word to someone about Tara Doyle, but after all that had happened, she didn’t know who to trust.
“I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “Woke up from a bad dream, that’s all.”
The nurse, whose name tag said Beverly, lifted Ronnie’s wrist and checked the IV taped to the back of her hand. “Think you could eat some soup?”
“Maybe,” Ronnie said, wanting to appear compliant. Her head was still loopy from the pain medications they were giving her. “Have you got my cell phone anywhere?”
Beverly shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “You didn’t have anything like that on you when they brought you in.”
“Who brought me in?”
“Not sure, sweetie,” Beverly said. “I just came on duty a couple of hours ago. I’m glad you’re feeling better though.” She leaned in, whispering even though no one else was in the room. “Listen, I don’t know what you did, but you seem like a nice girl. There’s a plainclothes cop standing outside your room. If you want, I can ask him to come in and answer all your questions.”
Ronnie brightened. Maybe it was Quinn. “Dark hair, heavy five o’clock shadow?”
“No,” the nurse said. “Sorry.”
“Did he give his name?”
Beverly shook her head. “Sorry. I can ask him if you want. Looks kind of mean, though.”
Why would a cop be sitting outside her room? Could she trust him? She kicked herself for not memorizing Palmer’s cell number.
“No,” she said. “I’ll be okay. I just need some rest.” Ronnie swung her feet off the edge of the bed as soon as Beverly shut the door behind her.
“You can do this, chica,” she whispered, pausing long enough to let her head stop spinning.
She winced as she peeled back the sticky tape holding in her IV. Stumbling, and using the bed rail for support, she rifled through the drawers, settling for a cotton ball and piece of tape to stop the weep of blood from the back of her hand.
Thankfully, she found some clothes hanging in the closet-faded jeans, a black cashmere sweater, and a pair of Nike runners. She shucked off the thin, backless gown and ripped into the unopened packages of socks and underwear. Somebody was looking out for her.
Gingerly, she reached behind her back to touch her wound. She was surprised to find two more bandages, slightly larger than the first. Of course, the doctors had had to go in and repair the damage. One of the incisions was wet with blood from her exertions. She shrugged. Couldn’t be helped. She’d probably just pulled a stitch.
Tara Doyle, the “Queen of West Texas Bitches,” had to be stopped. And since she couldn’t trust anyone, Ronnie would do it herself.
She’d just zipped her jeans when the plainclothes cop walked in on her. He had blond hair and a wild, street-hardened look on his face-not much different than the boys in the caves where she’d been stabbed. He wore a white dress shirt with an open collar. A navy-blue sports coat covered the swell of a pistol on his belt. Ronnie had never seen him before, but there was something vaguely familiar in his eyes.
“Oh no, no, no, young lady,” he said, walking toward her with a raised hand, as if he was directing traffic. “You’re not going anywhere.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
“Can you put her down in the ball field?” Quinn said into his headset. Thibodaux sat across from him, strapped in to his seat forward of the cargo bay on V22 Osprey.
The pilot, a balding man with smiling blue eyes, turned to glance over the shoulder of his green Nomex flight suit. “I can set her down in the middle of Times Square if you want me to.” His name was Jared Smedley, an Air Force Academy squadron mate of Quinn’s. Smeds had gone on to flight training after the academy, graduating at the top of every class he took. He’d been a flight instructor for the last three years and had been brought in from the Eighth Special Operations Squadron at Hurlburt Field, Florida, to fly overwatch and rescue during the wedding. He gave a thumbs-up to his copilot, a waif of a girl with a blond ponytail hanging out below her flight helmet. She returned the gesture.
He had the swaggering confidence of a pilot and the skill to back it up. Quinn had always found it impossible not to like the man.
Capable of straight or vertical flight, Smedley’s aircraft, the tilt-rotor V22, made insertion possible in areas like Manhattan and Governors Island.
Quinn’s Bluetooth earbud chirped. He moved the boom mike of his headset away and tapped the device. It was Palmer.
“Homeland Security facial recognition just got a hit on an NYPD security camera on Mott Street. Looks like the doctor is buying cigarettes at a newsstand. I’m sending a still to your phone now.”
Quinn took the BlackBerry off his belt.
“Who’s the guy with him?” he asked, turning the screen to show Thibodaux.
“Look at that mop,” Thibodaux scoffed. “He’s Elvis’s evil twin.”
“Don’t know,” Palmer said, an edge to his voice that Quinn could feel. “We have intel that Badeeb’s wife is hiding out in a flophouse off Bowery. Looks like they’re heading to meet up with her.”
“Roger that,” Quinn said. “We’re about to touch down at a ball field in lower Manhattan. It’ll take us about ten minutes to get there on the bikes-”
Dust and leaves flew outside the windows as the huge rotors began to lower the Osprey onto the center of the baseball diamond. One of the two crewmen in the back told them to stand by and activated the lowering mechanism on the ramp at the rear of the bird, giving them a quick exit with their bikes.
Quinn stood from his seat along the bulkhead, working to release the straps on Mrs. Miyagi’s candy-apple-red Ducati 848.
