“She is,” Thibodaux said. “But first things first… and this is where things get tricky. Your number-two buddy inside the Beltway…”
Quinn knew he meant Vice President McKeon. “Okay,” he said.
“Looks like his wife is part of it too, and Number One ain’t really in the loop, so to speak.”
“Understood,” Quinn said, running through the possible scenarios. “Can you get in touch with the boss?”
“He’s gone dark,” Thibodaux said. “But I’ve got Butterfly with me. She’s taking us to his location as we speak. I’ll get our girl all settled, then come runnin’ your way.”
Quinn ran down a thumbnail sketch of what he knew about the weapon, highlighting its size and destructive capabilities.
“Got it,” Jacques said when he was finished. “I’ll pass it up the food chain so they can get the big giant brains working on possible targets. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of,” Quinn said. “I’m sure we’ll have more after we get there.”
“That bein’ the case,” Thibodaux said. “I got somebody here who wants to talk to you.”
Ronnie came on the phone a moment later, her voice breathless and frail, like she was sedated.
“Hey, Mango,” she said. “You doin’ okay?”
Quinn let his head fall backwards again. “I’m fine,” he said. No words seemed adequate, no question quite right. “Are you okay?” he whispered.
There was a long pause, as if she needed to figure out how to answer. “I been better,” she finally said. “But I’ll mend. Sorry I got myself caught.”
Quinn felt some of the tension in his neck begin to ease at the sound of her voice. There was so much more he wanted to say, but the phone didn’t seem like the venue.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said at length, closing his eyes again and hoping it wasn’t a lie.
Chapter 48
Ran Kimura squared her shoulders and cleared her mind, gently placing the black lacquered sheath on the carpet to her left, parallel to her body. Every movement with the katana, whether in practice or during the shedding of blood, she executed with reverence and perfection. She knelt in a position known as kiza, ignoring the Vice President, who was still in bed at the other end of the room. With the balls of her feet touching the floor and her toes flexed forward, Ran found kiza a much more active stance than formal seiza kneeling that put the tops of the feet down toward the floor and, to Ran’s way of thinking, the kneeler in a much more subservient position. Subservient she was not. Meditation in kiza allowed her to focus while still maintaining the ability to rise and move quickly.
Both she and McKeon were early risers, often stirring by four a.m. But where she preferred to get out of bed quickly, falling into an established regimen of exercise and battle drill, he liked to linger in his pillows, checking e-mails and watching her. With his wife still attending to her social obligations in Oregon, they spent every night together. Once his wife returned, Ran intended to make certain the troublesome woman wasn’t in the way for long.
Awake for over an hour now, McKeon had grown bored with the news on his phone and propped his pillow against the cherrywood headboard to get a better view. His tan arm trailed across her side of the bed. Long legs bent slightly, lifting the end of the tangled sheets to expose his feet. Though he was a heartbeat away from the Presidency — and arguably the most powerful man on earth — he knew enough to keep quiet while he watched.
Pink capris and a black sleeveless T-shirt accentuated powerful thighs and strong shoulders. She’d pinned up her hair, allowing a peek at the snarling komainu or “foo dog” that covered her back. The scoop neckline revealed the ropelike blacks and greens that that formed the borders of her tattoo. Known as a munewari, the ink had been applied traditionally, by hand with a repetitive stabbing from a bundle of ink-dipped needles tied to a bamboo stick with silk thread. Scenes of feudal Japan covered her chest and torso but left a five-inch gap of untouched skin down the centerline of her body, allowing her to wear clothing that blended in more easily with the rest of polite society.
She had wanted a full-body tattoo like her father — to prove that she too was capable of enduring the repetitive pain that often took over a decade to complete. Her father had suggested the gapped munewari and instructed the tattoo artist to stop the design at mid-thigh and shoulders, like shorts and capped sleeves. Of course, she had yielded to such a powerful being, but had still been able to prove her stoicism and endurance by undergoing taubushi—complete tattooing of the tender flesh of her underarms. The weekly process of an excruciatingly painful assault with a bundle of needles took two months to complete. Even during the long days in between visits, when her skin was so sore it would have left the toughest of men whimpering — she had not uttered a sound. Each time she raised her arms in battle, any opponent would know they were dealing with a woman who could endure unfathomable pain.
She’d been fourteen years old — and her father had commissioned a new sword because of her bravery.
Leaning forward with her hands flat on the carpet in front of her, she thought of her father. Her feelings were impossible to put into words. Reverence, veneration, fear, hate — any one of them would do, depending on the moment.
But whatever her feelings for the man, there were few wiser in the ways of battle. He had taught her that a gymnasium was unnecessary in her practice. Like him, she preferred movements that utilized her own body weight, building strength while retaining her ability to move quickly — for power in battle came when strength was combined with speed.
She was practical enough to remain proficient with a firearm, but preferred the sword for its fluid movement and the concentration required for its use. Each morning, before she picked up the blade, she spent five minutes dry-firing the small Smith and Wesson revolver that was rarely out of her reach. Push-ups, handstands, sit-ups, yoga poses all had merit and kept her sharp — and she did them all first, saving the blade work, her favorite, for last.
She picked up the katana by the lacquered scabbard in her left hand, then placed it flat on the carpet in front of her, handle facing to her right. Both hands on the carpet behind the blade, she bowed deeply, then picked up the sword and placed the scabbard along her hip, as if she meant to slide it in a belt.
Most practitioners of any art involving a Japanese sword dressed the part, wearing a robe-like judo gi and hakama, the flowing pantaloons of a medieval samurai. Her father had stressed the old way, requiring his disciples to dress in traditional clothing when on the grounds of his estate — in order to “keep their minds right.” Ran found such a notion preposterous. She fought and killed in the real world — not some fantastical notion of the past. Her work was often presented to her when she was wearing a dress. Sometimes, when she had the opportunity to prepare, she wore nothing at all to keep from soiling her clothing in blood. A martial system that offered a convenient heavy-duty collar to grab or a long hem that hid the movement of the feet was more akin to a dance than a true martial way.
Ran’s father had taught her many things, but she’d learned on her own that the art of killing required no costume, no tradition, merely a will to follow through.