Brute Force (29 page)

Ehmet opened his mouth to speak but Yaqub stepped in, asking some inane question about the box and the weapon.

“Please, my brother,” Yaqub whispered, leading Ehmet toward the doorway. “Let us be on our way. We have important work.”

“I will be a moment,” Jiàn Z
u said, as they reached the door. It was too late for all three men to turn around without looking foolish, so the brothers continued toward the elevator, with Ehmet fuming at the snakehead’s usurpation of his power.

“What is it?” Big Uncle asked as the skinny Chinese man approached.

“I have a favor to ask, sir,” Yaqub heard Jiàn Z
u say, as the door swung began to swing closed. “On a very sensitive matter—”

A moment later, Big Uncle’s man followed the Fengs out into the hallway, leaving Jiàn Z
u in the gym alone with the powerful triad boss.

“What do you supposed they’re talking about?” Yaqub said, regretting it as soon as the words escaped his lips.

“I do not care,” Ehmet snapped, grabbing the weapon back from his brother. “We are where we need to be and we have what we need to have. There is no need to keep this Chinese fool around any longer.”

“He can still assist our escape,” Yaqub said.

“There are few things of which I am certain, my brother,” Ehmet snorted. “But whatever Allah has in store for our future, I’m sure it does not include escape.”

 

Q
uinn lay back on one of the two queen beds, eyes closed, hands on his belly. He was still dressed in the same rugby shirt and jeans, waiting for a turn in the bathroom, but his socks and shoes sat neatly at the foot of the bedside chair, unlaced in case he needed to put them on in a hurry. It was an extremely intimate thing to be barefoot while a woman he hardly knew took a shower in the next room, but he was too exhausted to care. He’d never been able to relax completely on a plane—and considering his recent confrontation with terrorists who were committed to bringing down a commercial airliner with a bomb, that sentiment had only grown worse. These few hours in the hotel before Big Uncle’s party was the first time in days he’d been able to lie flat in an actual bed.

As always, inactivity brought thought, and thought brought entire truckloads of worry—over his daughter and Ronnie Garcia and the mission at hand. Working, fighting, just moving from Point A to Point B allowed Quinn to compartmentalize the worry, to attack one problem at a time. He’d heard his father brag to a friend once that he was one of the hardest workers the elder Quinn had ever seen. Jericho knew it wasn’t true. He had no particularly strong work ethic. He was just a coward running from the idleness that brought with it too much deep thought—and that cowardice had served him well.

He allowed himself to wallow for a few moments over concern for seven-year-old Mattie hiding out in Russia—and Ronnie, recuperating from what must have been horrific treatment at the hands of the IDTF—all while he was stuck on the other side of the world, unable to help either of them. Quinn’s conscious mind told him there was nothing he could do but move forward. He could almost hear Emiko Miyagi’s Yoda-like admonition to “focus on the possible and let the impossible fade from your mind.”

Pushing futile thoughts to the far corners of his brain for later, he picked up the remote from the table beside the bed and turned up the volume on the television so he could hear the local news over the hiss of Song’s shower. A maid began to vacuum out in the hall, so he kicked up the volume a little more.

A blond woman who looked painfully like Kim stood in front of a green screen map of the area, forecasting rainy weather in Seattle for the next two days. Quinn closed his eyes again, setting the remote on his chest, waiting for the news. The torrent of worry began to flow back in, but he ran to thoughts of the mission at hand.

The Australian passport that Song had provided had been secure enough to get him into the country, but he wanted something that didn’t join him to Song at the hip. The small go-bag he kept stashed in Virginia held a driver’s license and two credit cards under the name of John Owen. He’d used these to check into the hotel. Conventional wisdom held that the first name of an alias should be the same as your real one, but a name like Jericho made that problematic. He’d chosen John for nearly all of his false IDs. It was easier to remember under stress.

The John Owen credit cards allowed him to have money of his own instead of mooching off a communist spy—a bad spot to be in, even if they did happen to be working toward the same goal. The go-bag also held five hundred dollars in twenties, a Surefire flashlight, and a ZT folding knife. He’d packed the Riot in his luggage, so he still had that as a tool and close-quarters weapon. He’d not chanced having Jacques send him a gun. He’d been without a pistol of his own since boarding Mandeep’s chopper—before that if he didn’t count the rusty .45 revolver he’d carried in Pakistan. But guns were like fruit in the circles where he operated, always in season and ready to pick if you knew where to look. He had no doubt there would be plenty of them at Big Uncle’s soirée. Hard experience had taught him that awareness and reflexes were much more handy than a sidearm. If you had the former, you could generally get your hands on the latter in a matter of moments if the need arose.

