“Make fast!” her captor chided again, moving close, but not coming around the rocks. It sounded like “ mekfus.”
“I’m done,” she said in Tajik, hoping the man would revert to his native language. “Just cleaning.”
She weighted the scarf down with a heavy rock so it wouldn’t blow away, but left the bulk of it to flutter in the mountain breeze.
Hitching up her pants, she stumbled quickly around the rocks, working her way back along the edge of the trail before the stinking yak beater could come around and see her message blowing in the wind.
She climbed back on the yak without being told, biting her lip as her captor lashed down the heavy blanket.
She’d heard stories from local women about slavers. But they mostly preyed on young girls. Hunt was dressed in an American military uniform. That would surely make her worth something to someone. She supposed that was why she was still alive.
She shivered, despite the sickening warmth of the yak, and wondered which would be worse, getting her head cut off or living the rest of her life as someone’s slave. All she could do now was pray that they were the last in the pack train and someone friendly-or at least greedy-would find her note.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Mt. Vernon, Virginia
T hibodaux’s BMW rested on its center stand in front of an eighteenth-century redbrick two-story. Quinn estimated the lot to be over five acres, much of that taken up by a fenced Japanese garden, complete with a gurgling stream, wooden footbridge, and stone Shinto torii gates. The nearest home was over a hundred yards away on either side. Thick hedges gave the grounds an added layer of privacy. Lofty oaks and huge silver sycamores threw the driveway into a near constant blanket of cool shade.
A beaked warhorse, the motorcycle was aggressive even in its idleness, coiled as if in anticipation of violent action. Quinn couldn’t help but think it looked lonely, though, without his bike next to it. A few feet away, nearer the house’s forest-green front door, was a Ducati 848 EVO painted a deep blood red. Thibodaux said it was the color of a Bourbon Street whore’s fingernails, but he kept that between himself and Jericho. Shorter and more compact than the BMW, the Ducati was a superbike-with a race fairing and a stock hundred-and-forty-horse Testastretta engine. With its pointed, upthrust sport-bike tail and humped gas tank, it looked like an angry red wasp. Like its owner, the Ducati was graceful, utilitarian, and dangerous.
Without a bike, Quinn had no reason to wear his riding gear. The black Transit jacket, leather pants, stiff Sidi riding boots, kangaroo-hide gloves, and Arai helmet lay in a forlorn pile near Thibodaux’s GS. He wore faded blue jeans, Rockport chukkas, and a gray Under Armour T-shirt that kept him cool in the warm fall weather. Palmer had promised to get him another bike as soon as possible-but it wasn’t happening quite soon enough to suit Quinn.
He busied himself by sitting on the curb and beating himself up over his divorce and prolonged separation from his daughter.
“Tell me why we do this again,” he said, his voice glum.
“ ’Cause we’re good at it?” Thibodaux shrugged massive, rounded shoulders as he did a pushup in the gravel to eye the oil sight glass mounted low on the BMW’s Boxer engine.
The owner of the red Ducati, Emiko Miyagi-Mrs. Miyagi to her two charges-appeared from around the corner of the house. She padded softly in the afternoon shadows of her crescent driveway as if floating an inch above the ground.
“I believe it is much more than that,” she said. “Do you know Ushirogami wo Hikareru?”
Quinn stood, giving her a polite bow. “To have the hair on the back of your neck pulled?”
“That is correct,” Miyagi said. “But the nuance is much deeper. It much more correctly means having to follow a certain path but not quite wanting to do so. Devotion to duty often involves such a feeling
… but, the blade must cut. That is what it is designed for. Is it not?”
“Now…” She pursed her lips and stood stoically with her hands clasped in front, a sure indication she was ready to take the conversation somewhere else.
Jericho sighed again, this time in relief.
“Palmer-san believes it is better for you to remain hidden,” Miyagi said. She had the body of a gymnast, with short, powerful legs and muscular shoulders that belied the narrowness of her frame. Tan cotton slacks hugged the gentle curve of her hips. A black polo shirt hid a mysterious tattoo above her right breast, the edge of which was only partly visible, and completely unidentifiable, during their daily yoga lessons. Thibodaux thought it was some kind of snake. Jericho didn’t hazard a guess. The three had just finished a rigorous two-hour session of cardio and yoga-a great deal of which involved head-low positions like Sirsasana, a forearm headstand that Miyagi appeared to favor over all other postures. She assured Quinn it would help heal the injuries he’d received in the men’s room at Cubano’s. Amazingly, she’d been right. After a few minutes of yoga, the full-bore thumper he’d woken up with had quieted to little more than a dull throb behind his left eye.
The men had it on good authority from Win Palmer; Emiko Miyagi was not a person to bet against in a fight. Quinn had yet to see her in any sort of action other than a yoga headstand, but he’d been around enough dangerous people to know this woman had a certain degree of what soldiers called “innate badassi-tude.” She would not do to have as an enemy.
Luckily for Quinn, she seemed to like him. Poor Jacques Thibodaux was not so fortunate.
She continued her instructions. With Mrs. Miyagi, life was a lesson, and she was the teacher. “We have routed all your phones and the email accounts you provided us through a series of remote computers in vacant office space located in three states-all rented with cash.”
Her lips turned up in just the hint of a sneer at the towering Cajun. “I have routed your phones through separate locations so those who wish to harm Quinn-san do not trace him back through you…”
“Of course you did.” Thibodaux shrugged, giving Jericho an I-told-you-so look. “No need to protect me. Just keep me from getting Quinn killed-”
“That is correct,” the stoic woman said. She handed each of them a silver thumb drive Quinn recognized as an IronKey. “Please use this when you log on to any computer. It will hide your IP address and allow you to work on the Internet anonymously. Additionally, any intelligence you are able to collect will be protected with multiple layers of security.” She glared hard at Thibodaux, turning her head to one side as if explaining something to an obstinate child. “If you input the wrong password ten times, the inside of the drive will be destroyed. There is no way to recover it.”
“Noted,” the Cajun said. He’d learned better than to argue with Miyagi.
“Now, I have something for you.” She reached for a paper shopping bag behind the red Ducati.
“You mean for Quinn.” Thibodaux couldn’t help himself. He was only half joking. “I don’t get anything, right?”
“Correct again,” Miyagi said with a half bow. But for the mischievous glint in her black eyes, her expression was deadpan. “Perhaps when your life is in danger by unknown foes, Palmer-san will direct me to issue you such equipment.”
Quinn couldn’t help but chuckle. Though she had the apparent wisdom of a woman twice his age, her smooth skin and youthful physical ability suggested Emiko Miyagi was no more than forty. Maybe it was because he spoke Japanese, but for some reason, this mysterious, badass warrior woman had taken to him. For whatever reason, she bristled like a porcupine when Thibodaux got near her.
She held a polished wooden box in front of her, offering it to Quinn with outstretched hands. “Generally speaking, we will be able to track your whereabouts through your secure BlackBerry.”
She motioned for him to open the gift with a half bow. The tiniest glint of excitement sparkled in her eyes.