The potbellied driver got back in the minivan. Brake lights reflected off the wood fence and there was a loud clunk as the transmission slid into gear.
Quinn reasoned that the guy in the sunglasses wasn’t going to try and kill him. He could have done that from the window of the van. No, this would be a classic snatch and grab. There would be a couple more in the van, ready to fling open the door so Ray-Ban could shove him inside. Quinn had used virtually the same technique many times to pick up high-value targets from danger areas in Iraq.
He bent on the opposite side of his motorcycle as if checking the oil. Ten feet out, Ray-Ban’s right hand darted behind his back, coming back up with the unmistakable yellow and black of a X26 Taser.
Quinn stayed low, behind the bike, pretending to be oblivious to the oncoming attack. Ray-Ban moved closer, obviously hoping to dart Quinn while he was still kneeling. The minivan crunched across the gravel, moving in for the grab. The side door slid open with a loud, metallic thunk.
Quinn rose to his full height as the van pulled alongside the pump, crowding the surprised gangbangers. A man in a black ski mask leaned out the open door as the van rolled, one hand hanging on to a seat belt, intent on grabbing Quinn when he went down. A second man, also wearing a mask, stood next to the other holding a black assault rifle attached to a nylon sling across his chest.
Quinn swung the squeegee like a war hammer as Ray-Ban raised the Taser. The cover man inside the van panicked, bringing up his weapon to unleash a deafening string of machine gun fire. Bullets smacked the pavement, zinging into the air. The grab man in the van screamed something unintelligible and shoved his gun-wielding partner sideways.
Quinn’s squeegee hit a home run and Ray-Ban’s jaw gave way with a satisfying crack. He crumpled, never feeling the rounds from his partner’s machine gun that struck him low in the spine. As he pitched forward, the twin darts from his Taser buried themselves into the lead gangbanger’s pudgy belly. Both men hit the ground at roughly the same time, Ray-Ban dead from friendly fire, the gangster writhing in pain as fifty thousand volts coursed through his body.
Quinn rolled, keeping his BMW between himself and the oncoming van. He came up again in a low crouch, firing his Kimber at the open door. He squeezed off four snap shots. At least one of them hit the gunman, who let the rifle fall against its sling. The wounded man slouched, pounding on the driver’s headrest, and screamed: “Go, go, go!”
The minivan careened out of the parking lot, bald tires spewing a plume of angry gray smoke. Thibodaux exited the store at a run, dropping protein bars and water bottles as he took in the sight of the ambush.
“You all right, l’ami?” the Cajun said, his own pistol now in his hand. He eyed the gangbangers, who were helping their wobbly leader to his feet.
“I’m fine.” Quinn knelt beside the dead Ray-Ban. “I’m not sure what that was all about, but they wanted to get me in the back of that van.”
“You recognize him?” Thibodaux toed the dead man’s face with his heavy riding boot.
Quinn shook his head. When he stood up he had the man’s wallet in his hand. It contained a Virginia driver’s license. “Walter Schmidt,” he read. “Mean anything to you?”
“Can’t say that it does,” Thibodaux mused. “But, he’s got a face only his mama could love. Bet he’s got a record for all sorts of evil doin’s.”
Quinn tucked the wallet inside his jacket and zipped it up. “I’m not too keen on waiting around for the coppers on this one,” he said, imagining all the time it would take to explain things. Since going to work for Palmer, both men had taken a more liberal view of what and what not to report to the local constabulary. “Palmer wants meet us right away. You okay if we don’t wait?”
Thibodaux rolled his eyes. “I’d prefer it if we didn’t.”
“Good enough, then,” Quinn said. “Give me a sec.”
He walked over to where the gangbangers huddled around their pallid leader, who was now propped up at the door of the Dodge Neon. He spoke with them quickly in hushed tones. The fat one nodded and they shook hands like old friends. Quinn turned to walk back toward the store.
“Where you goin’?” Thibodaux yelled. He gave his GS an impatient twist of the throttle. “I thought you said we were outta here, brother.”
“We are.” Quinn grinned, hooking a thumb toward the wobbly gangbanger. “I just gotta grab the surveillance tape and get some cash from the ATM. I promised Hector I’d pay him three hundred bucks if he’d dump the body for me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Quinn briefed Palmer as they rode, letting Thibodaux watch his back, in case the blue minivan had a partner. The Cajun was linked in to the call via the Chatterbox.
“We’ll do some checking into your guy,” Palmer said. His voice was oddly distant for someone who’d just learned one of his men had been ambushed. “How far out are you?”
“Not far at all,” Thibodaux came back. “Be there in fifteen if we don’t get hassled by the Man.”
“I’ll clear the way for you with the state police. Just get here as soon as you can. Don’t know if it’s connected to your recent adventure, but we’ve got two more bags.” Palmer ended the call.
Quinn dropped the bike into fifth gear and began to work his way in and out of traffic. The towering GS flicked easily for something that was a two-story building of the motorcycle world. Still riding on the adrenaline of the attack, Quinn had to force himself to stay off the throttle. He opened his face shield a crack and let the cool air wash around him-calming and exciting at the same time.
When someone asked him why he rode, he often told them, “The same reason a dog sticks its head out the window of a moving car.”
“Two more dead guys?” Thibodaux shook his square head in disbelief. He straddled his bike as he peeled off his gloves. Every rider had a system of order to remove their gear. Jericho was helmet, and then Held Phantom kangaroo-skin gloves. Thibodaux was gloves, then helmet. Towering over six-four, the Marine could straddle the BMW GS Adventure and still flat-foot the ground with both feet. Broad shoulders and a back that resembled a pool table strained at the leather jacket, dwarfing the tall motorcycle. His hair was cut high and tight with just enough in front to call it a flattop.
“Palmer says two,” Quinn grunted, still thinking about the dead man who’d tried to shove him in the moving van. He’d seen months of action working outside the wire in Iraq, but an ambush was a difficult thing to shake off-particularly after the recent attempt on his family. There was no way they were connected. Walter Schmidt and Farooq were worlds apart when it came to causes. Still, Quinn didn’t believe in coincidence.
He pushed away a nagging thought and hung his helmet on a hook below his right handgrip. Airbrushed war axes, their blades dripping in blood, stood out brilliantly in the sun on each side of the gray Arai.
He swung off his bike and maneuvered it up on the center stand. The drive out front of the modest white brick house was made up of crushed oyster shells, not the best footing for a motorcycle. He and Thibodaux had found a spot of packed clay at the edge of the ratty grass yard to park their bikes. Over three decades of riding had seen him dump more than one bike because of soft parking. The protruding engine heads on the warhorse GS were protected by brushed aluminum covers and if the bike tipped, the crash bars and aluminum luggage boxes would absorb much of the damage if it did fall. Still, the powerful motorcycle had several new additions courtesy of DARPA and he took special precautions to make sure he didn’t walk out to find her lying on the ground.