“You mean that kid that looks like a Yemeni Leave It to Beaver?” Thibodaux shrugged. “Sounds right.”
“I think that’s him hiding in the shadows over there ogling girls.” He nodded to the string of cabanas. “What’s the name of the Chechen bus driver from Grozny?”
“Are you serious?” Thibodaux said. “I have trouble remembering my own kids’ names in a pinch.”
“Come on. The Russians were looking at him for that most recent school bombing… ” Quinn pounded a fist into his palm, thinking. He wondered if it was the fog brought on by too much Ronnie Garcia or maybe too many years of boxing at the Air Force Academy — not to mention the countless other blows he’d taken to the head. In this business, the ability to remember names and faces was as crucial as knowing how to shoot.
“Beats me,” Thibodaux said. “I know who you’re talking about now—”
“Akhmad Umarov.” Quinn snapped his fingers, recalling the name. He watched as the Chechen and another man he didn’t recognize stood from a poolside table, leaving two cute blondes they’d been chatting up. The second was younger than Umarov by a decade. He wore tight, peg-legged jeans and a black, muscle-mapping T-shirt. Even from a distance, Quinn could see the kid moved with the gawky arrogance of someone thrust into a position of authority because of birth or association rather than talent. Passing the cabanas, Umarov and his companion walked quickly, as if they were late for an appointment.
Quinn watched as a compact woman broke from the game of water polo. She swam to the edge and did an easy hand press onto the deck. A forest-green bikini with a stylish white belt revealed powerful, if somewhat short, legs and the compact, muscular body of a gymnast. Intent on the departing Chechens, the woman took a quick moment to adjust the seat of her swimsuit and squeeze the water out of shoulder-length red hair before ducking down the path after them.
Quinn gave Thibodaux a jab with his elbow. “You enjoy your mojito and keep an eye on the Yemeni,” he said. “I’m going to take a walk and see what Akhmad and his friend are up to out there in the dark.”
“Watch yourself, l’ami.” The Cajun snatched a stuffed mushroom off the tray of a passing waiter and stuffed it in his mouth. “That jolie fille goin’ after him got a crazy look to her.”
“Come on, Jacques,” Quinn said. “You got that from watching her walk away?”
“I’ve done studies, l’ami. You can tell a lot about a woman from her ass.” Thibodaux winked. “And this one’s crazy.”
CHAPTER 16
Quinn moved as fast as he could without actually running, but with the milling press of partygoers and roving waitstaff it took him nearly a full minute to make his way around the pool and past the corner of the limestone pool house. A carbon dioxide mosquito trap whirred in the darkness at the trunk of a stubby palmetto. With every step Quinn took, the din of playful cries and splashing water behind him gave way to an intense buzz of hushed voices.
Thankful for his dark shirt and the ability to blend in, he stepped into the shadows, ears straining to pinpoint the sounds coming from the path ahead. A half dozen steps brought him around a tall oleander hedge to a sudden clearing. The muffled sounds of a struggle filtered through the foliage in the humid darkness.
Quinn took a series of measured sidesteps in a movement known as “cutting the pie” to bring the clearing into view without exposing himself too quickly. Three steps in, he saw the shadowed form of the woman from the pool lying flat on her back. Akhmad Umarov knelt on top of her, a mop of thinning hair across his eyes. For a moment, Quinn thought he’d happened on a clandestine meeting of two lovers, but another half step in brought the younger Chechen into view. He stood watching, his back to Quinn, a pistol clutched in his hand.
In a fluid movement, the woman trapped the Chechen’s hand and left arm against her chest. Hooking his left foot with hers, she bucked her hips with powerful legs. With nothing free to check his balance, the Chechen rolled away. It was a Brazilian jujitsu technique Quinn often used himself.
Covered in a layer of dirt and twigs, the woman delivered a series of kicks to the Chechen’s face. He groaned but didn’t cry out. Neither, it seemed, wanted to be discovered fighting.
The youngster with the pistol must not have wanted to get his hands dirty because he just stood there.
Quinn kept to the shadows. He was all about saving the girl when it was time, but stepping into the fray before he had all the players sorted out was a recipe for getting killed. Hundreds of police officers were hurt every year saving abused women when the enraged victim clobbered them with a frying pan for trying to take their man to jail.
In any case, this redhead knew how to handle herself.
Umarov rushed forward wildly through the kicks, throwing a straight punch. The woman easily sidestepped it, driving the plodding Chechen headfirst into the hedge. He spun quickly and was able to land a backhanded slap across the woman’s face.
Momentarily stunned, she fell again, landing on the ground with a muffled cry. Something bright, like a piece of the jewelry, glinted on the ground beside her. Umarov scooped it up with his free hand and put it in his pocket. Still on her back, the woman acted as if she wanted to scuttle away. The Chechen crawled after her with a whispered snarl and got a snoot full of her foot for his trouble.
The muscle-bound youngster with the pistol chuckled, and then grunted something Quinn didn’t understand.
Rolling away, Umarov came up on all fours with a sinister growl. “Haa-ha, Bulat!” He held up the flat of his hand in the universal sign for no, wanting to finish this himself. Embarrassed, the husky Chechen pushed the mop of hair from his face and reached behind his back to yank a knife from his belt.
Quinn felt a surge of adrenaline rush down his arms. He slowed his breathing to counteract the buzz.
Now it was time.
Quinn’s first reaction was to draw his pocketknife, but it was bad form to go around slitting throats at parties. Instead, he padded up behind the youngster with the handgun. Crouching slightly to lower his center, he gave a loud hiss. Bulat led with his head, bringing up the pistol too late to stop the underhand arc of Quinn’s forearm. Rolling as he struck, Quinn let his arm “die” with a sickening thud against the base of the kid’s neck, stunning the brachial plexus nerve and dropping him like a sack of sand.
Quinn kicked the kid’s pistol into the hedge and made it to Umarov in two steps. Grabbing a handful of collar and belt, he drove a series of brutal knee strikes to the Chechen’s ribs, smiling at the satisfying crunch as bone and cartilage cracked and separated. The knife flew from Umarov’s hand as he rolled away like a bowling pin. Quinn kept coming and delivered a snap kick to the side of his head, sending him sprawling into the oleander hedge. Growling but beaten, the Chechen grabbed his staggering companion and stumbled away, both plunging headlong into the thick foliage.
Quinn exhaled through his nose, feeling the white heat of conflict subside in his belly. He reached for the woman’s outstretched hand and helped her to her feet. She had a strong grip and was amazingly solid for such a small woman. What little light filtered through the tangle of leaves and palm fronds revealed a thin trickle of blood from her nose. Quinn pulled a blue bandana from his back pocket and moved to dab at the wound.
“Chert poberi!” She jerked away, slapping him hard across the left ear in the process. Before he could move, she delivered a savage snap kick to his groin.