Act of TERROR
By MARC CAMERON
PINNACLE BOOKS
Copyright © 2012
Marc Cameron
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-2495-7
Chapter One
Be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill
everybody you meet.
—Rules of Engagement, USMC
Between Wasilla and Anchorage, Alaska
One hour earlier
0815 hours, Alaska time
Jericho Quinn rolled on the throttle, leaning the
growling BMW R 1150 GS Adventure into a long,
sweeping curve under the shadow of the Chugach
Mountains. Birch trees decked in full autumn colors
flashed by in a buttery blur. Behind him, riding pillion,
his ex-wife twined her arms tightly around his waist,
leaning when he leaned, looking where he looked. It
was the first time they'd been in sync in over two years.
The weather was perfect, bluebird clear and just crisp
enough to feel invigorating. The grin on Quinn's face
was wide enough he would have gotten bugs in his
teeth had it not been for the helmet.
It had been Kim's idea to make the half-hour ride
out to Wasilla. She'd suggested they catch an early
lunch at the Windbreak Café before scooting back to
Anchorage to watch their daughter's youth symphony
debut matinée. After months overseas, Jericho had
been hesitant to let the little girl out of his sight—even
for the morning. A nagging feeling that he needed to
be there to protect her pressed against his gut like a
stone.
The thought of being in the wind with his ex-wife
won out over his nagging gut. He couldn't remember
the last time she'd climbed on a bike behind him. Now,
her thighs clasped at his hips. The press of her chest
seeped like a warm kiss through his leather jacket, reviving
a flood of memories from better times—memories
he'd tucked away, just to keep his sanity.
He took the ramp from the Parks Highway to the
Glen at speed, shooting a glance over his left shoulder
before merging with the thump of morning traffic.
Picking his line, he checked again, taking the inside
lane to avoid a dented Toyota Tundra. The ditzy driver
wandered into his lane as she chatted on her cell phone
with one hand and held a cup of coffee in the other,
steering with some unseen appendage. Quinn tapped
the bike down a gear before accelerating past the rattling
cage to relative safety.
Riding the highway reminded Quinn of combat. The
whap-whap-whap of his brother Bo's 1956 Harley Panhead
in the next lane was eerily reminiscent of a
Browning fifty-caliber on full auto—and, everyone on
the road seemed bent on trying to kill them both.
Kim began to administer a slow Heimlich maneuver,
crushing his ribs as the motorcycle picked up
speed. For a fleeting moment, Jericho considered slowing
to keep her from squeezing the life out of him, but
Bo's bike chuffed past, pop-pop-popping like a fighter
pilot on a strafing run.
When the Quinn brothers got together, some sort of
competition never failed to erupt. They each had the
broken bones to prove it.
Kim pressed in even tighter. She'd known him since
high school and must have sensed what was about to
happen. Pouring on the gas, Jericho felt the welcome
buffeting of wind against his helmet as the speedometer
flashed past eighty miles an hour and kept
climbing.
The brothers rode their "Alaska" bikes, the older,
more seasoned motorcycles they left in state for visits
home. Stationed at Andrews Air Force Base, ostensibly
with the Office of Special Investigations, or OSI, Jericho
kept his newer BMW R 1200 GS Adventure there.
The national security advisor to the president—his real
boss—had added a few modifications that made the
bike belong more to the American taxpayer than it did
to Quinn. He stored the older GS in his parent's garage
where his dad could take it out in between commercial
fishing seasons to keep it exercised.
The Beemer wasn't the Rolex of motorcycles, but it
wasn't the bottom of the rung either. Like the TAG
Heuer Aquaracer on Quinn's wrist, the BMW was
high-end, classy, without flouting too much bling. Bo
rode the flat-black '56 Panhead the boys had rebuilt
when Jericho was fifteen and Bo was eleven. Loud as a
wronged woman, the smoke-belching Harley could
scoot.
Kim gave a little squeal of delight, squeezing less
with her arms and more with her legs as the bike
screamed through ninety with plenty left to go.
They all wore leathers to protect against the chill of
Alaska's fall weather—and road rash in the event of an
accident. Bo, riding single, and to Jericho's chagrin,
now well in the lead, wore a Vanson Enfield jacket in
heavy cowhide. The angry eye of a black octopus
glared above a white rocker with three-inch letters
across his broad back. The cut identified the younger
Quinn as a DENIZEN—a motorcycle club from Texas
that dabbled in what Bo called the "lucrative gray
edges" of the law.
Where Bo's Vanson all but shouted that he was a
member of the Denizens, Jericho's Aerostich gear was
unadorned. The supple Transit Leathers were made up
of a black jacket and matching pants. Micro-perforated,
they were completely waterproof and cooler than most
protective gear right off the rack. The formfitting leathers
came standard with durable TF armor inserts, but
his new employer had added a few extras. A wafer-thin
recirculating personal cooling system developed by the
Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency and panels
of level III-A body armor were sandwiched into the
material. A Kimber Tactical Ultra ten-millimeter pistol,
a forty-caliber baby Glock, and a Japanese killing
dagger all hid beneath the innocuous black jacket.
