Game Changer (11 page)

But was this the proper analogy?
Were American citizens little more than sheltered children? Sometimes it did
seem that way.

But in Henry’s opinion, the more
clear-eyed the public was about the true nature of a threat, the better. Davinroy
would argue,
had
argued, that only
key power players in government and the military needed to be clear-eyed. That
as long as the chess masters knew the endgame, why scare the pawns
unnecessarily, even if they did tend to be on the front lines.

“It doesn’t matter what I think of
this,” said Henry. “Because it won’t work. Jafari and his followers will be
proud of this attempt. They’ll all want to be sure he gets credit for it. No
way they’ll let us rewrite history so Jafari is a victim rather than a
mastermind.”

Davinroy frowned deeply and tilted
his head. “It would work if there were no survivors,” he said after several
long seconds of thought.

“What?”

“No survivors means our narrative
could be whatever we chose it to be,” replied Davinroy. “The knockout gas
you’re planning to use,” he continued. “Is it flammable?”

“I’m not sure.”

“
Make sure it is
. Jihadists tend to embrace their own deaths. If we
try to take them alive, but they happen to light a match in the midst of a
flammable cloud of gas, there is nothing we can do about that. Correct?”

Henry’s mouth had dropped open but
he didn’t respond.

“We just have to be sure to stay
ahead of the story. To make it clear that we tried to take them peacefully, and
were careful not to do any damage to the mosque. That it was
their
choice to martyr themselves.” The
president shrugged. “They planned to burn down the entire country. The least we
can do is let them burn down one mosque.”

“Are you ordering me to kill them
all, sir?” asked Henry.

“Of course not!” said Davinroy,
pretending to be offended. “How can you even ask that? That would be an unlawful
order. All I want you to do is make it clear to your team leader to choose a
knockout gas that is highly flammable. And that if the extremists inside decide
to martyr themselves for their cause, to literally go out in a blaze of glory .
. .” He raised his eyebrows. “Well, just let your man know that we think this
would definitely be the best outcome for all concerned.”

16

The two men holding Kevin Quinn at gunpoint stepped
forward from the darkness, having stationed themselves in a corner of the shed
not illuminated by the door or the gap in the ceiling. Quinn’s eyes flickered
across every inch of them as they fully emerged into the light, like Sherlock
Holmes desperately searching for an obscure clue with which to seize an
advantage.

How had he been found?
It just wasn’t possible
. He was certain he had covered his tracks.

Both men were fit and had assumed a stance indicating
they were highly trained. But they were both dressed in short-sleeved knit
shirts, and the shorter, thicker one, about five-eleven, had a small diamond in
each of his earlobes, and long hair tied back into a ponytail. If these visual
clues weren’t enough, seconds had gone by since Quinn had raised his hands and
they had yet to identify themselves as Secret Service, FBI, police, or any
other authority, which they were required to do if they were legitimate.

And he didn’t hear further commotion outside of the
shack, or the whip of helicopter blades. For a target as high-value as he now
was, enough armed men to field a football team should be charging toward them
right now, as a backup to the two men who had entered the shack.

“Hold out your hands, wrists together,” barked the
taller man as his partner approached with
 
white plastic zip-tie handcuffs.

Quinn calculated his chances of survival if he attacked
before his hands were bound, and didn’t like the result. He was very good, but
it didn’t take a mathematician to know his chances would be one in twenty, at
best. And it was important to factor into the equation that they wanted him to
remain alive, at least for a while. Had they wanted him dead, he’d be dead
already.

Quinn offered no resistance as the short, powerfully
built assailant slipped the plastic strips around his wrists and zipped them
tight. Seconds later the man made a chain of linked zip-ties and bound Quinn’s ankles,
leaving enough play in between for him to take short steps, so he could waddle
forward like a duck. The man also relieved Quinn of his gun and the small
electronic device that cloned key fobs, his expression making it clear he knew
exactly what it was, and shoved both into his pocket.

Finally, he backed away, made a show of looking Quinn
up and down to take in the clothing he had stolen in Trenton, and shook his
head. “The Secret Service’s dress code is really slipping,” he said with a
smirk. “Or have they begun hiring gangbangers?”

“How did you find me?” said Quinn, lowering his
outstretched arms to a resting position in front of him.