The news anchor on television made small talk with a traffic reporter about the President, Vice President, and Prime Minister Nabe all arriving in separate motorcades later that evening. They talked about how it was bound to clog the already terrible Seattle traffic.

Quinn closed his eyes and heard the water shut off in the bathroom. He couldn’t quite get his head wrapped around this Chinese woman. She was extremely intelligent and driven in her job, but the drive seemed that of an automaton. She appeared to be loyal to her country, but her heart was not in her work. No matter Quinn’s initial reservations, she’d proven herself extremely tough and more than capable, but tears of regret always seemed just beneath the stony exterior, ready to gush out if given even the tiniest crack.

A cloud of steam rolled through the door when Song came out of the bathroom wearing a white terry-cloth robe from the closet and a matching towel wrapped around her head like a turban. The floppy hotel room slippers did little to add to her image of communist spy and stone-cold killer

“I was thinking,” she said, brushing her teeth with a gimme toothbrush from the front desk. “You really need a haircut before we go.” She pointed at him with the toothbrush, jutting her jaw to keep the paste in her mouth as she spoke, using the bluntness that the Chinese were so good at. “You are much too shabby to attend a formal event and not quite young enough to carry the unkempt hipster look.”

“Especially with you as my date,” Quinn said, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed with a low groan. He rubbed his hand through his shaggy head of hair that grew well over his ears. She was right. It was hard to blend in if he looked like he was wearing a mop on his head. “I’ll go see if there’s a barber in the lobby.”

Song disappeared into the bathroom for a moment to spit. Instead of the toothbrush, she held a pair of scissors in her hand when she returned. “I can do it,” she said, as bright and bubbly as he’d ever seen her. “Do you really want a stranger next to your throat with a blade right now?”

Quinn took his turn at blunt directness. “I’m not so sure you qualify as an old friend.”

Song pulled the desk chair around in front of her, patting the back of it and beckoning him to sit. “Come,” she said. “I used to do this for the boys in my university dormitory. It will save us some time and we can arrive at Big Uncle’s party early enough to do some reconnaissance.” She held the scissors up and snipped at the air. “We’ll do it now, before you shower. You should take off your shirt.”

Quinn stood. It would save them time. He had no idea where the nearest barber was even located. “I think I’ll keep my shirt on.”

“Nonsense.” She smirked. “Do not be silly. It will keep hair from getting all over everything.” She pulled the damp towel off her head. “I’ll put this over you if you wish, but I believe I’ve proven that I can contain myself around your naked torso.”

Her eyes flashed over the wounds and scars that covered his chest and ribs as he peeled the shirt over his head—one of them caused by her blade.

“The years have not been kind to me,” he said.

“We all have our scars, Mr. Quinn,” she said, draping the damp towel around his shoulders. “They are what make us who we are. You are like Odysseus.”

“I’ve been called a lot of things”—Quinn laughed—“but never Odysseus.”

“You know the story,” she said. “How he was recognized by the scar on his knee he had received from the wild boar as a child.”

“Yes,” he said. “I’d just never thought of my scars like that.”

Her robe brushed against his arm. He could feel the heat of her as she leaned in to begin cutting. Quinn closed his eyes, listening to the scissors as she worked around his ears.

“Do you know any of Big Uncle’s associates?” Quinn said, relaxing in spite of the snipping blades so close to his neck.

“There is a man named Lok,” she said. “A sort of bodyguard who acts as what the Italians might call a
consigliere
. His hair is long and pulled back in a ponytail, so he will be easy to recognize. He spends a lot of time lifting weights and looking at himself in the mirror.”

“Curls for the girls.” Quinn chuckled.

“I’d say that describes Lok,” Song said. “I have never seen him in action, but Big Uncle is a wanted man in several countries with a large reward for his capture. The fact that he remains alive and at large speaks to Lok’s abilities. From what I hear he is trained in kung fu and Muay Thai kickboxing.” She stopped cutting for a moment. “And, of course, he will be armed.”

“Good,” Quinn grunted, ready to get on with things. “I need a gun.”

“You are so confident,” Song laughed. “I suppose that comes from experience.”

“Or apathy,” Quinn said, only half joking.

“Oh, you care deeply about many things,” she said. “Just not your own safety. But I understand. Warriors prepare themselves to die. It is your way.”

“Our way,” Quinn reminded her.

