Quinn gave her a quick thumbs-up and goosed the engine to speed across the pavilion toward the open doors, standing on the pegs as he hopped the opposite curb.
Evening commuters in D.C. were used to a certain amount of chaos and were only just beginning to understand they were in danger. Some, having lived through the 2002 sniper attacks, zigzagged across the open ground, seeking shelter behind whatever they could find. Others stared up blankly with open mouths, like sheep.
Kalil pumped his arms, running like he was on fire as the big BMW closed the gap behind him. Quinn was able to squeeze his bike through the south doors seconds before they shut, just feet behind his target.
Once inside the cavernous station, Kalil ducked to the left, sprinting with all his might past a long set of low tablelike benches under the vaulted archways and toward the Main Hall. With his speed up to get through the doors, Jericho overshot the turn.
The BMW’s back tire spun on the slick marble, throwing up a thick plume of white smoke. Quinn slammed his foot on the ground, pivoting the bike, making him thankful for his heavy boots.
Kalil tore through the arched portal at the end of the marble corridor, running as if pursued by the devil himself. Sliding on the slick floor, he darted right, entering the Main Hall, shoving startled tourists and commuters as he vanished around the corner.
Jericho gassed the throttle, shifting into third gear by the time he reached the opening and leaned into his turn. His heart sank as he rounded the huge ionic columns to find a man in blue overalls mopping the glistening wet marble. Kalil had slipped as he ran past and knocked over the mop bucket. He was up again and moving fast.
Already leaning well into his turn, Jericho felt the bike begin to slide. He straightened her as best he could, and cranked the handlebars hard right, laying on the power to drift the rear tire sideways at high speed and stay in his turn without spilling. He needed the tire spinning fast when he cleared the water. The roar of the BMW’s boxer twin echoed in the vaulted chamber as Jericho slid around the corner like a flat-track racer. The bike squealed and smoke poured from the rear tire when they hit dry marble, leaving a line of black rubber twenty feet long. Jericho straightened the front wheel, eased off the gas a hair, and took his first breath in five seconds.
Out of nowhere, a burly D.C. Metro cop with a snarling German shepherd trotted directly for him. Weapon drawn, the officer shouted unintelligible orders. The dog barked like it hadn’t been fed in days. Evidently these two hadn’t gotten the order to disregard marauding BMW riders inside the Capitol Beltway.
Ahead, Kalil cut left, sprinting, dwarfed by the towering architecture of Union Station’s Main Hall. He leapt up the wooden stairs of the cozy Center Cafe, an ornate island some twenty feet high in the middle of the teaming station.
Quinn ignored the shouting cop and shot past him, popping the clutch. He gained speed as he approached the staircase, close enough he could almost reach out and touch Kalil. Gassing the bike, he yanked up on the handlebars enough to bring the front tire into a high wheelie as he hit the stairs. It was a rough ride, but he let the BMW have her way and she rumbled up the steps like a willing horse up a rocky slope.
At the top, Kalil shoved aside startled diners, tripping to splay across the first table. He crashed to the floor in pile of minestrone soup and halibut fettuccini. Momentarily stunned, the Arab clamored to his feet, intent on going down the staircase on the opposite side to shake his tail. Jericho shoved a vacant table aside with his knee as he brought the motorcycle to a skidding halt in the middle of the dining area. Crystal glasses and china plates shattered against the plush carpet. Silverware clattered to the floor. Kalil had to weave in and out of a dozen such tables, giving Quinn time to do his job.
Still straddling the GS, Quinn planted both feet, drew the Kimber from the holster under his jacket, and shot Kalil twice in the back of the head.
Startled diners looked up, some with forks suspended before gaping mouths. The terrorist sprawled headlong over a table, splashing a bright swath of blood across the white linen cloth. What was left of his face was planted squarely in a plate of linguini and clam sauce.
Jericho watched in horror as the tiny glass vial left the dead man’s fist intact, but rolled toward the edge of the restaurant floor to fall over the edge.
“Don’t move!” Mahoney screamed.
The Metro cop stood on the floor of the Main Hall, his barking shepherd straining at the leash in one hand while the other held a glass tube of liquid. He’d seen the vial fall and reached instinctively to catch it.
Megan stood like a statue at the bottom of the stairs. Both hands were raised, palms open and unthreatening toward the big policeman. Her smile was ashen, her voice halting.
“Officer…” She willed a calm tone into her shaky words. “Listen to me very carefully. If you drop that vial, we all die…”
The deafening roar of fighter jets overhead rattled the building, drowning out all conversation.
CHAPTER 34
Quinn dialed the phone to Palmer before he’d even holstered his pistol. The DNI put him on hold and made a quick call. Outside, the fighter jets pulled away, thundering back toward Langley.
Once Mahoney told everyone within earshot that the vial held sarin gas, it was a fairly simple matter to keep people away. The Metro cop handed the clear vial over without a fuss. Megan slipped it inside a padded, hard-shell plastic tube she’d brought just for that purpose. She slumped, relieved, but shaking with the knowledge of how close they’d come.
Thibodaux’s voice brought her out of her stupor.
“You okay, Doc?”
She looked up to see a wide rip in the leather of the Cajun’s motorcycle jacket, running parallel with his elbow. Another creased his thigh.
“What happened to you?”
“Turns out Kalil’s backup boys were pretty handy with their shooters.”
Jericho was already off his bike, examining the torn leather. “Are you hit?”
Thibodaux laughed. “They the ones that’s hit, beb.” He poked two fingers through the bullet holes in the jacket. “Lucky for me, I’m
ATGATT.”
Mahoney raised an eyebrow.
Jericho smiled, turning to take off his helmet. He motioned a group of Japanese tourists away from the Center Cafe and Kalil’s bleeding corpse. “All the gear all the time.” He chuckled. “The armored riding gear Palmer had made for us saved him.”
Over the strenuous objections of the mayor of D.C., the feds-who were, after all, really the ones in charge of the capitol-had Union Station locked down for five hours while the area around Kalil was searched for other vials of virus. The body and the glass vial were placed in an airtight “coffin” and transported via armored CDC van back to the BSL-4 at Fort Detrick with a full security detail.
“Y’all hear those flyboys come by?” Thibodaux said, wiping his brow with the back of a big hand. “Talk about a close one.”
Quinn released a deep breath. “Too close.”
Megan shivered as she began to understand what they were saying. Not only had they come within the brink of exposure to a deadly hemorrhagic virus, they’d very nearly been bombed to oblivion by their own government.
“The Gang of Five?” she whispered.
“Yep,” both men said in unison.
“I think we just about got dropped in the grease,” Thibodaux said, his forehead furrowed in thought.
