State of Emergency

EPILOGUE


United States Air Force Academy

Colorado Springs





Two weeks after what was reported as a horrific boiler explosion that shut down the Frank Erwin Center for extensive cleanup, Jericho Quinn stood holding a shining saber with five other Air Force officers on the steps to the Academy chapel. He had the honor of standing to the right of the bride at the front of the line, nearest the audience.

Mattie waved at him from the bottom of the steps. But for her dark hair, she was a miniature Kim in a robin’s-egg dress with a yellow bow. Gary Lavin stood farther back in the arch. To Quinn’s surprise, he had no urge to hack the man to death like he’d thought he might. Kim waited for him below, mouth tight as if she was sucking on a lemon drop.

Thibodaux stood in Marine mess dress blues with Camille tucked in tight beside him. Their youngest looked tiny sleeping across his huge arm. Each of his other six boys wore a black eye patch with their suits in support of the new addition to their dad’s uniform.

Standing at attention, Quinn shifted his eyes to see Veronica Garcia standing next to the big Marine. Sensing his gaze, she smiled brightly, the sunshine yellow of her cap-sleeved dress accenting the richness of her skin—and bringing to mind the swimsuit she’d worn in Miami.

The Bruns appeared at the top of the stairs. Connie had never looked so beautiful. Colorado’s Front Range weather had cooperated for the wedding, giving her the perfect bluebird day.

On command, Jericho and the five other officers raised their sabers, edges to the sky so they formed an arched tunnel. The bride and groom walked ceremoniously under the blades until they got to Quinn and Major Moore, who lowered their sabers to block them and ordered them to kiss.

“You can do better than that,” Moore chided, forcing them to kiss again.

At that point, the sabers were slowly raised until the bride passed. By tradition, Quinn reached out to swat Connie on the bottom with the flat of his blade.

“Welcome to the Air Force, ma’am,” he said, grinning.





Ronnie Garcia kept to the side at the end of the ceremony. She knew few of the guests but was perfectly content to watch Jericho chat with his friends in the bright sunshine. He was as happy as she’d ever seen him, grinning and cracking jokes that actually made people laugh. Who knew Jericho Quinn had such a great sense of humor?

Kim came up beside her, breathing heavily as if something was on her mind. She was a head shorter than Garcia, more finely boned, but fit and certainly very beautiful.

“I like your date,” Ronnie said, to break the ice and obliquely point out that Quinn wasn’t the only one to show up with someone on his arm.

Kim brushed the comment aside, focused on Jericho. “You should know,” she said through clenched teeth. “I intend to fight you for him.”

Garcia sighed, shaking her head slowly.

“I am sad for you,” she said, as Quinn turned to grin at her. “All those years and you just figured out he’s worth fighting for. I knew from the moment I met him.”





Across Academy Drive, a thousand meters to the west, in the shadowed stands of pine and cedar, a lone figure pressed a dark eye to a powerful Leupold scope, playing mil-spec crosshairs from guest to guest. Killing Jericho Quinn would end things much too quickly. No, she would take one of his friends. That would draw things out, make the game more enjoyable, test the temper of his metal.

Too disciplined to laugh out loud and disturb her sight picture, the sniper’s lips perked into the slightest of smiles.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


As always, I owe a tremendous debt to those who assisted me with this story.

First things first: Many thanks to my agent, Robin Rue—what a patient lady to stick with me—and Gary Goldstein at Kensington—an editor and a friend.

Thanks to my pilot and motorcycle buds who’ve let me pick their brains: Sonny Caudill, Scott Ireton, Steve Arlow, and others who want to remain anonymous.

My friend Rod Robinson provided valuable color commentary on living in Bolivia and driving the Death Road as a young missionary.

Jujitsu master and dear friend Professor Ty Cunningham continues to provide invaluable instruction on the way of strategy and the philosophy of violent conflict.

Ray and Ryan Thibault of Northern Knives in Anchorage talk to me for hours about all things bladed and allowed me to field-test their Severance design in all kinds of ways—though none quite as interesting as what Jericho did.

Talking to Professor Matt Wappett via Facebook was entertaining and enlightening, but I wish I could travel to Idaho and attend one of his ethics classes in person. It would be great fun to discuss evil. Thank you, sir, for allowing me a peek into your curriculum.

I’ve never run the Dakar, but sometimes I pretend when I’m riding my GS on the back roads of Alaska. The timing of the race is perfect to get a motorcycle fix during our long winters. Third only to the Olympics and the World Cup, the Dakar is followed by millions of fans around the globe, but most Americans have never heard of it. ADVrider.com has numerous threads on the event, with a particularly great one that gushes like a fire hose giving minute-by-minute updates contemporaneous to each stage. A special thanks to Ted Johnson for sharing an advance copy of his wonderful book, Tales from the Bivouac, that is just chock full of great photos and details of his experience on a Dakar team.

To my gun-toting friends: many, many thanks for all the lessons—about tactics and life in general. You will, I hope, find little bits and pieces of yourselves within these pages. To quote Robert Louis Stevenson: “Of what shall a man be proud, if he is not proud of his friends?” You give me much to be proud of.

And finally, for my wife, Victoria—an icon of patience—thank you for helping me plot and plan and connive.