“I am not prepared to die,” Song said, hand flat to her chest. “I am just incredibly brave.” She started back in with the scissors. “Anyway, does this not remind you of an American adventure movie? The handsome spy getting a shave from the mystery woman.” She laughed the most honest laugh she’d given him since they’d met. “Is that what you’re thinking of, Mr. Quinn?”

“To be honest,” he said, “I was thinking more of
Sweeney Todd
.”

“Who?”

Quinn glanced up, careful not to move his head and chance a nick with the scissors. “
The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
. It’s a play about a barber who cuts people’s throats and takes the bodies to a lady who uses them in her meat pies.”

Song stopped cutting for a moment. “Well,” she said, “I suppose sometimes a haircut is nothing but a haircut.”

Finished, she stepped back and nodded to herself. “Extremely passable,” she said.

“Thank you for the nothing but a haircut then,” he said.

Song sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands. “Did you know that Mrs. Nabe gave up a career as a classical dancer with the National Ballet Company of Japan?”

“I did not,” Quinn said, stopping at the bathroom door, towel in hand.

“Apparently, their twelve-year-old daughter is traveling with them,” Song said, brown eyes twitching back and forth with the images on the television. “She is a dancer as well.”

As always, the mention of anyone’s daughter made Quinn think of Mattie. He sighed, pushing the thoughts away.

Song suddenly sat straight up, looking directly at Quinn, mouth pinched as if she’d eaten something sour. “The Prime Minister’s wife abandoned her passion in order to follow her husband.”

“Maybe she found another passion,” Quinn said.

“Perhaps.” Song nodded, unconvinced. “In my country, it would not matter what I gave up,” she said. “Few Chinese men would consider me marriageable material.”

“That’s not true,” Quinn said, wishing Ronnie or even Thibodaux were there to rescue him from talk of marriage and relationships.

“No,” she said. “It is. In China there are said to be three genders—men, women, and women with graduate degrees. An educated woman like me who has spent a decade as a government operative may as well be another species.” She stretched her feet out in front of her, kicking off one of the slippers. “My grandmother certainly does not approve of what I do. She thinks I should have quit school while I was yet marriageable and given her a great-grandson. Perhaps if I would have listened to her, I would still be able to spend time with the violin instead of dying young working for the Ministry of State Security.”

“Life can play tricks on us,” Quinn said, not knowing what else to say.

“My grandmother lectures me on it every time I see her.” Song looked up with a wan smile, shaking her head at the memory. “She asks me if the people I kill have toes. Can you imagine such a thing? Then she says, ‘Do you yourself not have toes? People with toes should not be killing other people who have toes,’ as if such thinking made all the sense in the world.” Song fell back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“That’s a well-meaning sentiment,” Quinn said softly. “Until those toes are attached to feet that would be happy crushing your neck.”

“I wish you would speak to my grandmother,” Song said, a catch in her voice as if she was about to cry. “Go. Have your shower. I will try on my new dress.”

Quinn closed the door, happy to step away from the outpouring of emotion. He felt like he was stuck in this adventure with a college student who was pretending to be a spy—acting out the things she’d seen in the movies. Song had done a good job on the haircut—as good as possible with his unruly mop. But he didn’t need a barber and certainly didn’t need “Love” Song—some “Unchained Melody” crooning on about tenderness and emotion. He needed the Song who had dispatched Anton Scuric without hesitation.

He showered quickly, then scraped away the stubble on his face with a cheap razor from the front desk, before stepping into a new pair of navy blue slacks. He left the bathroom with his white shirt unbuttoned and the French cuffs hanging over his hands. Song turned to face him when he opened the door. She stood facing the wall mirror wearing a loose T-shirt and a pair of skintight spandex shorts that would presumably allow her to fight while wearing the dress. Dark eye makeup lined each eye and bright rouge highlighted her cheeks. It was twice the makeup she normally wore, meant to capture Big Uncle’s attention. A deep red lipstick had transformed her from college coed to femme fatale while Quinn had been in the shower. The tiny purple dress lay draped across the foot of the bed shimmering under the room light like the feathers of some exotic bird. Beside it was a thin ripping dagger in a sheath that would wrap around her thigh. Made of a sticky neoprene, the sheath was held in place by a garter that presumably snapped to her spandex short shorts. Ronnie used similar shorts when she wore a dress; they gave her extra support for the holster as well as a touch more modesty during a fight. The neoprene sheath had enough room for a small pistol as well as the blade—in the event that Song was able to find one. Quinn looked at the rig and smiled.