Brute Force (14 page)

Quinn entertained the fleeting thought that she might be setting him up to be shot during an attempted escape.

“You must trust me.” She looked at her watch. “I will meet you in one hour in front of the Blue Sky Hotel. It’s on Jiefang Road alongside the park.”

“You said we are after the same thing.” He slipped on a new pair of Nike running shoes as he spoke, keeping an eye on the woman.

“When you questioned Hajip, you asked him about the Feng brothers,” Song said. “Like you, I am trying to forestall a war between our two countries.”

“So, you’re Army?” Quinn asked.

“MSS,” she said. Both an intelligence and enforcement organization, the Ministry of State Security was China’s version of the KGB—with the same reputation for being heavy-handed toward their own citizens. Her lips set in a tight line. “Now hurry. But make no mistake, if my assessment of you is wrong—and you try to run, the combined forces of the police and the People’s Liberation Army will hunt you down and kill you.”

“And what if you’re right?” Quinn asked, looking over his shoulder after a quick peek into the empty hall. “What if we are after the same thing?”

“Then many of those same people will be hunting us both.”

 

R
onnie Garcia set her espresso on the table beside a folded copy of the
Gettysburg Times
crossword and watched Congressman Mike Dillman pause outside the shop across the street. He wore a baseball hat pulled low over sandy gray hair. Even from her vantage point a hundred feet away, his large handlebar mustache made it easy to identify him. He studied the crayon mark on the sidewalk just long enough to make Ronnie uncomfortable before ducking into the coffee shop.

Sue Gorski walked close behind him. A slender woman with the short, well-styled hair of someone used to the public eye, the senator from Alaska was dressed much like Ronnie in a crisp button-down oxford blouse and light slacks. She wore dark glasses, likely for the same reason Dillman wore the cap, though they looked less like a disguise and more like a fashionable piece of her normal wardrobe. Looking up and down the street, she ducked into the shop behind the congressman.

Garcia waited ten more minutes as tourists flowed back and forth in front of the espresso shop. Six patrons came and went, each carrying a cup of something they’d purchased inside. Garcia hit the tiny Bluetooth bud in her left ear and called Miyagi.

“How does it look out there?”

“Clear as of yet,” the Japanese woman said. “But any followers could merely be waiting.”

“I’ll give it five more minutes,” Garcia said, noting the time on her Aquaracer. “Let me know if you see anything odd.”

“Of course,” Miyagi said, ending the call.

Ronnie felt stupid even as she said the words. Emiko Miyagi had been her teacher at The Farm. There was no doubt she would let Garcia know if she saw something out of place.

Five minutes clicked by with no screech of tires or scream of IDTF sirens. Ronnie took the time to take what Thibodaux called a combat pee and get rid of all the coffee she’d been downing during her wait. Finished, she grabbed the newspaper from her table and stepped back out into the summer heat and flow of pedestrian traffic. The smell of someone grilling hot dogs made her stomach growl and she realized she hadn’t eaten in hours. Instead of heading directly over to the waiting delegation, she walked down the street, crossing at the corner and window-shopping her way back to the espresso shop, keeping a weather eye open for surveillance.

Knowing she was at the point where she’d have to commit or walk on by, Garcia took a deep breath and walked inside. The harsh clang of a cowbell gave her a start as she stepped through the door into the air-conditioned shop. She half expected to be surrounded the moment she walked in but was greeted by a pert little barista with fuchsia hair and a nose ring.

Full to the gills with coffee and feeling more than a little jittery, Garcia ordered a peach Italian soda and approached the waiting congressional delegation. She’d never met either of them, but was happy they’d chosen a table in the back corner near the door to a small kitchen, under the dusty mount of a deer head.

Cool drink in hand, she put on a broad smile and walked up to the table.

“Mind if I sit down?” she said, sipping on the soda through a straw daubed with her wine-colored lipstick.

Congressman Dillman, ever the gentleman, stood and pointed an open hand to the empty chair with its back to the wall. “I thought we’d save you the gunfighter seat,” he said.

Senator Gorski smiled. She had a kind face but Garcia could see the tension around her normally laughing eyes and mouth. She was not cut out for this sort of meeting.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Garcia said, keeping her tone and actions light, even as the topic of her conversation turned to treason.

 

 

Ten minutes later Senator Gorski looked up from the diagram of terrorist connections Ronnie had sketched on her napkin.

“Well then,” she said, demonstrating the poise under pressure that had earned her three terms in the senate. “Everything you say sounds plausible. The President’s support is waning, but even those who would believe the charges would need hard proof to convict. A photo with a known terrorist is damaging, but I’m not sure it constitutes a high crime or misdemeanor. Too easy to explain away. I think we might get more mileage with charges of warmongering.”

“I understand,” Garcia said, turning to Dillman. “Congressman, do you think you have a majority?”

