“And the Chinese would feel like they had to shoot first,” Jacques finished his thought, “before we unleash a certain hell all over them.”
Quinn shot a glance at Song. “Are you okay to move?”
“Of course.” She frowned, shaking off his doubts. “I have been burned before.”
“You’re the only one who can identify Jiàn Zŏu,” he said. “I was so busy with the Fengs that I never got a good look at him.” He turned back to the phone. “I’m thinking we need to split up. Jacques, you go and rattle branches at Big Uncle’s. See what he and his men know. I’m pretty sure he sent us into an ambush with the Feng brothers, so don’t go easy on them. Emiko-san, if you—”
“She’s gone,” Thibodaux cut him off. “We were only about ten blocks away when you called. Crazy woman beat feet as soon as she heard where you are. I expect she’ll be crashing through the door any minute now with her badass sword ready to protect her favorite.”
Miyagi’s voice crackled on the line, conferenced in from the beginning. “I am still listening,” she said.
Thibodaux’s cringe was audible, even over the phone.
“I am almost there,” Miyagi said. “Meet me under the viaduct in five minutes.”
More static came over the line.
“Almost there?” Quinn muttered, half to himself. “What are you driving?”
Nothing but static.
“Her broom, likely as not,” Jacques offered, thinking she’d hung up.
“Still here, Thibodaux-san,” Miyagi said. “It is no wonder you think Jericho is my favorite.”
Chapter 60
The throaty brap of a Honda CBR sport bike echoed off the concrete pillars of the viaduct five minutes later when Miyagi rode up. She wore a scuffed black helmet, jeans, and a dark blue Helly Hansen rain jacket against the drizzle. She removed the helmet and shook her head to tame her hair before removing a small leather backpack and placing it on the seat of the bike.
“I believe you will require stitches, Quinn-san.” She stared at his forehead, but did not ask for an explanation.
“Is it still bleeding?” Quinn asked, dabbing at the tender spot above his eye.
Miyagi shook her head.
“Well,” Quinn said. “That’ll have to be good enough for now.” He looked at the bike. “I’m not even going to ask how you got this.”
Miyagi shrugged. “The keys were in it,” she said, as she rummaged through her backpack. “And you need transportation to the target site.” She brightened, locating what she was looking for, and took out a smartphone and Bluetooth earpiece to match the one she wore in her ear.
“You carry around an extra earpiece?” Quinn couldn’t help but smile.
Miyagi handed it over. “What is it you say? Two is one and one is none. Like you, I prefer to be prepared.”
Quinn took two extra minutes to apply a piece of gauze from Miyagi’s wound kit to the burns on the inside of Song’s thigh. She demurred at first, saying they had no time — until he showed her the high position of the passenger seat on the Honda, pointing out how her thighs would hit him right at the waist.
“I have an extra pistol if you need it,” Miyagi said, hand in her backpack.
Quinn gave Song Yaqub Feng’s Glock that he’d tucked under his shirttail. Better to trust a pistol from Miyagi over one he picked up off a dead terrorist. She treated all her weapons as she would a katana — with reverence and care. The extra she’d brought with her was a Kimber Eclipse in 10mm, much like the Ultra she’d presented him when he’d first started working for Palmer. Even better, she had an inside-the-waistband holster so he wouldn’t have to worry about losing it in a fight like he had the last few pistols that had come into his possession.
Miyagi frowned as she gave him the weapon, focusing again on his wound. He’d had time to wash his face, but there were no mirrors in the apartment so he’d not been able to see the damage. Her motherly looks and the throbbing headache made him think it was probably a doozy.
Quinn swung a leg over the bike and planted both feet, waiting for Song to climb on behind him.
“Be on your guard,” Miyagi said, moving toward the Harbor Steps that would take her back up to Pike Street and downtown. She never said, “Be safe.” There was no way to do what they did with any measure of safety. All they could do was mitigate danger. “From your description of the weapon, Jiàn Zŏu will be able to fire it from some distance away. I will be your eyes and ears at the venue.”
“How is she going to get there?” Song asked, settling in gingerly behind Quinn.
Miyagi merely smiled and trotted up the stairs.
The Honda CBR had plenty of power to haul two people, especially if one was as light as Song, but the seating arrangements were a different story. The passenger seat was set several inches higher than the rider’s seat, directly over the rear wheel. Quinn had insisted Song wear their only helmet. At every stop she had a tendency to knock him in the back of the head with her face shield and slide forward enough to push his groin against the CBR’s fuel tank with sickening regularity.
“Put your hands on the tank,” he yelled over his shoulder.
“What?”
He patted the fuel tank with his left hand. “Reach around me and brace yourself right here,” he said. “It’ll keep you from sliding forward and hurting your burns so much. Not to mention keeping you from knocking me silly. You lean when I lean. Got it?”
“Got it,” she said, but Quinn could tell from her voice she was hurting.
Riding more as one now, Quinn rolled on the throttle, feeling the welcome wind. Drizzling raindrops bit at his face and hands, but he didn’t care. He was riding toward a problem that needed solving and he’d choose that over a comfortable chair any day.
Her knees up like a jockey, Song drew a round of catcalls from a group of sailors heading into the Spaghetti Factory as he took the corner off Alaska Way onto Broad Street, rumbling over the train tracks. Quinn jogged back to his left two blocks up, weaving his way through the back streets in the general direction of the Space Needle and Seattle Center. Riding without a helmet on a stolen bike with a girl in a dress hiked up around her waist — and looking like he’d just come from the losing end of a fight — he decided it was best to avoid law enforcement contact.
He rolled in from the west, parking the Honda a block away from the Key Bank Arena to walk up for a closer look. The rain had stopped, leaving everything wet and glowing in the last moments of dusk.
Quinn knew he would be in some Secret Service sniper’s crosshairs if he rode up on a bike. His penchant for motorcycles was noted in his file. Hartman Drake was no brilliant tactician, but according to Jacques, McKeon was running the show, and he was smart enough to put everyone on alert for anyone on a motorcycle. Approaching on foot, under cover of dusk and with Song at his side allowed him to blend into the dozens of other couples walking around the complex hoping to catch a glimpse of someone famous.
Quinn noted the ambulance and line of black SUVs parked on the wide sidewalk outside McCaw Hall. And the second group of identical vehicles formed up on the circular drive on the other end of a grassy field — out of the way but within easy reach.
“Your Vice President,” Song said, watching the same group of dark vehicles. “He is there, hoping to see the attack.”
“That would be my guess,” Quinn said. “But we’ll have to deal with him later.” He watched a steady line of patrons as they filed into McCaw Hall. Many looked like college students, some even younger. All fit and trim, likely from local ballet companies, Quinn thought. They bunched at the doors, a bouquet of tuxedos and brightly colored evening gowns, waiting their turn to pass through one of three metal detectors operated by uniformed Secret Service officers.