The taller man shrugged. Unlike his partner, he was
clean-cut and impeccably groomed. “We didn’t,” he replied pleasantly. “The man
who hired us told us where to find you and how to make our approach, and we
took it from there.”

Quinn’s agile mind dissected this information from
every angle, knowing his survival might depend on how quickly he could make
sense of what was happening.

“No interest in knowing who we are?” asked the man who
had bound Quinn, his gun now extended once again. “Would’ve thought that would
be your first question.”

Quinn shook his head dismissively. “Would you have
told me?”

“Not a chance. But I thought you’d ask.”

“No need. You’re both American, military trained. But
just as clearly, no longer in the military. Your partner didn’t say your
boss
told you where to find me, or your
CO
. He said
the man who hired us
. So I’m guessing you two are freelance. Probably
began work at a PMC. Until recently, that is, when you decided to go even
more
freelance.”

Quinn could tell from the glances they exchanged that he
had scored a direct hit. Private Military Corporations, or PMCs, were organizations
of mercenary soldiers who performed ops in numerous countries engaged in hostilities,
most often at the behest of the US government. These businesses had grown so
quickly over the past two decades that their membership now dwarfed that of the
entire US military.

“So what PMC were you with?” continued Quinn.
“Probably one of the best. Blackwater? Kroll? Sandline?” he guessed. “You
worked at one of these for a time and then got an illegitimate offer you
couldn’t refuse.” He shook his head in disgust. “And here you are,” he added in
contempt, “like trained dogs.”

“Really?” said the pony-tailed mercenary, shaking his
head in amusement. “You’re giving
us
the Boy Scout speech? You think your attempt to assassinate the President of the
United States gives
you
the moral high
ground?”

Quinn ignored him. “So the question isn’t who you are.
The question is: who do you work for? And more importantly, what do you want
with me?”

“Nice analysis, Agent Quinn,” said the clean-cut merc.
“You’re even sharper than I thought you’d be. As to who we work for, I can’t
tell you. As to what they want with you, all I can tell you is that our
instructions are to capture you and babysit until our employer gets here.” He
shrugged. “Apparently, he’s eager to meet you.”
 

“Why?” asked Quinn reflexively, knowing he wouldn’t
get an answer.

What was going on?
How had he been found so
easily? And what could anyone want with him now? Why capture and hold the most
wanted man in America if you had no interest in bringing him to justice?

Quinn’s ability to imagine plots and ambushes others
might have hatched was nearly unequaled, but he couldn’t come up with a single
idea of what this might be about. He considered that Davinroy was behind it,
but ruled this out immediately. After all, if this were the case, Quinn would
be dead already.

Whoever was responsible had gone to a lot of trouble
and expense to capture and hold him. And no matter how good they were, they
were taking quite a risk getting anywhere near someone as scorching hot as he
now was.

While Quinn was deep in thought, the tall mercenary had
been busily manipulating his phone, ignoring Quinn’s question as expected. “I
just notified our employer that you are safely in our hands,” he announced.

“How soon until he arrives?” asked Quinn.

“We were told we might have to babysit you for two or
three days,” answered the taller merc, who seemed to be the one in charge. “It
all depends on when he can get here.”

“Why not take me to
him
?”

The man laughed. “Good one, Agent Quinn. This must be
your version of an idiot test. Okay, I’ll play. Because he can move about
freely, and you can’t. See, he didn’t just try to assassinate President Matthew
Davinroy.”

After a short pause, the mercenary’s grin turned into
a frown.
“Speaking of which,” he said to his partner, who still had his
gun trained on
Quinn,
despite his captive’s state of immobility, “now
that he’s secured, we need
to take precautions so we aren’t surprised by a group trying to arrest him.”

He ordered Quinn to sit cross-legged
on the filthy, eroding wooden slats that passed for the shack’s floor. The
zip-ties binding Quinn’s legs left just enough freedom of motion for him to
comply with this demand, albeit with some difficulty. In this position, the two
mercenaries could turn their backs on him for several seconds if they wanted
without fear of attack.

The mercenary in charge ordered his
phone to call up public domain satellite imagery and display a topographical
map of the area, centered on their current GPS coordinates and extending out for
four miles in every direction. He set the phone on the floor and it began projecting
a red, holographic map, as instructed, about five feet on a side.

