Quinn took her by the shoulders with both hands. “I don’t know, sweetheart. What seat is she sitting in?”
Mattie closed her eyes, trying to remember. “It’s upstairs, at the front. I remember she was two rows up from the bathrooms by the window on that side of the plane.” She pointed to the left.
“Two forward of the lavatories and galley… That would be 12A,” Carly said. “Business class.”
Madonna Foss groaned. “That’s near one of the emergency exits,” she said. “Perfect place for a you know what.”
“I already know you’re talking about a bomb,” Mattie said, shaking her head as if she had no time for secrets. “Really, Dad, do you think my friend is dead?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Quinn said. “A Chinese woman has been killed, but we’re not sure it’s her.” Blunt honesty had always been the best policy with Mattie. He nodded toward the handset. “Carly, can you get someone up front to take a look at 12A? Tell them not to make contact. Just see if anyone is sitting there.”
Carly used the interphone to page Andre in the upper-deck business class and spoke with him for a short moment.
The captain’s voice came across the loudspeaker.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We’re approaching some extremely rough air. Please take your seats.”
Handset to her ear, Carly’s face grew pale as she listened to Andre report back.
“There’s an Asian man sitting in 12A,” she said. “And another two that refuse to take their seats.”
“Refuse?” Quinn said. “Are they arguing?”
“Ignoring.” Carly nodded. “According to Andre, one just ran down the front stairs.”
That made sense, Quinn thought. Put the bomber in the middle while they had two men guard both sets of stairs on either side of him. “Tell Andre and whoever else is up there the bomb is probably in 12A. I’ll be right there.”
Quinn kissed Mattie on the top of her head, taking a short moment to smell her hair before he looked up at Foss. “Can you keep watching her for a few more minutes?”
“Goes without saying,” the air marshal said.
Natalie stood, giving Quinn an uncharacteristic hug. Her perfume reminded him of his mother. “We’ll take care of her.”
“Thank you,” Quinn said. He gave his daughter one last kiss on the head, wondering if he’d ever see her again.
Natalie pulled Carly to her, whispering something in her ear.
“Sit tight, sweetie,” Quinn said to his daughter.
“Take the back stairs,” Carly said. “It’s quicker.”
“I would,” Quinn said. “But I need to grab something from my seat on the way.”
Chapter 60
Tang was standing just aft of the forward galley when Ma Zhen came out of the lavatory. He couldn’t see the small plastic flasks full of water and explosive, but knew the device was ready from the look of relief on Ma’s face. The men nodded, each dropping their shoulders in a half bow of respect and resignation. Then Ma disappeared behind the forward galley curtain toward what had once been Lin’s seat.
Tang looked toward the back of the plane, watching for the American girl’s father. Hu had already gone down the front stairs and was sweeping backwards on the main deck. They only had minutes left, but between the two of them, Ma would be protected.
“Hey,” a woman wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt said. “Why aren’t you in your seat?” Her voice held the suspicious edge of a mother with teenagers.
“Very dangerous man on board,” Tang said, keeping up the image of frightened passenger for a few moments longer. “Crew say he come from there.” He pointed toward the tail.
A burly man with a beard craned his neck to look behind him, and then stood. “I’m not going to sit around while someone is killing people on this plane,” he said.
“Me neither.” Another man, across the aisle and two rows back, stood as well. “What does he look like?”
A moment later, Tang had a group of six men who were spoiling for a fight. He described Quinn as best he could remember and started toward the back, leading his posse. He didn’t have much time to make it to the guizi girl. Ma would detonate the device as soon as he attached the detonator — two minutes away at the most. The angry mob gave him credibility with the other passengers as he strode down the aisle. The irony of it all made him smile for the first time in months.
Chapter 61
Bowen ended the call with a frantic Joey Benavides and stuffed the cell phone back in his pocket. They were parked in the shadows on a side road off Rockville Pike, a block from the west side of Walter Reed Military Medical Center.
Bowen had never been much of a worrier, but sitting in a stolen truck with a member of a conspiracy to overthrow the president and now bent on breaking a federal prisoner out of custody ranked right up there with the activities that had caused his hair to go prematurely gray in the first place.
It was warm out, humid in the DC way that made clothes stick to skin and the odor of the last ten passengers rise up from the upholstery of vehicles left shut up too long in the sun. The concrete truck smelled like pastrami, overripe bananas, and half a can of Axe deodorant.
Bowen wore a short-sleeve sports shirt, plaid so it broke up the imprint of his Glock, unbuttoned and open over a black T-shirt. He’d left his ballistic vest in his Charger, which was still parked back at the strip mall, but consoled himself that getting shot was about to be the least of his worries.
“They’re taking her to a ship anchored off Bloods-worth Island,” Bowen said. “Some kind of old Navy gunnery range out in the Chesapeake.”
“Cocshons!” Thibodaux pounded his fist on the steering wheel. “Don’t tell me they’re moving her by air.” He had the Marshals Service short shotgun from Bowen’s G-car between his knees, muzzle pointed toward the floor.
Bowen shook his head. “Not until they get her to Annapolis. You were right. Joey said they couldn’t get a chopper here before General Hewn shows up, so they’re taking her out by van. He says they’re gearing up now to leave in fifteen minutes, give or take. They’re running a lead and a follow. Ross will be in the middle, in a dark blue Suburban with blackout windows.”
“Good deal,” Thibodaux said, rolling his shoulders as he visibly relaxed a notch.
“So,” Bowen said, “You said we have some kind of secret weapon. I get the basics of this plan, but now would be a good time to fill me in on the little details — before Joey calls back.”
“We’re gonna keep this simple. All gross motor skill stuff—”
A flatbed truck pulled up to park directly behind them, causing Thibodaux to stop in mid-sentence. Ronnie Garcia was behind the wheel. She jumped out as soon as she’d stopped and approached Bowen’s window. A pimply kid Bowen hadn’t seen before got out of the passenger side and came up behind her. He wore black-framed glasses the military called “Birth Control Goggles” for their propensity to chase away the opposite sex. He smiled meekly at Bowen and flinched a little when he saw Thibodaux, like a puppy afraid of being smacked.
“Staff Sergeant Guttman’s a friendly,” Ronnie said, introducing the kid. “He’s helping us out with some of his tech.”
Bowen couldn’t help but smile when he saw the sultry Cuban. She wore faded jeans and a loose T-shirt that presumably covered a pistol. A Washington Nationals ball cap kept her hair pulled back out of her eyes.