Zolner was a bully and he was big. His previous opponents were surely little more than victims of a quick gunshot or beat down. There was a good chance that no one had ever had the audacity to fight back. The taste of his own blood was something new and it was clear in the Russian’s eyes that he wanted to be finished with it.
Sloppy as he was, Zolner moved like a machine, with each ungainly punch packing just as much power as the last. Quinn felt himself fading and knew he had to do something to even the odds. He’d fought taller opponents before, and found that if he couldn’t bring them down to his level, he could usually use parts of their body to climb up and get a good choke or strike.
Waiting until Zolner stepped forward with another left jab, Quinn pushed off the wall to step onto the top of the Russian’s exposed calf muscle, intent on climbing up his body and enveloping him in a choke. Fatigue and pain made him a fraction of a second too slow and Zolner grabbed him around the hips. Roaring what were surely Russian curses, he battered the ceiling again and again with Quinn’s head and shoulders. Shards of broken plastic ripped Quinn’s jacket and cut his head and neck, raining down on Zolner. Arms up in an effort to fend off the metal ceiling supports, Quinn saw the Kimber on the third trip up.
In the fog of battle, everything but getting his hands on the pistol fell away from Quinn’s mind. It took him two more trips through the ceiling, but he was able to grab it on the way back down. Without pausing, he flicked the safety down with his thumb and shot Zolner in the top of the head.
The elevator doors opened at the first floor to a phalanx of blue. APD officers in gasmasks poured in around him. Quinn let the Kimber fall to the floor and raised his hands. The hydrostatic pressure of a 10mm round through the top of Zolner’s head proved devastating. Blood and bits of the Russian covered Quinn’s chest and belly. Even his face felt moist. Two of the officers dry heaved into their masks.
“Federal Agent!” Quinn muttered, dazed from exhaustion and the after-effects of adrenaline.
One of the officers stepped in to grab Quinn by the shirt and drag him out of the elevator, away from Zolner’s lifeless body. The officer passed Quinn off to someone else, then secured the pistol.
“Get your hands behind your back!” The second officer said, putting a thigh lock on Quinn’s neck. His voice was tense, disembodied from the gasmask filter.
“I’m… I’m a… federal…” Quinn said, his words garbled gibberish in his ears. “Beaudine? Polina? Gas?”
“FBI!” Khaki Beaudine’s Texas accent cut through the fog of Quinn’s mind.
He was vaguely aware of her pushing her way through the uniformed officers to stoop down and help prop him against the wall.
“Polina?” He asked again, trying to get to his feet.
Beaudine patted his arm keeping him down. “She’s done, Jericho. She was about to deploy the gas. I had to shoot her with the .22 rifle Zolner had in his pack. It’s the same gun he used on Kaija.”
“Wait,” Quinn said. “Zolner shot Merculief, and you shot Polina?”
“Yes and yes,” Beaudine said. “Polina was bent over the gas canisters down in the lobby. I didn’t have a choice. That shaved undercut made it easy to spot her.” She gave a somber shake of her head. One of the sutures above her eye had pulled through the skin during her altercation with Zolner. “She’s not going to make it, but an ambulance is taking her to Alaska Regional now to try and save the baby.”
“The New Archangel?” Quinn muttered, feeling the dark edges of the world creeping in around him. Repeated bashing against the elevator ceiling had taken its toll.
“APD has it in hand,” Beaudine said, patting his shoulder again. “With the eight canisters Jacques got in New York and the dozen in Kaija’s case, that makes the twenty Volodin said were out there.”
Quinn swayed for a moment, staring into her face, grinning stupidly. “Ha,” he said, before his world went black. “You just did math…”
Epilogue
Quinn left his mother’s pickup in the public parking lot off H Street and walked with Jacques Thibodaux up Third Avenue toward The Marx Brothers Café. Ronnie Garcia and Beaudine were already in the restaurant. The big Marine lumbered along in a relaxed gait as easy as his Cajun accent, scanning the evening traffic with his good eye. Quinn limped from the ache of the shotgun pellets in his thigh. His right shoulder hung a few inches lower than his left. Mattie called it “wonky.”
Quinn had given the Troopers the location of the plane crash and they’d been able to retrieve Lovita’s body. He and Beaudine would both return to the bush the following morning to attend the funeral in Mountain Village.
“I’m feelin’ sorry for that Russian chemist,” Thibodaux said, falling into the philosophical funk that was his custom after any mission.
“He did manufacture the most deadly nerve agent the planet’s ever seen,” Quinn said.
“And our scientists will reverse engineer that shit and make even more of it,” Thibodaux said. “Should we go after them next?”
“I’m just saying he’s not an innocent,” Quinn said. “But I guess none of us are.”
“It’s still a shame he’s losing his mind and the only kid he’s got left is a useless bag o’ ass.” Thibodaux nodded toward the small, gray cedar shake house that was The Marx Brothers Café, suddenly brightening. “The girls are in there comparing notes on us.”
Quinn laughed. Even after knowing him for three years, he was still amazed at how quickly his friend’s mind could change directions. “You think?”
“Damn right, I think. It’s what womenfolk do. Ain’t you learned nothin’ from me?” He turned his head so he could peer at Quinn with his good eye. “You gonna wait until later tonight before you pop the question to Ronnie?”
“Na,” Quinn said. “I left the ring in my old man’s gun safe. I’m gonna hold off on the marriage thing for a while. Don’t think I could stand two failures.”
“Wise,” Thibodaux mused. “I guess… if it makes you feel lighter.”
“I’m pretty sure it’ll happen,” Quinn said. “Just a couple of issues to work through first.”
“Roger that,” the big Cajun said, thankfully prying no deeper. “Just remember, none of ’em’s perfect… except for my Camille.” He patted Quinn on the back. “Thanks for arranging this meetin’ so I can get reacquainted with Khaki. She’s a good girl, for a Texan. I especially like that badass scar you gave her.”
Quinn stopped in his tracks. “I didn’t give her the scar.”
Thibodaux sighed. “Look around you, Jericho,” he said. “My eye, Kim’s leg, Beaudine’s face… hell, even Garcia’s heart. We’re all this way on account of you.”
Quinn stood, dumbfounded. “I—”
“You’re readin’ me wrong, brother,” Thibodaux smiled, throwing a huge arm around Quinn’s shoulder and drawing him in for a crushing, sideways hug. “If it wasn’t for you, every last one of us would be stone dead. We only have these scars ’cause we’re alive. But I gotta tell you, I am beat. Maybe it’s time we all just step back and take some time to heal.”
Quinn worked his neck back and forth, counting the bones, muscles, and joints that hurt… and realizing it was easier to count the ones that didn’t. “Ronnie would like that,” he said. “And I’d be happy to spend a little more time with Mattie, that’s for sure.”
“I think the free world could get by if we rode into the sunset for a month or two…”
“You think?” Quinn said, pulling open the door to Marx Brothers. The smell of fresh bread hit him in the face. His heart nearly stopped when he caught a glimpse of Garcia.