Seeing enough, Quinn checked for traffic and trotted across the two-lane, pressing #2 on his speed dial as he slid his way down the gravel ledge on the other side of the highway. He came to a stop beside a set of railroad tracks that ran on a raised gravel bed between the highway and the ocean. The metal rails provided a convenient and relatively indestructible target for the toe of his riding boot and he kicked at them repeatedly while he waited for his phone call to jump through the series of towers, switches, and cables that would connect him to the White House. Ronnie Garcia followed, surfing down the incline on the loose gravel, one foot in front of the other to come to a stop beside him. Turning her head just right for the afternoon light to catch it, she gazed out across the frothy chocolate waters of Turnagain Arm.
“No answer,” Quinn said, looking at Garcia. A stiff sea breeze blew a thick strand of ebony hair across a deeply bronzed cheek. She didn’t bother to move it. If he’d had time, he would have told her how incredible she was standing in the wind wearing full motorcycle leathers.
Garcia shrugged, wonderfully oblivious to her own beauty. “Probably that whole National Security Advisor thing. I’m sure he’s busy.”
Quinn kicked harder at the rails and ended the call, redialing immediately.
This time, a female voice answered on the first ring. It was Emiko Miyagi, Quinn’s martial arts teacher and friend. The mysterious Japanese woman also happened to be Winfield Palmer’s right hand. The two were as close as people could be without being romantically involved. They’d even had that for a time, when they were younger, until Miyagi had decided Palmer knew far too much about her past.
Quinn was surprised to hear her voice. She’d been out of the country, trying to locate her daughter — and it had not been going so well.
“Quinn san,” she said. Miyagi was normally curt, wasting little time on pleasantries, but now she seemed strained. Quinn chalked it up to the futile search for her assassin daughter. “He is on another line at the moment. May I take a message?”
A message? Quinn shook his head in disbelief. This was a first. When Quinn needed briefing on something important, Miyagi was, more often than not, the one who read him in. They’d been through far too much for her to shut him out with the we’ll get back to you line.
“I’ll hold,” he said.
Winfield Palmer must have snatched the phone away because he came on the line a half moment later.
“Quinn,” he said, his voice a detached whisper. “I’m not sure if you’re watching the news, but we’re in the middle of something here.”
“That’s exactly why I’m calling, sir,” Quinn said. As much as he respected Palmer, he couldn’t remember a time in the three years they’d known each other that either man had called the other just to chat.
“I have your latest physical pulled up on screen right now,” Palmer said. “You’re barely even cleared for light duty.”
“I’m fine,” Quinn said. “And more than willing to take the risk.”
“This isn’t about you,” Palmer said. “I can’t run the risk of letting one of these bastards slip away because you’re not completely healed from your last endeavor. Don’t forget, you’re not our only asset. Now take the time to heal, and let me get back to work. That’s an order.”
“Boss,” Quinn said, coming as close to pleading as he ever had in his life. “I know my capabilities, and I am fine. Honestly. Let me help.”
“And how about Garcia?” Palmer asked. “She was still in a sling when I saw her a month ago. Are you telling me she’s good to go?”
“That’s a difficult issue, sir,” Quinn said, deadpan. He reached to stroke Garcia’s hair, knowing she might never let him touch her again when she found out what he was doing.
“Is she with you right now?”
“That would be correct,” Quinn said, still forcing the smile. He pressed the phone to his ear to make certain none of Palmer’s gruff voice spilled out for Garcia to hear.
“I’ll make this easy for you then,” Palmer said. “Yes or no? Has she healed enough to go back to work?”
“I don’t believe so, sir,” Quinn said. He sighed, watching Garcia absentmindedly massage her injured shoulder. She’d unzipped her riding jacket midway down her chest, making it difficult for Quinn to concentrate. The rich black leather was a perfect contrast to her deep coffee-and-cream complexion.
“But you’re good to go?”
“I’m afraid so,” Quinn said.
“Well, hell,” Palmer said. “Let me talk to her then.”
Quinn held his breath as he passed Garcia the cellphone. He could only hear Garcia’s end of the conversation, but that half told him it was Palmer, and he was in serious trouble.
“I’m fine, sir,” Garcia said. “Thank you for asking… No, sir, still some soreness, but I am definitely fit and ready to work… Quinn? No, he’s in good shape. I would not hesitate for a minute to put him in…” She gave Quinn a grinning thumbs-up. “Okay, sir.”
She handed the phone back to Quinn.
“Pack a bag,” Palmer said.
“Where to?”
“Still trying to figure that out,” Palmer said. “You interested to hear what your partner said about your fitness for duty?”
“I heard it all, sir,” Quinn said, feeling gutted.
“I’ll call you back with more news when I have it. The President wants to brief the nation within the hour.”
That’s fast, Quinn thought, but didn’t say it.
“We have damn little actionable intelligence as of yet,” Palmer said, as if reading Quinn’s mind, “but POTUS feels the American people need to know he’s ready to act the moment we have anything to go on. The markets are going to tank when the opening bell rings tomorrow, and he wants to do something to keep them from hitting bottom.”
Quinn nodded, thinking that through. Terrorists committed violence in order to destabilize nations — to tear the underpinnings out of a culture they didn’t agree with. President Ricks had vowed not to let that happen on his watch. A retired Navy Admiral, former SEAL, and recent Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Ricks struck Quinn as a man who knew where the keys to the Tomahawks were located and wasn’t afraid to use them. He’d taken the reins from the disgraced former president Hartman Drake in what had amounted to a necessary coup just months before, vowing to lead the American people with a reasoned but firm hand until the next election. Ricks had no ambitions when it came to politics — which made it much easier for him choose to do what was necessary rather than just politically prudent.
Quinn had met the new president only once since he’d taken office. He was tall and gave the impression of a man in uniform even when wearing a business suit. The ribbons and medals of his combat experience on land and sea were etched in the creases of his face and the gleam of his eye. The new president had stood from behind his desk in the Oval Office at that first meeting, extending his hand to Quinn and looking him up and down as he nodded in approval. “So,” he’d said. “This is my star henchman.”
Quinn liked him from the start. He’d never considered himself a henchman, but, he supposed, it was an apt description depending on your point of view. In fact, Quinn didn’t really care what anyone called him so long as he was henching for the right side.
Palmer’s patrician voice yanked him back to the present. The national security advisor liked to hear a certain amount of feedback when he talked on the phone, even if it was nothing more than a grunt. Quinn had been listening silently for too long.