Quinn caught the eye of a waiter with a thin black mustache and a loose white guayabera shirt as he trotted up the steps. “I’m with the lady over there,” he said, pointing at Garcia with his raised motorcycle helmet.
Pungent smells of garlic and peppers mixed with grilling chicken. The sweet odor of plantain frying in butter enveloped him like the warm, fleshy hug of a buxom aunt.
“Of course, senor,” the waiter said, showing him to the table.
Quinn ordered a Diet Coke and pulled out a chair across from Garcia. To her credit, she’d chosen a table against the outside wall-a wall to protect his back. Kim had always known to give him the “gunfighter seat” when they went out to dinner. She made fun of him, but she did it.
The evening was warm and Garcia’s tan suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair beside her. Black hair hung thick and loose around the shoulders of a sleeveless blouse of iridescent blue. Cloth and curls shone like a butterfly wing in the low rays of an evening sun. She’d taken the time to freshen up with a new coat of plum lipstick. The color was perfectly suited to her caffe latte complexion-a fact not lost on Quinn.
“Sorry it took me so long,” he said, taking in the lay of the land as he sat down.
Nearly every table was taken both on the patio and, from the looks of things through the double picture windows, inside the restaurant as well. An older couple chatted at the table to Quinn’s left, closest to the door. Both looked like academics with sensible, stand-around shoes and ratty cotton dress shirts frayed at the collars and cuffs. The slender man spoke to his enraptured female companion in hushed tones about past sailing trips to Havana and how much trouble they would be in if anyone in the U.S. government found out. Just beyond the conspirators, three tables had been pushed together for a birthday party. The blue-haired matron had the seat of honor, surrounded by her large Cuban family.
“Looks like a nice place.” Quinn stuffed his Held kangaroo hide gloves inside the Arai. He hung the leather jacket, with Yawaraka-Te inside, over the adjacent chair.
Garcia reached to touch the helmet, running her finger over the crossed war axes dripping candy-apple blood. “Interesting art,” she said. “I like.”
“Frank Frazetta.”
“Ahhh.” Garcia’s full lips drew back in an easy, plum-colored smile. “The Death Dealer…”
“Amazing.” Jericho chuckled. “I knew I liked you.”
Garcia leaned across the table, folding her hands in front of her breasts as they pressed against the edge. “My father was a toe-the-party-line Russian in Fidel’s Cuba. He was supposed to be anti-American in all things-but get this…” She looked to her left and right as if to make sure no one was listening in on her secret. “He taught me to be a closet Molly Hatchet fan. His favorite albums were that one with the Death Dealer… And what was it? There was a guy with a red beard and a bloody axe…”
“ Flirtin’ with Disaster.” Quinn shook his head in disbelief. She was dangerous and had good taste in music.
Garcia’s eyes played up and down, studying him. “I’ll bet you were the kind of kid who had Meat Loaf posters all over your walls. I mean, since you ride and all.”
“Would have, but my mom didn’t care for the blood-dripping warriors. She drew the line at half-naked women on motorcycles.” Quinn sat back in his chair, taking a deep, slow breath.
“I can’t imagine someone like you coming from a demure sort of mother,” Garcia said, still eying him intently.
“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.