Her voice was drowned out by an approaching aircraft that looked like a plane with upturned propellers. It swooped in over the wedding party to hover just over treetop level-lower than the roof of the mansion. It was close enough she could make out the strained looks on the pilots’ faces.
Trays of food and drinks flew from the hands of the staff. Folding chairs, caught in the mini tornado, were tossed around like rag dolls. The aircraft began to work its way even lower, settling between the trees as if to land on the front lawn and crush half the guests. The tremendous force of whirling wind blew open suit jackets, exposing agents’ weapons. The women who wore more skimpy gowns had them literally ripped from their bodies.
A blinding beam of light burned from the nose of the aircraft, cutting the dusky evening haze to point directly at the bride and groom.
“Mr. Vice President!” It was Sonny Vindetti’s voice. The Secret Service agent grabbed Bob Hughes’s shoulder and tugged him backward toward the mansion. “Sir! I need you to come with me! Now!”
“Nancy!” Hughes spun away from his would-be protector, reaching out with both arms in an attempt to shield his wife from unseen dangers.
President Clark ran amid a tightly packed mob of his agents, bent at the waist, to a waiting armored limousine that had been rolling silently over the grassy lawn, following his every move.
Hand over her hair against the horrific wind, Nancy turned just in time to see Jimmy Doyle running to intercept Amanda Deatherage. The girl’s ridiculously long jacket had blown up around her face. Her loose dress was pressed to her body by the downdraft, exposing what looked like a bulky life vest underneath.
Blinded by the tangle of cloth, Deatherage screamed with rage, clawed at her face to clear her vision.
“BOMB RIGHT! BOMB RIGHT!” Jimmy Doyle screamed above the melee. He hit the girl with the full force of his body, knocking her behind the huge iron cannon.
A split second later, Nancy Hughes was knocked off her feet. Every molecule of air seemed inexplicably drawn away, vanished. She felt a tremendous heat, then pressure, as if someone had hit her in the chest with a baseball bat. She was vaguely aware that her daughter lay on top of her-and the world was eerily silent.
Quinn and Thibodaux rode off the back ramp moments after the explosion. Smedley was able to bring the Osprey within five feet off the ground-still a tall order for the sporty Ducati’s suspension.
The wedding party looked as though a huge bowling ball had come through and knocked everyone to the grass. Quinn knew the Secret Service would be in reactive mode, bent on egress with their charges more than stopping to face an unknown enemy. The countersnipers, on the other hand, would be back to their scopes in no time, scanning from their rooftop perches to stop all signs of threat.
Two crazy men deploying from a V-22 Osprey, dressed in black on screaming motorcycles, would certainly qualify.
After an explosion people generally do one of two things-lie still to protect themselves or try and get away. It is a rare hero who moves toward the blast zone while debris is still falling-or someone with something more sinister in mind.
Quinn saw the waiter in the white waistcoat at the same moment the Ducati gained traction. The sight of him sent a chill of cold recognition coursing through Quinn’s body, renewing the ever-present throbbing pain in his foot.
Picking his way through the mass of dazed and injured toward where the vice president lay unconscious beside his wife, was the unmistakable bald head and black eyes of Military Interrogator First Sergeant Sean Bundy.
Quinn planted his right foot and gassed the throttle. A rooster tail of grass and dirt spewed into the air as the little 848’s Testastretta engine spun the back tire. Deafened by the previous blast, Bundy continued on a direct path for the vice president, his right hand behind his thigh as if he carried something.
Quinn bore down on him, ignoring the shouts of Secret Service agents as he sped past. They threatened to shoot, but the bike was fast and there were too many innocents in the way.
Bundy’s face snapped up as the Ducati loomed at him, missing by inches. Quinn, oblivious to the pain it would cause him later, bailed off the motorcycle at speed, catching Bundy’s head in the pocket of his chest and shoulder as he flew by.
Quinn ducked and rolled, relatively protected by his helmet and armored Transit Leathers, taking Bundy with him. He used the other man’s body to break his fall.
All the pent-up rage from the previous interrogation rushed back into Quinn’s veins. The humiliation, the threats to his wife and daughter, the bone-crushing pain of the amputation-he’d never wanted to kill anyone as badly as he wanted to kill this man.
The pistol that Bundy had been hiding flew out in front of them as they tumbled, landing three feet from the Echo’s outstretched hand. His left arm was twisted grotesquely backward, making it look as if it had two elbows. Facedown in the dirt, he crawled forward, lunging for the gun with his right hand. Black eyes seethed, intent on violence.
And violence was just what Quinn gave him.
Rather than shooting, Quinn drew Yawaraka-Te, the Japanese dirk he wore in a scabbard along his spine. Rolling forward, he planted the chisel tip of the blade square in the back of Bundy’s hand, driving it down with a satisfying crunch through muscle and bone, pinning him to the ground.
Bundy screamed in agony as he flopped and thrashed like a trapped fish. The more he moved, the more he injured his trapped hand on Yawaraka-Te’s gleaming blade.
Panting, Quinn raised both hands high over his head. He prayed that would be enough to stop the approaching Secret Service agents from shooting him in the back.
Thibodaux rode up with Palmer on the rear seat of his BMW about the time the agents got Quinn into a full prone position. The national security advisor shooed the agents back and told them to see to the screaming bald man with the Japanese sword pegged through his hand.
“You okay, l’ami?” Thibodaux said, whistling under his breath as he helped Quinn to his feet. “I ain’t gonna be the one to tell Mrs. Miyagi about her bike…” He leaned in closer. “Let me pass you some advice. I don’t know if you know this, but you can’t fly.”
Quinn rubbed his shoulder where it had struck Bundy’s head. “This is the guy who cut my toe off,” he said. “He must be one of the moles. He would have been helping that idiot Fargo in order to sow hate and discontent among the country. When Fargo happened to go after me with his personal vendetta and I was just returning from Central Asia, Bundy really did have some questions he wanted me to answer for Badeeb.” He looked up at Palmer. “What about the president?”
Palmer shook his head. “Your stunt with the Osprey worked. Jimmy Doyle identified the girl with the suicide vest a half second before she detonated. He was able to push her back behind the cannon before she blew.”
Quinn breathed sharply. “Did he make it?”
“Poor son of a bitch saved dozens of lives… including mine,” Palmer said. “A handful of guests on the other side of the cannon were injured by shrapnel, but young Agent Doyle and the girl were the only ones killed. Bride and groom are shaken up, but still capable of a honeymoon once the shock wears off.”
Palmer sighed, his eyes drifting over the aftermath of the explosion. The entire area was already a sea of flashing blue and red emergency lights. “I wonder how many more are out there.”
“Well, sir,” Quinn said, glaring at the heaving form of Sean Bundy. “Put me in a room with this guy for a few hours. I feel confident he has a story to tell…”
EPILOGUE
Washington Ten days later
Late October brought sapphire skies and the crisp days of an Indian summer that reminded Quinn of Alaska. Evening joggers and bicyclists ran and rode under the last few tenacious leaves that clung to oaks and sycamores along the wide paths of the Mall.