President Chris Clark began to work the crowd the moment he entered the chamber, kissing women, shaking hands, and smiling as though his dimpled cheeks might shatter. McKeon nodded cordially to Jack Blackmore, Clark’s lead Secret Service Agent. The two knew each other from the governor’s recent meetings with the president. Blackmore stepped aside as McKeon extended both hands, taking Clark in a firm, brotherly shake with both hands so the Rolex Sea Dweller’s crystal face rubbed the skin on the back of the president’s hand. It was little more than a passing touch, but, according to Ranjhani, it would be enough.
“Good to see you, Lee,” Clark said, pumping the man’s hand in an earnest handshake of friendship. Laughably, he thought they were allies.
McKeon released his grip and slid away. “Good to see you as well, Mr. President.”
Up on the dais, Vice President Hughes and Hartman Drake clapped politely as they watched Clark work his way down the imperial blue carpet toward the podium, shaking more hands along the way.
He couldn’t see it, but McKeon knew that on the desk in front of Hughes was a brand-new fountain pen, a gift from the Speaker of the House, who, in turn, had received it from Qasim Ranjhani.
Clark stepped up to the podium and handed an envelope containing a copy of his speech to the vice president and another to the Speaker. Turning, the president stood at the lectern, grinning while Drake introduced him.
“My fellow Americans,” he said. “Though recent horrific events may lead you to believe otherwise, the state of the union is…”
The president paused, scratching the back of his hand. He looked down at his copy of the speech as if he’d lost place.
“My fellow Americans…” The ever-present smile vanished from his lips. He clutched his arm and stared out into the chamber, eyes unfocused, his mouth agape in a silent cry of pain.
Special Agent Blackmore, ever attentive to the needs of his charge, rushed to the president’s side the moment before he collapsed, guiding him to the ground. Secret Service personnel rushed from the sidelines, forming an instant perimeter around the fallen leader.
From the back of the chamber, Governor Lee McKeon watched four other agents bound up to the vice president while Capitol Police officers moved to Hartman Drake, ready to usher the men toward the Speaker’s Entrance, away from any threat as dictated by protocol.
Bob Hughes turned to look back at the flurry of activity around the president, the heavy weight of responsibility certainly bearing down on him.
McKeon suppressed a smile. The vice president needn’t have worried. In a few short seconds, any possibility of him stepping into the presidency would be gone forever.
CHAPTER 71
Thibodaux and Garcia engaged Oda’s responding troops with a withering fusillade of gunfire as Quinn skirted to the north side of the palatial home. Two sentries rounded the corner of a covered pavilion beside a koi pond, nearly running headlong into Quinn. The Uzi burped in his hands, killing both of them before they realized they’d found him.
A flash of movement caught his eye from above and he watched Miyagi scuttle along the outer edge of the parapet that ran lengthwise down the top of the roofline. Oda had indeed modeled the place after a feudal castle. Each corner had a raised tower with a metal railing that allowed a commander or defenders to look down on anyone trying to mount a siege from below.
Quinn heard a twig snap behind him and spun, moving to the cover of a nearby cedar. A volley of gunfire rattled from the shadows. He raised the Uzi to return fire, but when he pulled the trigger nothing happened.
Tap-rack-bang, failure-to-feed, failure-to-fire drills had been ingrained into his brain from the time he’d first started to carry a gun for a living. Tap—he slammed his hand into the base of the magazine to make certain it was seated. Rack—he worked the Uzi’s open bolt to clear any possible misfeed, then aimed again and pulled the trigger.
No bang.
His back pressed flat against the tree, he lifted the weapon to check in more closely. A round had impacted the stamped metal frame, denting the action and rendering it inoperable.
“We did not get to finish our contest,” a woman’s voice said from the other side of the tree. “The foolish whore prolonged your miserable life.”
Quinn dropped the Uzi to the ground. “So,” he yelled, “you want to finish what you started?”
“Pitiful Mr. Quinn,” the woman said, “that is exactly what I plan to do.”
He stepped around the tree, short sword in his hand. He half expected her to shoot him but only breathed a hair easier when he saw the long sword held before her in two hands. She’d beaten him before with the shorter wakizashi. Now she had another foot and a half of razor-sharp reach and the leverage of a two-handed grip.
The woman cocked her head to one side, hair hanging in a sullen flap across her eyes as she studied him. Absent the heavy motorcycle jacket, she was even smaller than Quinn had realized. She was dressed in tight black spandex pants — like Miyagi wore during their workouts — and a loose cotton blouse, open but for the bottom two buttons to reveal the swirling colors of the tattoo that covered her chest like an undershirt. Unlike Miyagi, there was no un-inked line running up the center of her body. She appeared to use the tattoo as some kind of psychological weapon, depending on the sight of it to disarm her opponents.
“What do you think of the design?” She gave a toss of her head.
“I’ve seen better.” Quinn shrugged. His feet slid over the rough ground, matching her pace as she circled.
“That is laughable.”
“Seriously,” Quinn said. “I have seen your mother’s tattoo. It is more skillfully applied.”
A flash of panic crossed the girl’s eyes. “What do you know of my mother?”
“She is my friend.” Quinn suddenly changed directions, closing the distance more quickly than the young woman had anticipated. She blocked his strike and slashed the sleeve of his jacket, toying with him before she stepped back to disengage. She was not quite ready to finish him until he’d satisfied her curiosity.
“I will ask you this only once.” She began to circle counterclockwise, forcing Quinn to lead with his left leg, sending waves of agony radiating from his injured kidney. “What do you know of my mother?”
Quinn smiled inside, remembering the words Miyagi had spoken in her garden the last time they’d sparred. Just because you hold a sword, does not mean it is the only weapon you can use to win the battle.
Gunfire popped and rattled in pockets below as Miyagi made her way along the rooftop. She’d encountered three sentries and dispatched each of them in turn silently with her dagger. Only one man stood at parade rest beside Oda at the far corner facing the knee-high stone parapet.
“I see you have resorted to bodyguards,” Miyagi said when she came up behind them. It had been years since she’d seen him, and yet it still seemed as if a fist gripped her heart.
Both men wheeled. The guard raised a pistol, but Miyagi put three bullets in his chest and a fourth in his forehead in case he happened to be wearing a vest.
Oda’s mouth fell open at the sight of her.
“Incredible,” he whispered. “You haven’t changed at all.” He had no weapon and raised both hands as if to embrace her as she advanced.