State of Emergency

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.

Quinn exhaled fast, fighting nausea. He advanced immediately, giving the woman a straight jab to the nose. Evidently used to being punched, she let her head snap back to absorb the blow, then moved quickly to counter with a double palm strike to Quinn’s ears.

“Hey!” Quinn warded off the blow and grabbed a wrist, chiding himself for allowing the woman to surprise him. He brought her hand up and over her head, spinning her like a dancer to cross her arms and pull her in snug against his chest. Her skin was slick and wet from the swimming pool. Holding on, he couldn’t help but feel he’d grabbed a live electric wire. He had to lift her off the ground so she couldn’t stomp his feet and arch his back to avoid a series of vicious head butts to his nose. Chlorinated water dripped from her hair and he could feel it soaking through the chest of his shirt with the warmth of her body. In all his years of fighting, he had little experience holding onto a wet, half-naked woman—at least one who seemed intent on clawing his eyes out.

“They might have killed you,” Quinn groaned in her ear, still waiting for the nausea to pass.

“And you allowed him to escape.” She squirmed against his grip. The edges of her bare feet raked against his shins. Whoever she was, this one knew a thing or two about scrapping.

Quinn stomped his foot to help relieve the pain in his groin and tightened his grip around the woman, trying to decide what to do with her. “Who are you?”

“None of your affair,” she groaned. “Let me go. You are . . . breaking . . . my ribs. . . .”

Quinn let his grip relax a notch, expecting another attack for the favor.

“You fool,” the woman spat. “I had him, and your interference allowed him to slip aw—”

A crunch of footfalls on the path behind him made Quinn release the woman and spin on his heels.

It was Valentine Zamora with Ronnie Garcia tucked in close to his side. The goon, Monagas, followed directly behind him. Crickets chirped in the bushes. A lizard scuttled along the branch of a tree directly overhead, rustling the leaves.

The Venezuelan grinned broadly, nodding at the debris-covered woman and the dampened front of Jericho’s khaki slacks and polo shirt.

“I see you have made yourself quite at home, Mr. Quinn. Not the prize I would have chosen when compared to the lovely Miss Garcia, but a change is as good as a rest, as they say.” He rubbed his chin in thought.

Ronnie’s mouth fell open, her full lips pouting as only they knew how. She drew back and slapped Quinn hard across the face. It was an honest slap, full of true emotion—as if it was something she’d been wanting to do for a very long time. She launched into a string of Cuban curses that caused Zamora to giggle, shooting a knowing glance at Monagas.

Quinn stood and took it, watching the redheaded Russian woman flee toward the safety of the pool and crowds.

Zamora held up his cell phone. “I can stop her with one call, my friend.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Zamora.” Quinn gave a dismissive shake of his head. “Just let her go.”

Still deep in her staccato Cuban tirade, Garcia moved to slap him again. He caught her wrist in mid swing, pulling her close. He couldn’t help but think he probably deserved the second slap as much as the first, but Garcia yielded immediately. She stood quietly beside him as the playthings of powerful men were supposed to do.

The Venezuelan put his arm around Quinn’s shoulders, squeezing as if they were old friends. “Call me Valentine, I beg you. It seems we have common passions, my friend—fast motorcycles, beautiful women . . . getting exactly what we want.” He stared openly at Garcia, his eyes playing lustfully across the tight fabric of her yellow swimsuit.

Thibodaux appeared from the direction of the pool, puffing out his chest at the sight of Quinn so close to their intended target. Ronnie took the opportunity to pull away. She ran past Jacques toward the pool.

Good girl, Quinn thought. She’d be trying to identify the redhead.

Thibodaux stepped forward, big hands open at his side, ready for trouble.

“You okay, boss?”

Monagas moved immediately to interdict him.

Both Zamora and Quinn raised their hands, halting their men.

The Venezuelan giggled maniacally. “And it seems we each have devoted protectors.” He stepped back and tilted his head to let Monagas whisper something in his ear.

“He tells me you move like a boxer,” Zamora said.

“I’ve spent some time in the ring,” Quinn said. It was the truth. He’d won the Wing Open boxing tournament his senior year at the Air Force Academy and earned a broken nose for the effort.

Zamora sniffed, scanning up and down as if assessing him as a possible opponent. “I trust Julian above all others, you know. The Monagas family has served the Zamora household for generations, since Julian’s great-great-great-grandfather Monaghan came to my country from Ireland. Monagas is very good at what he does. I think he’d like to see what you’re capable of in the boxing ring.”

“I would enjoy that very much,” Quinn said honestly, giving the stocky Irish Venezuelan a dismissive glance. “But I don’t think my bodyguard would let me fight your bodyguard. It only confuses matters.”

“Not to mention the fact that you’d need a new bodyguard,” Thibodaux scoffed.

