“Looks like the President and Prime Minister are already inside,” Quinn said. “Tell me more about Jiàn Zŏu.”
“What do you mean?” Song said. “I have told you what I know.”
Quinn shook his head. “The Fengs were extremists, very likely ready to die for their cause. What about Jiàn Zŏu? Do the Southern Broadsword Special Forces train for suicide missions?”
“They are true patriots for China,” she said. “Our Special Operations units deal primarily with nontraditional security threats we call the ‘three forces’: terrorism, separatism, and extremism. A suicide mission would be a last resort. From what I have seen of Jiàn Zŏu, he would have a plan for escape.”
Quinn veered left toward a large fountain in the middle of the huge green lawn, avoiding two lumbering men in ill-fitting suits he expected were IDTF agents on the prowl. Both were on their phones, oblivious to the fact that one of their prime targets was walking by less than fifty feet away.
“The Black Dragon,” Quinn said as he and Song walked toward the fountain, facing the concert hall. “Tell me about the guidance system.”
“Much like your American Javelin,” she said, wincing at the pain from her burns. Quinn stopped walking, drawing her in close by his side as if they were having a romantic moment by the fountain. “The launcher is simply aimed like a gun. Once an IR image of the target is uploaded to the missile’s memory, the shooter may, as you say, fire and forget. And, he could shoot it from virtually anywhere within the two-mile range.”
“Not quite anywhere,” Quinn said. He stood back from Song as if to take a photo with his phone, giving him the chance to have a prolonged look at the venue without drawing too much attention. “He has to be in a place to see what he’s shooting at.”
Quinn made a slow turn, noting the buildings that blocked any direct view to McCaw Halclass="underline" the Key Bank Arena, Seattle Repertory Theater, and the Cornish Playhouse to the west, the Fisher Pavilion and the Seattle Science Center to the south, and the Armory to the east. He considered the Space Needle. At over six hundred feet high, it would make the perfect spot from which to shoot nearly anywhere in the area. But an undetected escape past the legion of Secret Service personnel would be next to impossible — even if he’d had time to get there before them — which he had not.
That left the area to the north. Quinn looked at a campus map on a wooden sign near the fountain. There was a parking garage across from McCaw Hall, on Mercer Street. Raised parking made for a good sniper hide, but this one was close enough to be crawling with Secret Service agents. The Fengs might have shot from nearby, but if Jiàn Zŏu was a professional, he’d utilize the two-mile standoff the weapon system provided.
That left Queen Anne Hill. Several radio towers, big-money mansions, and the lights to what looked like a large set of condos rose up through a wide gap in the buildings, directly to the north. Any number of places would make a perfect firing position.
“Sorry to put you through this, but we need to go for another ride.” Quinn returned the phone to his pocket, nodding toward the hill. “He’ll be somewhere up there.”
“How do you know?” Song asked, grimacing around the pain.
“Because that’s where I would be,” Quinn said.
Chapter 61
McKeon leaned against the leather headrest and closed his eyes. It was only a matter of minutes now until his father’s plan would finally come to fruition. In the span of a breath, the course of the world would change irrevocably, ridding the Middle East of the American pests and ushering in a caliphate that could sweep across Europe unimpeded. There were only last-minute details that he would have to clear up. Not the least of which was the Japanese woman sitting next to him. McKeon’s wife knew about her, of course. Ran Kimura was a necessary, and, though he did not go into detail with his wife, an exquisite evil. He would not likely have made it this far without her protection. But his wife was a good Muslim woman, devoted enough to allow him the latitude to accomplish what his father had begun — and devout enough to follow him through Hell.
“And what of tomorrow?” Ran asked, running her fingers over his knee, as if she were reading his mind.
“Tomorrow?” he asked, trying to gain time. A consummate politician, he was rarely caught flatfooted with a question. “Tomorrow, Hartman Drake will be nothing but a greasy blot of memory and I will be President of a nation at war.”
“Of course, my love.” Her fingers worked their way up his thigh. “I know all that. But what of your wife? What of me?”
McKeon forced a chuckle. “My wife is still in Oregon. We will have plenty to keep us busy, my dear.”
“Do you know the last words you spoke to Drake?”
McKeon shook his head. “I really don’t remember.” Something about the way Ran looked at him made his blood run cold. He was suddenly taken back to the night they’d first met, when she stood over him naked, killing sword in hand.
“I remember them clearly,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “You said ‘things will work out as they must,’ the same thing you said to me when I asked about your wife.”
Ran leaned back against the seat, letting her head fall sideways so she was looking him directly in the eye from just inches away. “And how must they work out, my love? Tell me now, for I fear your life depends on your answer.”
McKeon fumbled in his pocket for the key fob panic button, hoping to activate it before Ran knew what he’d done. The privacy screen was up between the front and the backseats — and the agents were used to a certain amount of noise when Ran accompanied him. If he banged on the partition, she’d kill him before anyone had a chance to respond.
“Looking for this,” Ran said, opening her hand to reveal the panic button. Her lips turned down in a stoic frown. “I suppose that is all the answer I needed.”
“Please,” McKeon said, casting his eyes around the backseat for some avenue of escape, something he might say to change her mind.
“Please?” Ran said, her eyes closing to narrow black lines. Her head still lolled against the seat, but that only made her all the more terrifying. “I thought a man of your talent would come up with something better than that.”
Chapter 62
Back on the Honda, Quinn headed west, giving Seattle Center and the attendant security a wide berth. He cut back to the north on Third Avenue, working his way up the hill by feel, using his senses as much as his intellect. Human beings tended to follow natural lines of drift and there was a very good chance that if he just looked for what he considered the perfect spot for a sniper to hide, Jiàn Zŏu would be somewhere nearby.
The trouble was any one of a dozen locations would make a good firing location. There were multistory mansions, at least three wooded parks, and a half dozen businesses on Galer Street that would all do the trick. Song sat behind him, arms around his waist, both hands pressed flat on the gas tank in front of him. He was sure she was in terrible pain, but she said nothing.
He had both Miyagi and Thibodaux conferenced in so he could hear them on the Bluetooth earpiece.
“You getting anything, Jacques?” he asked, hoping Big Uncle would have provided some clue to narrow down his choices.
“Working on it,” Thibodaux grunted. “Big Uncle has barricaded his shitty little self in the back room and his man Lok is awfully hardheaded.”
“All the patrons appear to be inside the event hall.” Miyagi’s voice came into his ear as clearly as if she were sitting on the bike behind him. “The Secret Service agents with the vehicles look like they are settling in for the long haul.”