The nearest guard called out in challenge as soon as Quinn entered the lobby. The young woman turned, saw Quinn coming for her, and ran for the cover of the stairs. All six guards converged on Quinn as he closed the distance.
He was vaguely aware of hitting the first one under the chin, snapping the man’s head back and driving him to the tile like he was spiking a volleyball. He swatted the next two out of his way like spiderwebs on a trail — annoyance more than anything. Ayako met one, grabbing the poor man around the neck and pulling him to her to give him three rapid-fire knees to the groin before shoving him to the side.
The next two were in the process of a coordinated attack when gunfire opened up from the stairs above. Nothing more than hired security, these two fled toward the front doors, realizing that Quinn was the target and wanting to get as far away from him as they could.
Quinn drew the H&K and sent the young assassin scuttling with two well-placed shots. He raced up the stairs after her, pistol trained on the balcony where she’d disappeared. A set of wooden doors, like those found in a hospital, were still swinging when he rounded the corner.
Not wanting to give the woman time to set up an ambush, Quinn pressed on with Ayako right behind.
Ahead, a Japanese lab tech in a long white coat pushed a metal rack taller than his head across the hallway intersection, blocking the young woman’s escape. Quinn paused to take a shot, but Ayako slid into him from behind, spoiling his aim and allowing his target to slip away. The fleeing woman yanked the rack sideways as she went around, sending twenty-four hundred eggs crashing to the polished laboratory floor.
Quinn ducked as two more rounds zinged off a stainless-steel lab shelf behind him. Struggling to keep his feet in the slippery mess of eggs and crushed shell, he shoved the surprised lab tech out of the way and moved to the corner where the woman had disappeared.
Two men in suits met him head-on as he did a quick-peek around the corner. These were much more devoted to their jobs than the uniformed guards downstairs.
“Kill them,” the young woman yelled from the far end of the hall, twenty feet away.
The lead man, a bruiser built for power over speed, hit Quinn hard between the eyes.
The blow felt like a brick, but Quinn had been hit before and rolled with it, stepping back against the wall. He was not in the habit of shooting innocent security guards who were just doing their jobs, but this guy went for a pistol, apparently happy to carry out the kill order. Quinn beat him to the punch, firing the H&K from tight against his waist. His first round connected — there was nowhere else for it to go with the wide man standing in front of him — but to little effect.
Quinn swatted the guard’s pistol out of the way, then angled the barrel of the H&K upward, firing again as the man battered him with left hooks, trying to bring his gun into play. He was amazingly agile to be as big as he was and carrying two bullets. Quinn’s third shot took him under the chin, stopping him in his tracks. He swayed, falling forward, dead weight smearing Quinn into the wall on his way to the floor.
When he finally shook himself free, Quinn looked up in time to see Ayako withdraw the blade of her father’s short sword from the belly of the second security man. He’d seen this one before, even snapped a photo when he’d caught the guy following him at Reagan National Airport two months earlier.
Before he could move again, two pistol rounds slapped Quinn in the chest. The ballistic armor under his leather Transit jacket stopped them from penetrating, but the blunt trauma felt like he’d been kicked by a horse. He stepped sideways, returning fire as he pulled Ayako out of the way.
The young woman shot again, then ducked around a corner where the hall jogged to the right.
Quinn dropped the magazine on the H&K during the momentary lull.
“Four rounds plus one in the tube,” he whispered.
Ayako nodded, bloody sword at her side.
Quinn advanced quickly down the hall behind the pistol, hugging the wall so he could use any doorway for cover. Ayako stayed behind him. Well back from the corner he began to step sideways, inch by inch, to broaden his field of view. It was called cutting the pie.
The hallway was empty and footfalls echoed down the stairs at the far end.
She was running, circling back to the lobby, probably aiming for the front door.
CHAPTER 63
Quinn and Ayako shoved their way through two more sets of uniformed Yanagi security before making it back to the exit.
Already straddling her bike, the woman began to shoot as they ran for the Blackbird. They were only twenty yards apart. She’d been half again that far away when she shot the Pakistani in Vegas. This time, with the possibility of Quinn shooting back, her shots went wide.
Quinn jumped aboard the waiting bike and hit the start button. “Get on!” he yelled at Ayako.
She stood frozen, a few paces ahead of the Blackbird’s front wheel, staring at the shooter as if in a trance.
He gunned the throttle, scooting the bike up adjacent to Ayako, bumping her with his elbow to get her attention.
“I said get on!” he barked, passing the pistol back behind him. “I can’t ride and shoot at the same time.”
She snapped out of the trance as pistol rounds zinged past their heads and slapped the concrete pillar behind them. A window shattered in the convenience store across the street. Passersby screamed and ran for cover.
Facing the silver Hayabusa, Quinn rolled on the throttle as soon as he felt Ayako take the H&K and jump aboard behind him. Tugging upward on the handlebars, he brought the bike into a low wheelie to put as much of it as possible between them and oncoming gunfire.
The woman kept shooting as the Blackbird sped past. Thankfully, she was unable to hit anything vital on the rapidly approaching target. They were thirty meters down the road when Quinn heard the Hayabusa roar to life behind him. The last thing he wanted was for this woman to be on his tail.
He slowed just enough to keep from pitching them both off the bike in a high-side crash, locking up the Honda’s rear brake so it lost traction. Looking back over his shoulder, he leaned, dumping the clutch and pouring on the throttle to turn the bike into a smooth 180 in a near perfect foot-down drift. He and his brother both had the scars to prove they’d practiced such moves hundreds of times in the high school parking lot growing up.
Smoke poured from the Hayabusa’s rear tire as it grabbed for traction on the chilly pavement. Firing the pistol left-handed, she was unable to shift gears. The bike screamed to redline, still in second as she sped by against traffic. Cabs and delivery vans peeled off in either direction to avoid the oncoming motorcycle. Horns blared. A black sedan careened into a fire hydrant, sending a geyser of spray into the winter air.
Quinn slowed again, drifting the back tire through another 180-degree turn. Ayako craned her head around to keep her eye on the fleeing Suzuki. Centrifugal force threw her sideways on the tiny passenger seat. Flailing, she clutched at Quinn’s jacket in mid-lean. The rear tire bucked as it caught traction. Quinn poured on more throttle, breaking the tire loose and narrowly avoiding a wreck.
“Sorry,” Ayako screamed over the sound of wind and whining gears — so Japanese to apologize in the middle of a bike chase and shoot-out.
Thankfully, the Hayabusa took care of splitting the lion’s share of oncoming traffic, so Quinn could just keep the Blackbird pointing down the centerline. Ten seconds after turning around, he passed a blue Nissan with the slender antennas of an undercover police car. The American riding in the passenger seat caught his eye, head snapping around as they shot by.