Kim, wearing a beautifully skintight set of her own
black leathers, discovered the second pistol about the
time they hit ninety-five. Her entire body tensed like a
coiled spring. She was funny that way. One pistol was
acceptable, part of the job. Ah, but two guns—that was
over the top in her estimation. A person carrying two
guns had to be spoiling for a fight. If she found
Yawaraka-Te—the Japanese dirk hidden in the ballistic
armor along the hollow of his spine—Kimberly Quinn
would surely reach an entirely new level of berserk.
The light at the Airport Heights intersection turned
yellow. Bo shot through and continued to weave in and
out of traffic on his way downtown. Riding double with
an angry woman made it impossible to catch up. Quinn
let off the gas, knowing he was about to get an earful.
Kim flipped up her visor the moment his left boot
hit the pavement.
"Really, Jericho? Two guns?"
Holding the clutch, he rolled the throttle, listening
to the old BMW's Boxer Twin engine. He closed his
eyes to feel the familiar horizontal right-hand torque.
He loved the bike and, even when she was nagging,
he was still in love with Kim. She'd been the one to divorce
him, saying she couldn't stand the constant
threat of his violent death and his long deployments to
the Middle East. After two years, she'd hinted that
there was a tiny chance for them to get back together—up
'til now.
She bumped the back of his helmet with the forehead
of her own—it was the way she used to get his attention.
They wore matching black Arai Corsairs,
remnants of happier times when they'd ridden everywhere
together.
"Seriously, why two guns? Are you expecting some
kind of trouble?"
Jericho stared ahead, hands on the grips. He thought
of what he'd just been through, the things he'd never be
able to tell her, or anyone else. In truth, he always expected
trouble—and found himself pleasantly bewildered
during the moments when none came his way.
"You know me, Kim." He cursed the impossibly
long red light. Gabbing about the harsh realities of his
job had never been his strong suit. "If I was expecting
trouble, I'd have brought my rifle."
Her arms gripped him as though she thought he
might try and escape. Quinn shuddered at the prolonged
closeness of her body after so many long
months. The fact that she'd let him spend the night had
more than surprised him. Even her mother, who was
devoutly religious and opposed to such things, had
openly cheered when she called early that morning and
discovered he'd not gone back to his hotel.
"You know what you are?" Kim shouted above the
revving engine. "You're one of those samurai warriors
I saw on the Military Channel. I don't know why I ever
believed you would quit this job—"
Quinn craned his neck around to stare back in genuine
awe. "Since when do you watch the Military
Channel?"
"Shut up and listen." She bumped his helmet again.
"The show said the samurai class felt this moral superiority—just
like you. They all carried a couple of big
honkin' swords. You carry a big honkin' pistol ... or
two. You both practically worship your weapons, and to
top it off, you get to carry them around where others
aren't allowed to. And just like those samurai, you get
paid a handsome salary to lord over us common folk."
Thankfully, the light turned green.
"You got one thing wrong, sweetie." Quinn put a
black glove to his helmet, ready to flip down his visor.
He turned to catch a quick glimpse of his ex-wife's
beautiful blue eyes. "I'd lord over the common folk for
free."
A half a block later he tapped the Beemer into
fourth gear. A Piper Super Cub came in low and slow
to his left, as if racing him to land at Merrill Field. He
was still chewing on Kim's observations of his moral
superiority as he passed Fantasies on Fifth strip club
and the iconic Lucky Wishbone restaurant coming into
Anchorage proper.
As an Air Force OSI agent who spoke Arabic and
Mandarin Chinese, he had plenty of opportunity to fight
for those weaker than himself. Now, he was an OGA—an
other governmental agent—working directly for the
top adviser to the president. His particular skill set was
put to use in ways he'd never imagined.
He was a protector, a blunt instrument—a hammer.
His job was indeed superior, but there was very little
about it that was moral.
Chapter Two
Anchorage
0920 hours
Every doting parent believes their child to be a
prodigy at something. The Quinns just happened
to be correct.
"Seriously? Bach's Chaconne?" A freakishly tall
woman in stiletto heels that made her tower above
Quinn twisted her face into a lipstick and mascara
question mark. She was first-chair violin in the Anchorage
Symphony—and not at all amused that some
arriviste six-year-old was on the cusp of upstaging her.
She patted Kim's arm. "Of course you know what's
best for her, my dear," the woman said in a husky voice
that matched her height. "But the Chaconne is an awfully
difficult piece, even for an adult." She gave a condescending
shake of her long neck before moving on to
work the crowd.
Kim shot Quinn an exasperated look. She tugged at the
arm of his leather jacket, chastising through gritted teeth.
"Stop staring at everyone. You're giving them the look."
"What look? Don't be mad at me because she-man
is jealous of our kid."
