State of Emergency

CHAPTER 36


Quinn awoke on his side, hands pulled unnaturally behind him. His helmet lay in the rocks a few feet away. He’d landed on his left ear after hitting the fesh fesh—superfine particles of dust that blew along the desert floor to fill in any low spots. Fesh fesh looked like regular ground and ate many unsuspecting motorcyclists if those low spots happened to be more than a few inches deep.

The KTM was somewhere close behind him. He couldn’t see it but reasoned that he hadn’t been unconscious long from the sound of ticking metal as the bike bled heat from the engine.

Quinn tried to push himself to a seated position and realized his hands were tied behind his back. He turned his head slowly and saw Zamora had an even bigger problem.

Ten meters to Quinn’s right, Blessington and another man Quinn recognized as the Chechen from the chalet in Mar del Plata stood towering over a bound Zamora. The Venezuelan’s riding boots and socks had been stripped off. His bare feet had been strapped to the handlebars of his motorcycle—which lay on its side, apparently another victim of unsuspected fesh fesh.

The Chechen spewed something in rapid-fire Russian, kicking Zamora in the ribs when he didn’t answer. The Venezuelan cursed him back, spitting vehemently into the dirt.

Blessington smiled, drawing back a long wooden staff nearly an inch in diameter. He let it hang for a long moment while the Chechen asked another question, then struck cruelly on the sole of Zamora’s pink foot before he had time to answer.

Zamora writhed in pain from the blow, thrashing hard enough to yank the handlebars of his bike sideways. Blessington set down the stick to maneuver the bike and his victim’s feet back into position as a better target.

Quinn knew both he and Zamora were dead as soon as they got what they wanted. He looked around, shifting his eyes rather than moving his head and drawing attention to himself. Behind him, he could feel the heat radiating off the KTM’s muffler. Taking advantage of their preoccupation with Zamora, Quinn inched backward to the bike, pressing the plastic zip ties on his wrist against the exhaust, as close to the engine as he could get. He winced as the heat seared the tender skin inside his wrists, but held them there until the plastic melted, freeing him with a faint pop as they gave way.

Now loose, he kept his hands behind him and took another look at his opponents. The Chechen had a pistol on his hip and Blessington had a knife in addition to his wooden staff. It killed him inside to help a man like Zamora escape. The treatment he was getting was well deserved. But Blessington was enjoying himself too much. It was obvious the Chechens wanted the bomb, but these two were heavy-handed. They were likely to kill Zamora by accident before he told them anything.

Quinn toyed with the idea of giving them a few minutes before he took action, but they could turn on him at any moment. The chance the Chechen would draw his pistol and start shooting was too great.

He moved his feet slightly, wiggling his toes to make sure they weren’t asleep. The last thing he needed was to be halfway into his lunge and realize he was working on two dead legs. When he felt reasonably sure his body was in good enough working order after the wreck, he took one final look at the situation and let Blessington have one more whack at Zamora’s feet.

The piercing screams provided good cover for his initial movement—and Blessington’s feelings of superiority at dispensing punishment to a helpless prisoner made him careless.

Many an advancing army had been beaten when a retreating foe turned and struck them down in the midst of their foolish bravado.

Quinn rolled to his feet at the crescendo of Zamora’s tattered cries. He picked up the helmet and threw it underhanded as he moved, catching Blessington center chest. It didn’t cause any damage, but surprised him, giving Quinn a precious second to focus on the other man.

A half step out, Quinn pulled up short, stepping sideways as if trying to avoid a confrontation. The Chechen, taking this for weakness, struck out with a powerful right hook. Instead of meeting the punch, Quinn let it sail by, grabbing it across the top, drawing against his center, then reversing directions to turn the wrist back on itself. In Japanese martial arts it was called kote-gaeshi .

Quinn kept his own circles tight and powerful as he spun, but extended the man’s arm, not only snapping the fragile wrist bones but destroying his elbow and shoulder joints as well. Screaming in pain, the Chechen clutched the damage with his good hand. Quinn grabbed him around the chest, turning to face a maniacal Blessington, the wooden rod raised high over his head like a sword.

Quinn’s hand slipped the pistol from the Chechen’s belt as he let the man fall. He shot without aiming, putting two slugs in Blessington’s belly as he tried to bring the wooden staff down on Quinn’s head. The Brit stood blinking for a long moment, slumping against the heavy stick like a cane before toppling forward, his open mouth blowing soft puffs of fesh fesh away as he drew his last breaths.

Quinn used his pocketknife to cut Zamora’s hands free, keeping an eye on the wounded Chechen.

“Are you okay?” Quinn said, tossing him the blade so he could cut loose his own feet.

“I’m fine,” Zamora said, blinking to clear his head. He tested tender feet before standing. “Thankfully, nothing is broken. . . .” He gave Quinn a long quizzical look before turning toward the glaring Chechen, who lay just ten feet away.

The Chechen peered up at Quinn with brooding eyes. “You think you know this man, but you do not.”

Zamora was on him in an instant, striking over and over. Quinn kept the blade of his ZT folder extremely sharp. That, combined with Zamora’s white-hot desire for revenge, gave the Chechen no chance for survival.

Zamora’s face was covered in blood when he looked up. “We should get out of here,” he said, wiping his face with a rag from inside his riding jacket. “Frankly I’m surprised the ASO hasn’t sent someone looking for us since our bikes have been stopped so long.”

Without the illegal communication Quinn could not have known about the accident or the fact that Zamora’s IriTrak was malfunctioning, so he didn’t mention it. Instead he nodded at the bodies, feigning shock.

“I’m not in too much of a hurry to get caught out here with these guys. What was that all about anyway?” He shrugged and picked up his bike. He breathed a sigh of relief when it started on the first try.

Zamora was already snapping the camlocks on his riding boots. “Trust me,” he said. “You do not want to know.”

The IriTrak on Quinn’s KTM began to speak, rescuing him.

“Contestant 172, please report your status.” The voice was thickly French.

“Good to go,” Quinn responded. “Just took a wrong turn. Moving now.”

“Acknowledged,” the race official said, ending the transmission.

A little more time bought, they dragged the bodies into the deep fesh fesh, making sure they were well covered in the event of a flyover. Quinn made certain the IriTrak on Blessington’s bike was disconnected before burying it in fesh fesh as well. The Chechen must have had a vehicle nearby, but it was nowhere to be seen and there was no time to worry about it.

Zamora’s Yamaha started with a little coaxing.

“There must be something wrong with my GPS.” The Venezuelan sat on his bike beside Quinn. “I am left to wonder why you followed me if your GPS was functional.”

Quinn shrugged. “Sometimes it’s easier to follow a pro than it is to lead. Why do you think Geroux and Caine trade wins each day? One does all the work of the leader while the other sits back only to shoot ahead fresh at the end—putting him in the lead for the next day and repeating the cycle.”

Zamora nodded. “And you hoped to follow me until the end so you could beat me?”

“It’s a tactic.”

“Well.” Zamora winked, lowering his goggles. “I am fortunate you came along. But sometime in the not too distant future, you may regret your decision to save my life.”

Quinn watched as the man raced away, covering him in a rooster-tail shower of sand. He regretted his decision already.