“I have seen Julian shatter a man’s cheekbone with a single punch.” Zamora looked back at Monagas. “However, I must admit, in this case I’m not entirely sure who I would bet on.” He sighed. “Such a shame. I wish we had time to get to know each other better. You are a very interesting man, Jericho Quinn.”

“Maybe we can have that race you talked about this morning.” Quinn kept his voice cavalier but felt his chance at a more substantial meeting slipping away. His gut told him this was the guy with the bomb, but a couple of Chechens and a Yemeni visiting an arms dealer hardly constituted proof.

“Another time.” Zamora shrugged. “I leave for Mar del Plata in a few days’ time.”

Now it was Quinn’s turn to smile. Maybe there was a chance after all. “Mar del Plata?”

“Pity.” Zamora nodded. “Beating you would have been a pleasure.”

“Well, my friend, Valentine.” Quinn wagged his head as if he’d had one too many drinks. “As it happens, I am on my way to Mar del Plata as well.”

“You can’t be serious?” The ever-present giggle rose like a wave on his voice.

“Indeed,” Quinn said, copying Zamora’s inflection.

“That is most excellent.” Zamora slapped him on the back. “What a pair we make, you and I.” His eyes were wild and glassy with alcohol. “But now I have to piss. Meet me at the bar in five minutes and we can talk this over. I will find you another girl since yours ran away.”

“I’ll be fine with Veronica,” he said.

“Suit yourself.” Zamora grinned. “But let me know if she begins to bore you again. I keep Cathy on hand for just such eventualities. . . .”



Thibodaux stepped closer as soon as Zamora and his thug were out of earshot. “I want to staple that guy’s lips shut every time he cackles like that.” The big Cajun shivered. “Gives me the damn creeps. You ask me, he ain’t sane enough to have the bomb.”

Quinn rubbed his jaw. His ear still rang where the red-haired woman and then Garcia had smacked him. “What, only stable people can have nuclear weapons now?”

“Hell no,” Jacques said. “That ain’t what I mean and you know it. I mean to say it’d be a miracle if he was able to get his hands on such a thing without blowing his own ass off.”

“Don’t forget about the Yemenis and our Chechen friends. A man-portable nuke would be as good a reason as any for them all to be here.”

“His daddy’s with the Venezuelan government,” Thibodaux said. “Everyone knows Iran and half the other bad actors in the world are allied with Venezuela. Maybe they’re trying to get in good with Junior. He is a damned arms dealer after all. Maybe they’re just some of his regular customers.”

“Maybe,” Quinn said. “Or maybe they’re sniffing around for the bomb.”

“Seems like Zamora’s more interested in beatin’ up women and ridin’ fast bikes.”

“And now that’s exactly what he thinks of me,” Quinn said.

“Lucky us,” Jacques muttered. He stared into the thick tangle of foliage. “You find out who the freckled gal is?”

“A Russian,” Quinn said, rubbing his jaw again. “And she was nyet too happy with me for breaking up the fight with Umarov. Could be SVR tailing Chechen terrorists. Whoever she is, she knows how to scrap.”

“Maybe so.” The big Cajun raised a thick eyebrow. “So, you gonna tell me what you meant about Mar del Plata?”

Quinn turned toward the pool. “I told Zamora I happened to be entered in the same little motorcycle race he is.”

“In South America?”

“Yep,” Quinn said.

“When?” A look of dread crossed the Cajun’s face.

“It’s still a week out.” Quinn kept walking.

“Whew.” Thibodaux smirked. “A whole damned week. That’s not so bad. I was afraid you were gettin’ us in over our heads.”

“There is one thing.” Quinn stopped, turning to face his friend. “When my brother and I rode it in Africa it took us over a year to get ready. This particular race runs over five thousand miles through the deserts of Argentina, Chile, and Peru—”

“Hells, l’ami!” Thibodaux spat. “You’re as crazy as Zamora.”

“Maybe.” Quinn shrugged.

“Seriously, a week?” Thibodaux said, the timing finally setting in. “Are you shittin’ me? That’s right after Christmas. Camille is gonna cut my cojones off with a butter knife.”

“Come on, Gunny, this is the kind of race where you mark all your gear with your blood type—just our kind of thing.” He stopped a moment, wiggling his jaw, then adjusting his belt. “You were right about that redhead’s tail end, by the way.”

“Crazy?” Thibodaux gave him a big grin, nodding.

“As a loon. How could you tell?”

“Well, l’ami—” The big Cajun looked around before leaning in closer. “Don’t tell her I said this, but from the angle I saw, that redhead looked an awful lot like my Camille.”

Quinn chuckled, moving again.

“Speaking of crazy,” Thibodaux said, walking beside him toward the riotous sounds around the pool. “You think he has it?”

“I do,” Quinn said. “But the question is where. I have an idea I want to run by you and Ronnie that might help us find out.”