He smoothed his mustache and nodded. “Enough for an impeachment? Yes, I’m sure we do.”

“The people I work with believe that will be the shot across the bow we’d need,” Ronnie said. “It will let the Chinese know that not everyone in this country is quite so eager for war.”

“Not to mention putting the administration on the defensive,” Gorski mused. “Even if they aren’t convicted.”

“Not that it makes a difference,” Dillman said, “but having these particular men on the defensive is bound to be extremely dangerous for the people that put them there.”

“No doubt,” Garcia said. “This is dangerous for all of us, but the alternative is unthinkable.”

Gorski stood, pushing the napkin back across the table at Garcia, smart enough not to carry something so damning on her person. “Please tell Mr. Palmer that he has our support.”

Mike Dillman stood as well. “And tell the old warhorse when this is over he owes me a beer.”

“When this is over—” Ronnie said, as Miyagi’s voice crackled over her earbud.

“You have visitors,” she said through the electronic crackle. “Two SUVs rolling up in front—”

“Roger that.” Garcia pointed her open hand toward the kitchen entrance. Jaw set and scanning for options, she repeated Miyagi’s warning to Dillman and Gorski. “You understand I cannot let them arrest me,” she said.

“We do,” Dillman said as a pudgy man with greasy black curls walked in from the back to block her way. Another agent, this one older, but in no better physical shape, brought up the rear. Since neither looked like much of a runner, they’d probably resort to guns right off the bat.

“Benavides!” Garcia whispered, recognizing the lead IDTF agent. Jacques had forced the witless idiot to help rescue the Director of the CIA from a secret prison.

“Well, well, well,” Joey B said, his words dripping with condescension. “Sweet Meat. You’re looking kind of pale without your big Cajun friend.”

Garcia choked back a gasp. It killed her that this pompous bastard was able to get such an emotional response. He was a weak man. She knew that, but weaklings were especially dangerous when they got the upper hand. Virginia Ross had recounted his cruel treatment while she was in custody. Ronnie knew what he was actually capable of—and what was in store for her if they got her alone.

“Turn your ass around so I can pat you down for weapons.” Benavides gave her a lecherous wink. “With all you got going on, this might take a while.”

“Here now!” Congressman Dillman stepped in between Agent Benavides and Garcia. “There’s no call for that sort of talk.”

“Step aside, Granddad.” Benavides flicked a fat hand like he was shooing away a fly. “This is a federal investigation.”

Garcia glanced behind her, seeing two more agents come through the front door. Both were on the heavy side, but not as soft as Joey B and his partner. One had the flat nose of a street fighter and there was likely a good deal of muscle hiding under his bulk. Benavides and his partner were definitely the weak link in the arrest team. Frozen like a deer in the path of an oncoming car, she thought of drawing her pistol and shooting her way out. Action was always faster than reaction so her odds were actually pretty good. At the very least, she’d have the satisfaction of shooting Benavides in the eye before falling in a hail of bullets. But that would leave Gorski and Dillman at the mercy of the IDTF.

Joey B gave her another leering stare. “It would be a surprise if you could hide a weapon in those jeans,” he said.

“Son,” Dillman said, blocking the agent’s way with his hip. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

Not quite as soft as he looked, Benavides planted the flat of his hand against Dillman’s chest and shoved him back into his chair. “I believe I do,” he said. “You’re the dumb bastard from Indiana about to be arrested for treason.”

Older than Benavides by at least two decades, Mike Dillman was still a military man. Garcia saw the flash of indignation in his eyes and moved to protect Senator Gorski from what was about to happen.

Dillman rebounded the moment he hit the chair, springing back to his feet to clobber a startled Joey Benavides with a wicked right hook. Dillman pressed his advantage, driving the agent backwards and giving Garcia time to draw her gun and drag Senator Gorski toward the rear door. With any luck the bulk of the IDTF backup team would be out front.

“Stop her!” Benavides screamed, even as Mike Dillman backed him against the wall and pummeled him with blows. A new agent, this one younger and in much better shape than the others, bounded in through the kitchen, colliding with Garcia and sending her sprawling onto the floor with the senator. Scrambling to her feet, she caught a fleeting glimpse of something dark that seemed to fly toward the congressman. The young agent hit her hard in the neck with an expandable baton, missing her head, but staggering her. She pushed off a table, catching him on the chin with the point of her elbow and buying some time. A pitiful cry came from her right. She looked up in time to see a fierce Asian woman standing over Dillman. Her heart rose, thinking it was Miyagi, but something wasn’t right. This woman looked like Emiko but was much younger, with a darkness that was palpable, even from across the room.

A blade glinted in the muted light as the woman used her dagger to great effect, gutting the congressman where he stood.

