The general looked up at Warfield. It was dark except for some light from the cars. “Well, I’m here, podnuh,” the general boomed. “So let’s see if you can get down and tell me why you borrowed this car of mine.”
Warfield jumped down to the ground and pushed the Redskins cap back.
The general put a light on Warfield. “Warfield!..My God! That you? What the hell?” The general began laughing. “Casinos are all closed in Atlantic City, man!”
Warfield caught his face. “Damn Right Donaldson?”
“Damn right!” The two men fell into a bear hug with almost child-like glee, Warfield abandoning for the moment the gravity of his situation. Captain Haygood looked around at the other troopers in disbelief. Some looked away to conceal their amusement.
Haygood nodded to two of his men and took a step toward Warfield. “I’m taking this man in, General Donaldson. My jurisdiction.”
Damn Right’s huge black hand blocked the trooper. “Harwood, you’d prob’ly be speakin’ Russian right now, wasn’t for Warfield here. I loaned him this car, so there is no crime. Now you reckon you could just go back to helpin’ those folks get away from the hurricane? Sounds like some of ’em are getting a little irate. I’ll take care of Warfield, here.”
Warfield and Daniel R. Donaldson paralleled each other through the military ranks and co-operated on missions more than once over the years. Donaldson had earned the nickname that matched his initials through his positive attitude and self-confidence: Anytime he was asked if he was certain about some plan he’d laid out, his answer was always damn right. Warfield had thrown a party for him when he retired from active duty three years ago and joined the guard.
But right now Warfield had no time for fraternization. “Danny, I can’t tell you anything right now except that it’s life-and-death important for me to get to Atlantic City. This storm’s not helping. Can you get me there?”
Donaldson nodded. “Take Sergeant O’Hare with you. Go as far as you can in the Humvee. Can’t put a chopper up in this, but we got a couple Triple-AV’s there in Atlantic City. O’Hare can radio ahead and get one to meet y’all where the water gets too high for the Hummer. That oughta do it, Warfield. Now get the hell outta here.”
Ought to do it was the understatement of the day, Warfield thought. The Advanced Amphibious Assault Vehicle had a forty-five-mile offshore range. It could span an eight-foot trench, walk over a three-foot vertical wall and handle eight-foot waves. The Marines used it transport troops ship-to-shore and to move them around on land.
As soon as they were on the road, Warfield used O’Hare’s radio to check his voicemail. The sound quality was poor but he heard Holden’s voice say it was urgent. Warfield called the number Holden left.
“It’s Warfield, Holden.”
“Don’t know what it’s about, but my brother Tom — FBI, you’ll recall — I was on the phone with him after I spoke with you. He said he’s got to talk to you before you see Mr. Quinn. I, I’m embarrassed, sir. Guess I said something to Tom about your call this morning. Know I should keep my mouth shut.”
“Don’t worry about it, Holden. Can you track him down while I hang on?”
Holden put Warfield on hold and came back on the line a minute later. “Tom’s phone’s out. I’ll send a deputy over to his house and bring him here. Thirty minutes!”
Warfield said he’d call back to the jail in half an hour.
All expressway lanes were northbound now but Damn Right Donaldson had ordered his guard troops to create a rolling roadblock on the outside lane of the expressway ahead of Warfield and O’Hare. That allowed the Humvee to make a speed of about thirty until they reached the western edge of Atlantic City, where the AAAV met them. O’Hare left the Humvee and rode with the Triple-AV crew and Warfield to the Golden Touch. The city was vacated. Boats and debris floated in the streets. Dark traffic signals flapped from their cable supports like kite tails. Trees were uprooted or broken, lying in streets that were under four feet of water. Warfield had never seen it rain so hard.
The triple-AV driver Juan Gonzales stopped in front of the Golden Touch, the only structure between them and the edge of the churning ocean. A submerged landscape area preceded a set of steps that led above water level to a plaza bordered by a concrete balustrade. There was just enough space between the four foot diameter building support columns for the vehicle to get through. Gonzales said he could deliver Warfield to the escalator steps that ran from the plaza up to the lobby area, well above the swirling water. “You say the word, Colonel Warfield.”
Warfield told Gonzales to wait while he checked back with Holden at ADC.
Captain Holden put his brother on the phone.
“It’s Tom Holden, Colonel.”
“Listen, Tom, I’m minutes away from seeing Quinn. What’s this about?”
“I’m a little uncomfortable telling you this but you need to know, even if it backfires on me. It’s not confirmed yet, still restricted to the very highest level and a handful of others at the Bureau. Not even the White House knows. Consequences are too great if it’s leaked and then couldn’t be confirmed. I have it only because I’m in charge of security for Fullwood’s data bank.”
Warfield looked at his watch. “Understood. Get to it.”
“Ever hear of a Leonard Magliacci?”
Warfield listened for the next ten minutes without saying a word.
Warfield nodded and Gonzales ran the amphibian up the steps. Before Warfield jumped over to the dead escalator he asked O’Hare if there were any firearms on board. There were none. The evacuation was a domestic operation.
“How many flights you gotta go up?” O’Hare asked, as Warfield made the leap.
Warfield had heard Cross mention Quinn’s suite. “Twelfth floor,” he shouted back. He ran beyond the cavernous lobby, through a roomful of slot machines and past the Austin Quinn Ballroom, where he found a stairwell and took two steps at a time. The elevators were likely operating on emergency power but he couldn’t risk being trapped in one. At the eleventh floor he took a minute to catch his breath and weigh the information Tom Holden had given him. He tried to imagine every scenario he might encounter at Quinn’s, and how he would respond. His first objective was Ana’s safety. Then Quinn.
Privately owned apartments occupied the twelfth floor of the Golden Touch. A couple of emergency red exit lights in the hall prevented total darkness. A sliver of light escaped under one of the room doors, frosting the hall carpet, and Warfield gambled that was Quinn’s suite. He went back to the stairwell and removed the fire axe he’d seen mounted there and planned his arrival.
Warfield stood in front of Quinn’s door and brought the axe down hard. It slammed through the lock and Warfield swooped low, rammed the door with his shoulder and rushed the room.
Quinn calmly stood there with a gun pointed at him.
“Well. I was getting concerned, Warfield,” Quinn said. The cocky smile had returned. He waved Warfield to a chair with the pistol. “Almost thought the storm kept you away. You’ll have to forgive me for underestimating you again.”
Warfield’s head was spinning. Quinn was expecting him? Why? Did that mean Quinn used Ana to draw him there in case he survived the goons who tried to kill him? Was Ana complicit in Quinn’s plot, or a victim?
“Ana. Where is she, Quinn?”
“Ana’s fine. Got a little sleepy after dinner. How about you, Colonel. Care for a drink? Or did you swear off after your…what would you call it? Your dark period?” Quinn put the .38 on the bar and kept an eye on Warfield as he poured a glass of Glenfiddich. Warfield noticed that he looked worse than when they met the day before.