Growling a string of Chinese curses, he sent a volley of his own punches into Quinn’s face and ribs. Quinn rolled away as best he could, but with a broken right wing, there was little he could do to block the man’s powerful left hooks. Momentarily stunned, Quinn felt himself being dragged along the floor by the collar. Jiàn Zŏu meant to throw him down the stairs.
Song’s pitiful scream drifted up from the floor below.
Instead of tensing, Quinn let his body go limp as if he’d given up. It allowed his exhausted muscles a split second to regroup and made it more difficult for Jiàn Zŏu to drag him.
“Ben dan!” He barked in Mandarin. “Stupid fool.” “It is over.”
Still relaxed, Quinn felt Jiàn Zŏu lift, ready to toss him down the wooden stairs.
“Go to hell,” the Chinese commando spat.
Quinn twisted like a cat over a bathtub as Jiàn Zŏu tried to let him go. His left arm shot around the man’s waist. Arching his back, Quinn pushed off the wall with both feet, spinning the startled commando and sweeping his knees. With his energy already moving in the direction of the stairs to throw Quinn, Jiàn Zŏu teetered forward, with nothing left to stop his fall. Quinn helped him on his way, slamming the man’s face into the steps and riding him all the way to the bottom in a short but bumpy trip.
Quinn rolled away as soon as they rattled to a stop. Jiàn moaned, staggering to his feet. Song crouched at the base in the middle of the furnace room. Quinn could tell she was hurt, but things were moving too quickly for him to be sure how badly.
Growling, Jiàn Zŏu kicked Quinn aside and began to limp toward the stairs. Song shrieked, throwing herself at him, trying to drag him back, but he just shook her off. She looked at Quinn, beckoning him to his feet with her eyes. She said something, but Quinn could hear nothing but the constant ringing in his ears. Then her eyes flashed toward the long metal tube that protruded from the glowing orange opening of the nearest furnace.
Seeing that he understood, Song flung herself at Jiàn Zŏu again, just as he reached the base of the stairs. She sank her teeth into his ear as Quinn yanked the heavy tube from the furnace. Stumbling forward, he planted the business end in the center of Jiàn Zŏu’s chest. The commando twisted, screaming as he tried in vain to use Song as a shield. His shriek was cut short as the fist-size ball of 2,500-degree glass vaporized his lungs and shattered his spine. The sickening odor of roasted flesh filled the air in an instant. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Song flinched in pain as Quinn dragged her away from the sizzling corpse. For the first time, he noticed her injuries. Her left shoe was blackened and charred, presumably in her fight with the second glassblower. Closer inspection showed a piece of hot glass the size of a quarter had burned its way through the top of her foot, between the bones and out the sole of her shoe. The pain must have been unbearable and Quinn found himself getting queasy at the thought of it.
“Call in,” she said. “Let them know we are good.” She pulled herself sideways, toward an overturned wooden bench, her back to Quinn now.
“I will,” Quinn said. “Let’s get you flat on your back before you go into shock.”
She coughed when he rolled her over, wincing at the slightest movement.
Quinn took a bottle of water from the workbench and poured it over her foot in an attempt to bring down the temperature. He put his fingers to her neck, checking her pulse, fearing that she was falling into shock. It was then that he saw she’d retrieved the Glock that must have fallen behind the wooden bench during her fight.
She raised it with a feeble hand.
“There is still the matter of the Black Dragon,” she groaned, her breath coming in rapid gasps. “I cannot allow it to fall into American hands.”
Quinn shook his head. “Song—”
“At least tell them I made an attempt.” She let the pistol fall with a long sigh. “I cannot shoot you, Jericho Quinn. You have toes.”
Chapter 67
Consistent with protocols after a security breach, the Secret Service should have whisked Hartman Drake away from the concert hall as soon as they realized the Vice President had been assassinated. The lead agent for his detail informed him of the death, as agents formed a protective barrier around him. Instead of ushering him straight out to the Beast, they took him into the back offices that had been designated by Advance as a safe room in the event of a shelter-in-place emergency.
His back to the wall and surrounded by machine-gun-wielding agents, Drake began to sweat profusely. He suddenly found it impossible to breathe and all but tore the bow tie from around his neck.
“What’s going on?” he demanded of the young agent standing inside the door. “It’s been over an hour. Why aren’t we moving?”
“I’m not sure, Mr. President,” the agent said, eyes focused on the door.
“Is the Vice President really dead?” Drake shuddered at the thought. No matter how much he despised the man, going forward without him seemed impossible.
“I’m not sure, Mr. President,” the agent said, as if it was the only phrase he knew. Then he put a hand to his ear, nodding at some radio traffic. He looked at Drake. “Please stand by to move, Mr. President. They’re bringing up your limo now.”
The short move from Seattle Center to Boeing Field and Air Force One should have taken ten minutes, especially with a Seattle Police escort. For some reason, the Secret Service seemed to be taking their own sweet time. Alone in the backseat of his limo, Drake pounded on the partition.
“Why are we taking so long?” he asked as the tinted glass screen lowered with an electronic whir. A different agent turned to look back at him from the front passenger seat. It was Jack Blackmore, the Special Agent in Charge of President Chris Clark’s protective detail. “What’s happened? Where is my detail?”
Blackmore smiled, the crow’s feet around his dark eyes adding to the rugged, outdoorsy look Drake had always found off-putting. “We believe your detail was compromised, Mr. President. Not to worry though. We’re almost there. You’ll be wheels up in five minutes.”
“Thank you,” Drake said. Things were happening much too fast for him to make sense of them. He relaxed a notch when they turned through the secure gate at Boeing Field and pulled up alongside Air Force One.
Drake very nearly threw up when he stepped on board. He would have fled the plane had not the steward shut the boarding door behind him.
Waiting in the executive seating area just inside the door sat Winfield Palmer, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Admiral Ricks, Secretary of Defense Andrew Filson, former Secretary of State Melissa Ryan, and Virginia Ross, former director of the CIA.
“Admiral,” Drake coughed, trying to still the spinning in his head. “These people are fugitives… Secretary Filson, I’m appointing you acting Attorney General and ordering you to place them under arrest…” His gaze shot around the plane, falling on the form of another man seated three seats back with his head down. Drake’s legs buckled when he realized it was Jericho Quinn — bruised and bandaged but very much alive. The reality of his situation came crashing down around him with a suddenness that made it hard to breathe, let alone keep his feet.
“Have a seat, Hartman,” Win Palmer said.
“I am the President—”
Palmer shook his head. “We’re way beyond that,” he whispered.
Drake’s eyes locked on Quinn, who had not moved from his seat. “Keep him away from me…” He turned to the admiral. “What is this? A coup?”
“Think of it more as career advice,” Andrew Filson said. “Something for you to think about when your acting term is expired.”