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“We do,” Dillman said as a pudgy man with greasy black curls walked in from the back to block her way. Another agent, this one older, but in no better physical shape, brought up the rear. Since neither looked like much of a runner, they’d probably resort to guns right off the bat.

“Benavides!” Garcia whispered, recognizing the lead IDTF agent. Jacques had forced the witless idiot to help rescue the Director of the CIA from a secret prison.

“Well, well, well,” Joey B said, his words dripping with condescension. “Sweet Meat. You’re looking kind of pale without your big Cajun friend.”

Garcia choked back a gasp. It killed her that this pompous bastard was able to get such an emotional response. He was a weak man. She knew that, but weaklings were especially dangerous when they got the upper hand. Virginia Ross had recounted his cruel treatment while she was in custody. Ronnie knew what he was actually capable of — and what was in store for her if they got her alone.

“Turn your ass around so I can pat you down for weapons.” Benavides gave her a lecherous wink. “With all you got going on, this might take a while.”

“Here now!” Congressman Dillman stepped in between Agent Benavides and Garcia. “There’s no call for that sort of talk.”

“Step aside, Granddad.” Benavides flicked a fat hand like he was shooing away a fly. “This is a federal investigation.”

Garcia glanced behind her, seeing two more agents come through the front door. Both were on the heavy side, but not as soft as Joey B and his partner. One had the flat nose of a street fighter and there was likely a good deal of muscle hiding under his bulk. Benavides and his partner were definitely the weak link in the arrest team. Frozen like a deer in the path of an oncoming car, she thought of drawing her pistol and shooting her way out. Action was always faster than reaction so her odds were actually pretty good. At the very least, she’d have the satisfaction of shooting Benavides in the eye before falling in a hail of bullets. But that would leave Gorski and Dillman at the mercy of the IDTF.

Joey B gave her another leering stare. “It would be a surprise if you could hide a weapon in those jeans,” he said.

“Son,” Dillman said, blocking the agent’s way with his hip. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

Not quite as soft as he looked, Benavides planted the flat of his hand against Dillman’s chest and shoved him back into his chair. “I believe I do,” he said. “You’re the dumb bastard from Indiana about to be arrested for treason.”

Older than Benavides by at least two decades, Mike Dillman was still a military man. Garcia saw the flash of indignation in his eyes and moved to protect Senator Gorski from what was about to happen.

Dillman rebounded the moment he hit the chair, springing back to his feet to clobber a startled Joey Benavides with a wicked right hook. Dillman pressed his advantage, driving the agent backwards and giving Garcia time to draw her gun and drag Senator Gorski toward the rear door. With any luck the bulk of the IDTF backup team would be out front.

“Stop her!” Benavides screamed, even as Mike Dillman backed him against the wall and pummeled him with blows. A new agent, this one younger and in much better shape than the others, bounded in through the kitchen, colliding with Garcia and sending her sprawling onto the floor with the senator. Scrambling to her feet, she caught a fleeting glimpse of something dark that seemed to fly toward the congressman. The young agent hit her hard in the neck with an expandable baton, missing her head, but staggering her. She pushed off a table, catching him on the chin with the point of her elbow and buying some time. A pitiful cry came from her right. She looked up in time to see a fierce Asian woman standing over Dillman. Her heart rose, thinking it was Miyagi, but something wasn’t right. This woman looked like Emiko but was much younger, with a darkness that was palpable, even from across the room.

A blade glinted in the muted light as the woman used her dagger to great effect, gutting the congressman where he stood.

Dillman staggered backwards, blood-drenched fingers clutching his abdomen. Benavides climbed to his feet and spat on the floor. He dabbed at his bloody lip before drawing his pistol and shooting the congressman three times in the head. The bullets tore away much of the poor man’s skull but he was a tough bird and even with the gruesome damage, it took a moment for him to stop moving. The barista screamed, clutching her fuchsia hair as she dropped behind the counter.

“Come on!” Ronnie prodded Senator Gorski, who stood transfixed by the awful sight of her friend. An instant later, Ronnie heard the familiar crackle of a Taser. A searing pain arced from her buttocks to her shoulder as the twin barbs sent fifty thousand volts through her muscles. Toppling like a downed tree, she fell headlong on the floor, her body, from forehead to toes, arched stiff as a plank, as it tensed from the electricity. After five agonizing seconds, the shock abated and she collapsed, panting for air.

“Hit her again,” Benavides spat, his voice slurred from the beating. “I want this bitch tenderized.”

She flailed her hands behind her back, hoping to sweep the thin electrical wires away, but it was too late. Her body arched again and she was clenching her jaw so hard she thought it might pop out of place. A grunting scream felt forced from her throat. The shock abated and she collapsed drooling, her cheek pressed against the carpet. A shadow crossed her face and she expected to feel handcuffs at any moment. Instead, she felt a stab of pain as someone jabbed a needle into her neck. Gorski’s terrified scream faded into nothingness.

Chapter 23

Three minutes earlier

Emiko Miyagi stood from her sidewalk table halfway down the block and across the street the moment she saw the maroon SUV. It had normal license plates, but the small black puck antenna on top identified it as being wired for a two-way radio, equipment civilian cars were unlikely to have. A balding man wearing a fishing vest stepped out of the passenger side, hitching up his slacks and exposing a dangling pair of handcuffs that were stuffed in his waistband. Miyagi shot a glance over her shoulder to see another SUV arrive, this one white and bulging with more men in tactical gear and ill-fitting suits.

She warned Garcia on the radio, simultaneously drawing the short sword from behind her back. Holding it with the point down, parallel to her thigh, she padded up quickly behind the white SUV. She’d counted six men, two in the lead and four in the white follow car. Formidable, but their superior numbers made them complacent. She was able to kill the first three before the fourth realized she was even there. She drew the blade across the fourth man’s throat as she ran to help Garcia.

In front of her, a younger agent pushed open the door of the espresso shop, exiting to the street. He waved the maroon SUV forward with a flick of the pistol in his hand. Miyagi, still fifty feet away, picked up the pace as two more agents followed him out. One carried an unconscious Garcia over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Another dragged a handcuffed Senator Sue Gorski toward the second SUV. A young Japanese woman followed them out.

Emiko slowed, struggling to keep a grip on the short sword as she looked at the face she’d not seen for two decades — the face of her own daughter. The bearing, the walk — the resemblance was unmistakable.

“Ran!” Miyagi gasped, head spinning. Like herself, the young woman’s clothing was swathed in blood.

The younger woman’s head shot up when she heard her name, glaring. She too stumbled, shaking her head as if to clear her vision. Shoving the agent with Garcia into the waiting SUV, she froze, dagger in hand. She cocked her head to one side, entranced.

“Ran?” Miyagi said again.