Zamora strode purposefully up to Thibodaux. An entire entourage had followed him out of the tunnel, complete with two young men wearing green mechanic’s shirts pushing a Yamaha R1 identical to Quinn’s but for the fact that it was black. There were no fewer than fourteen women in the group, including a set of gap-toothed blond twins that Thibodaux suspected were from some British modeling agency. All of them but the mechanics dragged along as if they’d been pulled away at this early hour from an all-night party. Most wore shades. One, a short brunette wearing red spandex shorts and a yellow tube top, sported a fresh black eye. A redhead in a gaudy green halter-top carried a chartreuse motorcycle helmet that matched Zamora’s suit.
When the little procession was within earshot, Ronnie Garcia bounced on her toes and looked up at Thibodaux.
“One-twenty-six and change,” she said as Quinn brapped by in a red blur. “That’s his best lap yet.”
“He can do better.” Thibodaux leaned against the fence watching the parade of newcomers. “I’ve seen him.”
Zamora stood completely still, his eyes flitting back and forth from Garcia’s body to Quinn ripping around the track. “Very nice,” he said at length. “Very nice indeed.” He tilted his head, leaning toward the shorter man, who Thibodaux could now see had the flattened nose of a brawler and a deformed cauliflower ear to go with his thuggish scowl. “Monagas, what time is it?”
Monagas consulted a heavy Seiko dive watch on his wrist. “Seven-fifty-five, patrón. Do you wish me to show them out?”
Zamora raised a gloved hand, pursing his lips as if in thought.
The throaty rumble unique to the R1’s exhaust grew louder as Quinn came around again. Instead of slowing, he seemed to dig in, wringing a louder smoker’s howl from the Yamaha’s pipes as bike and rider shot past like a bullet aimed at the first turn.
Quinn took another easy lap, then pulled into the pit area, coming to a rolling stop beside Garcia. He stayed on the bike as he peeled off red and white Phantom gloves and red helmet that matched the red, white, and black panels of his leather race suit. Fingers of ground fog swirled around his boots in the long morning shadows. Quinn tipped his head toward Zamora, giving him a polite two-finger salute.
“I heard somebody rented the track for the entire day,” he said. “Thought I’d get a few laps in before you started. Warm it up for you, so to speak.”
He’d not shaved in two days and already the dark stubble of his beard combined with the rich bronze skin tone of his Apache grandmother made it hard to tell his origin. The fact that he was fluent in Arabic — and three other languages besides his native English — added to his ability to blend in in a multicultural place like south Florida. Still, with all his years in this line of work, he wondered if the contempt he held for a man like the one standing before him shone through in his eyes. He forced what he hoped looked like an easy smile and swung a leg over the bike to extend his hand.
“Impressive.” Zamora raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Your attractive lady friend said you ran a one-twenty-six lap.”
“I’ve been riding a while.” Quinn shrugged, grinning as if full of false modesty.
“I am Valentine,” Zamora said, stepping forward to shake hands.
“Quinn,” he said, taking the offered hand. “You know, it’s really all about the bike.”
“Twenty percent bike, eighty percent rider, some say.” Zamora nodded toward his flat black R1, then let his eyes play over Ronnie Garcia. She leaned backward against the fence, elbows on the top rail, her back arched, eyes closed to the sun. The corners of Zamora’s mouth turned up in a sly smile. “You have excellent taste, Mr. Quinn,” he said.
“Well, then.” Quinn saluted again. “You paid to have the track for you and your guests. We’ll leave it to you.”
“Good,” Zamora said, letting him walk past.
The blond twins stood along the chain-link fence at the head of the entourage, eyeing Quinn like he was a piece of meat. Garcia drew a jealous, gap-toothed smirk as she walked beside him while Thibodaux pushed the bike.
“One-twenty-six is a scant two seconds off the track record,” Zamora called out. “How would you feel about a little wager? If you’re a sporting man…”
Quinn turned, grinning. “Mister, I’ll be happy to take your money if—”
The mousy brunette’s cell phone chirped, bringing a crippling glare from Zamora. She cringed, rushing to silence the thing before it earned her another black eye. Another phone began to ring among the group, then another and another. Garcia shot a glance at Quinn as her phone began to ring as well.
She picked up.
“Well, go on,” Zamora said, flicking a hand at his entourage. “It’s obviously something important.”
The brunette’s hand shot to her mouth a moment after she put the phone to her ear.
Garcia’s lips parted in genuine surprise. She did her best to remain in character. “Some kind of explosion near JFK airport in New York,” she said.
“You think it was a bomb like the one in California?” one of the blond twins asked.
“Maybe a plane crash,” the other twin said, her voice breathy and shallow.
“Relax, my darlings. New York is a very long way away.” Zamora waved his hand as if brushing away a fly.
The brunette spoke through clasped fingers. “My auntie lives in New York.”
She drew another glare from Zamora, but this time she didn’t notice.
“Monagas will turn the radio to the news,” he said. “So we can find out exactly what is going on.”
Agreeable nods and nervous chuckles ran up and down the fence line.
“I’d still enjoy making that wager with you, Señor Quinn.” Zamora leaned against the seat of his bike, hands clasped across his lap. “But I’m afraid I won’t have much of a ride today. I have business ventures in New York I should see to.”
“That’s okay,” Quinn said, not wanting to appear too eager. “I’ll take your money some other time.”
Monagas stepped up with a cell phone. Zamora took it, putting a hand over the receiver. A sickeningly sweet smile crept across his face. His eyes flitted to Ronnie Garcia, lingered there, then moved back to Quinn. “I host an after-party at a villa near Miami.” He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Monagas, please give our new acquaintance the address and details.” He turned back to Quinn. “You and your friends, please be my guests this evening.”
“I do not trust that one,” Julian Monagas said, watching the Americas leave. “You have important meetings tonight, patrón.”
“Duly noted,” Zamora said, swinging a long leg over his motorcycle. “And while I appreciate your advice, if I only invited people I trust, it would be a very small party indeed.” He bent forward, draping his arms over the handlebars, gushing with enthusiasm. “Did you see their faces when they heard of another bombing in the States? It was priceless, my friend, just priceless. Do you not see the brilliance of it all? While the Americans look one direction, our friends will hit them in another.”
CHAPTER 14
The air was cool and crisp when the baby-faced man with a curly head of black hair peeked out of the earthen tunnel to find himself inside a dust-filled barn five hundred yards inside the U.S. border, not far from the Mexican city of Miguel Alemán.
His coyote, the Mexican who’d helped him come across, called him the “Quiet One” because he tended to talk in a hoarse whisper — when he spoke at all.
The coyote had climbed up the ladder first, followed by a young couple and their two small daughters. Eleven other men, ranging from their late teens to well past fifty, rounded out the troupe. Each had paid two thousand U.S. dollars for the privilege of using the tunnel. All had agreed to be blindfolded before they went out to meet the waiting truck so as not to be able to inform on the tunnel’s location if detained.