Dillman staggered backwards, blood-drenched fingers clutching his abdomen. Benavides climbed to his feet and spat on the floor. He dabbed at his bloody lip before drawing his pistol and shooting the congressman three times in the head. The bullets tore away much of the poor man’s skull but he was a tough bird and even with the gruesome damage, it took a moment for him to stop moving. The barista screamed, clutching her fuchsia hair as she dropped behind the counter.

“Come on!” Ronnie prodded Senator Gorski, who stood transfixed by the awful sight of her friend. An instant later, Ronnie heard the familiar crackle of a Taser. A searing pain arced from her buttocks to her shoulder as the twin barbs sent fifty thousand volts through her muscles. Toppling like a downed tree, she fell headlong on the floor, her body, from forehead to toes, arched stiff as a plank, as it tensed from the electricity. After five agonizing seconds, the shock abated and she collapsed, panting for air.

“Hit her again,” Benavides spat, his voice slurred from the beating. “I want this bitch tenderized.”

She flailed her hands behind her back, hoping to sweep the thin electrical wires away, but it was too late. Her body arched again and she was clenching her jaw so hard she thought it might pop out of place. A grunting scream felt forced from her throat. The shock abated and she collapsed drooling, her cheek pressed against the carpet. A shadow crossed her face and she expected to feel handcuffs at any moment. Instead, she felt a stab of pain as someone jabbed a needle into her neck. Gorski’s terrified scream faded into nothingness.

 

E
miko Miyagi stood from her sidewalk table halfway down the block and across the street the moment she saw the maroon SUV. It had normal license plates, but the small black puck antenna on top identified it as being wired for a two-way radio, equipment civilian cars were unlikely to have. A balding man wearing a fishing vest stepped out of the passenger side, hitching up his slacks and exposing a dangling pair of handcuffs that were stuffed in his waistband. Miyagi shot a glance over her shoulder to see another SUV arrive, this one white and bulging with more men in tactical gear and ill-fitting suits.

She warned Garcia on the radio, simultaneously drawing the short sword from behind her back. Holding it with the point down, parallel to her thigh, she padded up quickly behind the white SUV. She’d counted six men, two in the lead and four in the white follow car. Formidable, but their superior numbers made them complacent. She was able to kill the first three before the fourth realized she was even there. She drew the blade across the fourth man’s throat as she ran to help Garcia.

In front of her, a younger agent pushed open the door of the espresso shop, exiting to the street. He waved the maroon SUV forward with a flick of the pistol in his hand. Miyagi, still fifty feet away, picked up the pace as two more agents followed him out. One carried an unconscious Garcia over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Another dragged a handcuffed Senator Sue Gorski toward the second SUV. A young Japanese woman followed them out.

Emiko slowed, struggling to keep a grip on the short sword as she looked at the face she’d not seen for two decades—the face of her own daughter. The bearing, the walk—the resemblance was unmistakable.

“Ran!” Miyagi gasped, head spinning. Like herself, the young woman’s clothing was swathed in blood.

The younger woman’s head shot up when she heard her name, glaring. She too stumbled, shaking her head as if to clear her vision. Shoving the agent with Garcia into the waiting SUV, she froze, dagger in hand. She cocked her head to one side, entranced.

“Ran?” Miyagi said again.

The younger woman shook it off, and jumped in the front passenger seat. Benavides dragged Senator Gorski into the back, sending the remaining two agents to take care of Miyagi as the SUV sped away.

Both agents began to shoot immediately, oblivious of the crowd of pedestrians that had gathered to watch the spectacle. Miyagi sprang sideways, letting her blade clatter to the sidewalk. She drew her own sidearm, desperate not to lose sight of the departing SUV. Her Ducati was parked around the corner. If she could see to these two remaining agents, she’d be plenty fast enough to follow and see where they took Garcia.

Two more IDTF agents rolled up in a black Crown Victoria sedan, bailing out behind the cover of their car and sending Miyagi diving into a nearby shoe store. Rather than trying to capture her, the agents simply kept her pinned for two minutes before speeding away in the opposite direction of the maroon SUV.

Sirens began to wail as onlookers figured out this wasn’t some reenactment or street performance and called 911. Miyagi pushed her way through the gathering crowd, down the street to her Ducati. The SUV, Ronnie Garcia, and Senator Gorski were long gone. Miyagi had seen Dillman’s body as she’d run past the espresso shop and known from the blood on Ran’s clothing that she’d been the one to murder him.

Straddling the bike, Miyagi caught her breath as she punched a number into her cell. The shock of finally seeing her daughter after so many years combined with the frustration at having lost Garcia. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably, and for the first time in many years she felt as if she might break down.

Winfield Palmer picked up on the first ring. “Yes.”

“All is lost,” Miyagi said, clearing the catch in her throat. “I repeat. All is lost.”