His back to the brick wall, Jericho's eyes played
across the faces of hundreds of milling patrons. People
of all shapes and sizes lined the stairs, coffees in hand,
crowding all three floors of the lobby. Watching for
threats was like trying to play multilevel chess.
From the corner of his eye, he caught an olive-skinned
man peering at him from the railing of the
floor above. The dark face pulled back as Quinn met
his gaze.
"Stop it!" Kim punched him in the arm. "I mean it.
You know exactly what I'm talking about. You are the
only one here who looks like a terrorist.
Indeed, the bronze complexion of his Apache grandmother
and his father's heavy beard that grew in by
noon gave Quinn a Mediterranean look. A single glare
from his whiskey-brown eyes had a tendency to part
the crowds inside the Performing Arts Center like the
Red Sea.
Kim told him he was paranoid, but he couldn't
shake the feeling that something was about to go very
wrong. Worried as he was, he gave his
look to virtually
everyone who met his gaze.
The Chinese called it
zhijue or straight sense. To the
Japanese it was
haragei—the art of the belly. Whatever
he called it, in Quinn's experience the feeling was
something to heed, real as the sense of sight or smell.
With Kim on the warpath, he decided to keep his wits
about him and his worries to himself. He tried to affect
a smile but was sure it came across, at best, like a wolf
with indigestion.
Apart from her dark hair, little Mattie Quinn was a
miniature version of Jericho's ex-wife, complete with
accusing blue eyes. His heart caught hard in his chest
every time he looked at her. Shimmering ebony curls
spilled happily over a velvet dress of midnight blue.
White tights, black pumps, and a robin's-egg sash with
a cockeyed bow she'd insisted on tying herself completed
the outfit.
The packed confines of the Performing Arts Center—the
PAC to Anchorage locals—only added to
Quinn's anxiety. He had to admit the patrons were
mostly harmless. Bo called them the Subarus-and-comfortable-shoes
crowd. All were eager to hear the
six-year-old prodigy.
Kim had been first-chair violin for years and had
only just hung up her bow to try her hand at composing
a symphony of her own. Everyone supposed Mattie's
amazing talent had come from her. Quinn had never
said so, but he believed his daughter's gift might have
had some link to his uncanny ability with languages.
He was fluent in four other than English and semi-conversant
in a half dozen more. What was music if not
another language?
For Mattie's part, her debut in front of eight hundred
fans seemed the furthest thing from her mind.
Miss Suzette, Mattie's gregarious music coach,
stood beside the backstage door holding a small violin
case. Even as a prodigy, six-year-old Mattie couldn't
handle a full-size instrument. The half-size nineteenth-century
Paul Bailly fit her little hands perfectly. It was
horribly expensive, costing more than Quinn's brand-new
BMW—but Mattie was that good. She'd named
the little violin Babette, after a favorite teacher.
Case in hand, Miss Suzette rolled up the cuff of her
matching blue velvet dress to check her watch every
two minutes. Mattie ignored her, hanging on her Uncle
Bo's muscular forearm with both hands as she swayed
back and forth.
Bo had traded his customary T-shirt and leather vest
for a freshly pressed white button-down. Even in Alaska
semiformal called for men to wear a tie. Bo could only
go so far—even for his only niece. The Quinn brothers
had agreed early in life that wearing a tie was like
being strangled to death by a very weak man. Only Bo
was brave enough to go against Kim's orders and show
up with an open collar. He'd not only forgone the tie,
but rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal the last
few inches of the black DENIZENS octopus tattooed
on his forearm. He tucked the heavy Vanson jacket
under his elbow while he let Mattie do pull-ups on his
outstretched wrist.
"Sick tattoo, Uncle Boaz." Mattie swung easily, as if
the performance wasn't minutes away.
Fearless, Jericho thought.
That's my little girl.
"Thanks, Sweet Pea." Bo flexed his arm, hoisting
her high off the floor and bringing a giddy squeal. His
eyes shifted to Kim, who frowned like a brooding rain-cloud
next to Jericho. "But I don't think your mama
approves. I do believe she's afraid if you hang around
with guys like me you'll end up with a ring in your
nose and a hand grenade tattooed on your back."
Miss Suzette held up her wrist so all could see her
watch. "We should get our young star backstage and
make sure Babette is tuned before the performance."
Kim nodded. "She does need to warm up."
"Okaaaaay." Mattie let go of her uncle and grabbed
Jericho's hand. "But it's still a half hour...."
"We'll be right out front," Quinn said. He dreaded
the thought of letting her walk through the door and
out of his sight, even for a moment.
Mattie leaned against her father's outstretched hand,
swaying and batting her wide eyes. "Can I please ride
home with you on your bike? Uncle Boaz has an extra
helmet that fits me...."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Act of TERROR
by MARC CAMERON
Copyright © 2012 by Marc Cameron.
Excerpted by permission of PINNACLE BOOKS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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