Both mercenaries walked around the
floating 3-D image of the elevated ground they were now on, giving it careful
study. After several minutes of this the man in charge turned to his partner and
said, “I’ll watch Quinn. You put up cameras and sensor alarms here, here, and
here,” he instructed.

These would cover the dirt road that
snaked up to the summit they were on, along with the two paved arteries that led
to the dirt road. He then chose six other locations for the placement of surveillance
devices, giving the two men visibility on all likely ground assaults.

Quinn noted with interest that they
had set up the surveillance exactly the way he was planning to do once he had
obtained the proper supplies.

“I’ll need three or four hours to
get everything installed,” said the stocky mercenary.

“Understood.”

“So what if the people hunting for
him do close in before our guy gets here? What then?”

“If that happens, our orders are to
kill him,” responded his partner, looking down at Quinn and shooting him an apologetic
look. “And then to get the hell out of here. Sorry, Quinn. But our employer
must not want you
that
bad.”

He smiled. “On the other hand, if
you’re half as good as I think you are, these precautions are just a formality.
No one will find you. And my employer tells me that, at least at the moment, no
one looking for you has the faintest idea where you are.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed in thought.
Who could possibly be behind this? Who could find him with seemingly effortless
efficiency while at the same time having insight into the efforts of the
multitudes now hunting for him? This was perhaps the most impenetrable mystery
he had ever encountered.

The stocky mercenary left the shack
to carry out his surveillance mission while his partner killed the map and
retrieved his phone. He then spent several minutes absorbed by his electronic
companion, leaving Quinn alone with his thoughts.

“I need to make a short trip
outside,” said Quinn, breaking the long silence. “Nature calls.”

The mercenary hesitated.

“If you don’t mind watching me
pee,” said Quinn, “I don’t mind peeing while you hold a gun on me.”

Without waiting for permission,
Quinn uncrossed his legs and managed to rise to a standing position. He nodded
toward the zip-ties around his ankles. “Or are you worried I’ll sprint away from
you? I’m pretty sure I can reach speeds of a tenth of a mile an hour, maybe
more.”
 

“After you,” said the man with the
gun, gesturing toward the open door.

Quinn began to waddle forward. As
he reached the point closest to his captor, he pretended to trip. The mercenary
instinctively moved forward to try to catch him and Quinn acted, launching
himself at his adversary with all of his might. Both men crashed to the floor,
barely missing the jagged edge of a broken floorboard. The merc recovered and
rose to a standing position while Quinn flailed at the man’s arms, scratching
and clawing for all he was worth.

The mercenary was an experienced
soldier and made sure to keep his gun beyond the reach of his bound prisoner,
who was no match for him in his restrained state. He shoved Quinn back to the
floor, kicking him savagely several times in the side and chest.

“
What are you thinking?
” he demanded.

Quinn groaned in pain and rolled
onto his back.

“You had no chance!” continued the
mercenary in contempt. “For someone who’s supposed to have elite skills, you’re
a major disappointment. This is the best you can do? Embarrass yourself by
trying to scratch me like a pathetic
little
girl?
”

Quinn pushed himself to a seated
position. “I didn’t
try
to scratch
you,” he said calmly. “I
did
scratch
you. Notice that you’re bleeding.”

 
The man looked down at several millimeter-thin
red lines on his left arm, where Quinn had just managed to break the skin with
his nails. He shook his head and laughed. “Well, in that case,” he said
sarcastically, “I stand corrected. You should be proud.”

“Oh, I am,” replied Quinn. “
Very
. I don’t know what you know about
last night, but I never planned to use a gun on Davinroy. I tried to
poison
him first.” He raised his
eyebrows. “I slipped an ultra-pure form of cyanide into his drink. Had the
bastard actually taken a sip, he would have died a million times over. I knew
this would leave just the faintest traces of cyanide on my fingertips and under
my nails, but I figured I’d have plenty of time to scrub it away afterward.”
 

The merc’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Turns out I never did get the
chance to wash up,” continued Quinn. “Go figure. And while this trace residual
amount isn’t enough to be deadly if ingested, I managed to deposit it directly
into your
bloodstream
. My guess is
that you now have between two and five hours before paralysis and heart failure
set in.”
 
 

Quinn glared at the merc with a
feral intensity. “But sorry my attack was such a disappointment to you,” he said
icily.