State of Emergency

CHAPTER 25


Virginia





His bags packed, Quinn switched on the standing lamp beside his leather sofa and plopped down with the two-foot cardboard box he’d picked up from the post office. Flicking open his ZT folder from his pocket, he broke his own rule about using a “people-killing” knife to cut cardboard.

Quinn knew what was inside before he opened it. Smiling, he lifted the fourteen-inch curved blade.

He picked up his phone with the other hand.

“Ray,” he said when the other party answered. “You are the man!”

“You got it?” Ray Thibault’s smiling voice came across the line. He and his son, Ryan, ran Northern Knives in Anchorage. Both were on Quinn’s short list of trustworthy people. Ryan wore his hair in a buzz cut and shared his father’s easy laugh and religious zeal for all things edged. An expert pistol shot and knife fighter, Ryan carried a straight razor in his belt. Not everyone respected a pistol, he reasoned, but nearly everyone had been cut at least once. It was something they wanted to avoid at all cost—which made a straight razor a formidable psychological weapon. Ray preferred an Arkansas Toothpick. All grins and friendly advice, both father and son gave off a calm but deadly don’t-screw-with-me air.

“It looks like you left a kukri and a Japanese short sword in a drawer together and they had offspring,” Quinn said.

“We call it the Severance.” Ray gave an easy chuckle. “We talked about calling it the Jericho, but I thought you might get pissed. Anyway, when we heard about Yawaraka-Te, Ryan and I wanted you to have something to use.”

Quinn turned the knife in the lamplight. It was fourteen inches long and nearly an eighth of an inch thick along the spine. A black parachute-cord strap hung from a hole in the nasty skull-crusher pommel. The olive drab scales felt as natural in Quinn’s hand as the throttle of his motorcycle.

He missed Yawaraka-Te, and frankly could not wait until Mrs. Miyagi had her repaired. But for the utilitarian chores he might find in South America, Severance seemed to be the perfect blade. It looked to be the kind of knife that could cut down a small tree or convince an opponent that he should comply in order to keep his head.

“Mind field-testing it for us?” Ray asked, the sparkle in his eyes almost audible on the phone.

“I appreciate this more than you know, Ray.” Quinn weighed the blade in his hand, feeling the balance and heft of it. “But the places I go, you might not get it back.”

“Good deal,” Ray said. “Now about that other matter. Just send her by. I think I know exactly what she needs. . . .”





“Are you really going to buy me a pocketknife?” Mattie Quinn asked ten minutes later when Jericho had her on the phone.

“Everybody needs a knife, sweet pea,” he said. “Go ahead and check me right now.”

“Okay.” Mattie giggled. “Dad, have you got your pocketknife on you?”

“I have my pants on, don’t I?” Quinn said, sharing their inside joke. When she was barely old enough to understand, he’d promised her that if was wearing pockets and she caught him without a knife, he would buy her a soda.

“Mom says I might be too young.”

“I’ll square it with Mom,” Quinn said, knowing full well Kim was likely on the other line. “Do you cut up your own steak?”

“Of course, Dad. I’m seven.” He could hear her crinkling her nose in that adorable way of hers.

“Well, the way I see it, a steak knife is way bigger than a pocketknife.” Quinn practiced the line of reasoning he planned to use on Kim. “I already talked to Ray about which one.”

“I like Ray,” Mattie said. “He’s got the pet piranha.”

“All you have to do is get Mom to take you by the store,” Quinn said. “Merry Christmas, sweet pea.”

“Miss you, Dad,” she said.

“Miss you too. Can you put Mom on?”

“Sure,” Mattie said. “I’ll go get her. But you should know, she’s pretty mad about you not coming home for Christmas.”

Kim picked up immediately.

“I’m not mad,” she said, defending herself. “Just disappointed . . . for Mattie. What’s up?”

“Full disclosure,” Quinn said, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’ve talked to Ray about getting Mattie a knife for Christmas.” It astounded Quinn that he faced the most ruthless killers in the world without so much as a blink, but shuddered when he talked to his ex-wife.

“A knife?” she said. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he said, wishing for a terrorist to fight.

The phone went quiet for a long moment. “I guess I’m cool with her getting a pocketknife.” Kim changed her tune. “We are talking pocketknife, right, and not some people-killin’ cutlass?”

Quinn smiled at how much of him had rubbed off on her over the years. He released a pent-up breath, giving a thumbs-up to his empty living room. “You have my word. I won’t buy her a sword.”

Kim’s voice suddenly took on the playful tone that had snared him in the first place. “I made enchiladas.”

“That sounds great.” Quinn said. “You know I would be there if I could be.”

“Did you know Steve and Connie are getting married at the Academy?” she asked, changing the subject. “I forgot they weren’t married already.”

“I did. He asked me to be part of the ceremony.” Steve Brun had graduated from USAFA the same year as Quinn. They’d both served as Squadron Commanders, Quinn of the 20th Trolls and Brun of the 19th Wolverines. They’d led the Air Force Sandhurst competition team at West Point and gone through the rigorous pipeline of Air Force Special Operations training. While Quinn had moved to OSI, Brun had remained a combat rescue officer. Quinn had even introduced Steve to Jacques Thibodaux on a previous mission and they’d hit it off immediately. Brun had actually been together with his fiancée, Connie, for over ten years and they had finally decided tie the knot. From the very beginning, the two couples had done everything together. Kim and Connie remained close even after the divorce.

“Are you going?” Quinn asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Connie asked me to.”

“Good,” he said.

“Listen,” she said, her voice suddenly distant. “Gary Lavin has asked if I want to be his date.”

“I see,” Quinn said, feeling like he’d just been punched in the gut. “That will be interesting. Well, it’ll be good to see you anyway.”

Captain Gary Lavin was another acquaintance from the Academy, though he’d gone on to fly C-17s and eventually transferred to the 517th at Elmendorf in Anchorage. He’d been sniffing around Kim since they were cadets, so it made sense he’d look her up now that she was divorced.

“Listen, I have to go,” Quinn said, suddenly tired of talking.

“I know, I just . . .” Her voice trailed off as it often had when they’d spoken over the last three years.

“You what?” Quinn prodded softly, bracing himself for an avalanche of emotion.

“I just can’t help thinking that every time we say good-bye it might be the last. That kills me, you know.”

“We won’t say it then,” Quinn said, consoling her as best he could. “How about Merry Christmas?”

“Okay,” she said, her voice hollow. It was obvious he only made her miserable. “Merry Christmas. . . .”

He ended the call and tossed the phone on the coffee table beside the open box.

Over the years of courtship and marriage he’d missed countless holidays because of his job. Kim hadn’t liked the idea, but she’d put up with it, more or less. Other spouses missed special events because of deployments. Their loved ones cried a little and sucked it up. The country was fighting two wars.

Kim had left him, trashed him to his face, and even cursed him after he’d saved her life. He still loved her past the point of sanity, but he’d never really understand her. One minute she held him close, the next she wanted to take off his head. Loving Kimberly Quinn was like roasting in an exquisite flame—and getting stabbed a lot with a really big fork.

From the moment they met, he’d made no secret of the fact that he was in love with fast machines, bloody-knuckle brawls, and frequent travel to dark and dangerous parts of the world. She’d climbed aboard his bike and hung on for what he thought would be their grand adventure. Unbeknownst to him, she’d hoped from that very first ride to change him. He, on the other hand, had rolled on the gas and prayed this pretty blonde with her arms wrapped around his waist would stay the same forever.

But now, Jericho couldn’t tell her about the bomb. He’d had to tell her he was missing Christmas because he’d entered a motorcycle race.