Putting his hands flat on the counter, he stared at himself and couldn’t help smiling. His biological father had envisioned this day, methodically moving aside anything and anyone that got in his way. And then, Jericho Quinn had come along and forced him to kill himself. McKeon knew Quinn was still out there and that he would come for the president. And, McKeon thought, that was all right. For all anyone in the United States knew, he was not the son of Pakistani doctor Nazeer Badeeb and the Chinese Muslim Li Huang, but a natural-born citizen of the United States of America, perfectly capable of assuming the presidency if Hartman Drake happened to be assassinated by a madman.
The pert young staffer walked in and stepped between him and the mirror. In her mid-twenties, she was Japanese, with long black hair and eyes that were more ochre than brown. She wore nothing but a long-sleeve pajama top, deep maroon to match her lipstick.
Round where he was angular, pale where he was dark, she was over a foot shorter than McKeon and had to stand on tiptoe to get her arms around his neck. She pressed against his body and kissed him long and hard.
“You don’t need those stupid Secret Service agents,” she growled, biting him on the lip.
He jerked away, finger to his mouth, tasting blood.
“Maybe I need them to protect me from you.” He grinned.
“Nonsense,” the woman said, letting the pajama top slide to the floor.
His hands snaked around her naked waist, pulling her roughly to him.
Her lips nuzzled his neck and his eyes fell on the intricate tattoo inked across her back — a snarling foo dog, mouth open, fangs bared.
Sinking her teeth into the soft flesh of his ear, she once again drew blood. He shuddered at her whisper.
“I am your protector.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Until this year, it had been over thirty years since I set foot in Japan. A young lady told me the last time I left that something about the place would forever tug me back. Turns out she was right.
Yukiko Pollard made this trip more than I could have hoped for. She proved to be an excellent interpreter — bridging the gap where my rusty language skills fell off — and the perfect guide, consultant, and traveling companion. Her insight into the culture and people helped developed nuances and backstory for Jericho’s adventure that I could never have gotten otherwise.
Lan Yamada offered me a place to stay and write and provided much in the way of background regarding Fukuoka and the surrounding area. I cannot look back on my time there without thinking that I not only gained valuable writing contacts but lifelong friends. A four-hour dinner with several officers from the Fukuoka Police Department, who wish not to be named, provided invaluable assistance with the subtleties of working in Japanese law enforcement — not to mention helping me see that there is a particular kinship shared by police officers wherever they happen to serve.
I also need to thank the proprietor of an unnamed love hotel in Tokyo for the guided tour. Interesting, to say the least.
Thanks to Brad Husberg and Doctor Dustin H. for their ideas and pointers regarding plagues of biblical proportions. It is indeed a frightening thing to get scientists talking what-ifs over a bowl of curry chicken.
Thanks to Ben for his assistance with Mandarin and the aforementioned Yukiko and Lan for their help with Japanese.
As always, Ty Cunningham, my martial arts instructor and friend, helped walk me through the violence and fight dynamics. I’m still sore from getting my throat “cut” so many times with a silicon spatula.
Thanks to Andy Goldfine of Aerostich riding gear, who helped me work through what it would be like to be on the receiving end of a police dog bite while wearing an armored motorcycle jacket.
Thanks to Scott Ireton, Sonny Caudill, Vic Aye, and my other motorcycle buds for letting me talk through the riding scenarios.
My agent, Robin Rue, and my editor, Gary Goldstein, are great people and a pleasure to work with.
Ryan and Ray at Northern Knives in Anchorage continue to provide insight into all things edged.
My hat goes off to the men and women of the Air Force Office of Special Investigations — and especially, to my friends with the United States Marshals Service — heroes all.
And, most important, thanks to Victoria, my kindest critic and greatest support.