Day Zero (17 page)

R
onnie took a meandering route through the neighborhood to make the guys following her earn their money. If they knew her at all, they’d know it was a normal habit for her to throw in an alternate route or two when she went anywhere. If she didn’t, they might smell a trap. She headed south on I-270 meandering back and forth across all six lanes, again making the guys in the green SUV behind her work for their pay. Slowing at every exit, she kept them guessing as she scanned the businesses along the service roads, looking for the specifics she would need for her plan to work.

She found exactly what she was looking for on the outskirts of Bethesda and took the exit for a little convenience store that Jericho would have called a “stop-and-rob.” Ronnie pulled her Impala under the bright lights of the awning beside the gas pumps. Ahead of her, a kid who looked like he might still be in high school fueled up a Kawasaki Ninja sport bike. She couldn’t help but smile at him. Every motorcycle she saw reminded her of Quinn. She’d known how to ride before she met him, but she’d never loved it the way she did since that first time riding with him on a rented Enfield Bullet high in the Pamir Mountains of Afghanistan.

She swiped her credit card at the pump and topped off the fuel in the Impala. Might as well make the guys in the green Expedition believe she was about to go for a long drive.

 

B
lue sky, marred by only a thin line of halfhearted clouds over the distant Chugach Mountains, greeted them when Lovita brought her little Super Cub out of Lake Clark Pass. CAVU, they called it—Ceiling and Visibility Unlimited. She turned back to the north, skirting the mudflats on the western edge of Cook Inlet, staying low to avoid notice by other aircraft the contractors in the Caravan might have been able to contact. The city of Anchorage lay like a pile of reflective glass blocks on the flat delta below green mountains on the other side of the inlet. A steady line of commercial jets, both passenger and cargo, lumbered over the silver-brown water toward Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport at the end of the point. Like any other day in Alaska, it was impossible to look any direction for long and not see some kind of airplane. Small aircraft were the station wagons, taxis, and cargo vans of the wilderness—which started just a few minutes from the city of Anchorage.

Quinn’s phone chirped as soon he had a signal. He stuffed it under the seal of his headset, pressing it down as best he could to avoid the engine noise.

“Jer?” It was Kim. Everyone else knew not to use names on the phone, but he couldn’t blame her. She’d not signed up for this kind of work

“Hey,” Quinn said, half yelling. The fact that she was able to talk to him gave him more than a tinge of worry. “I thought you’d be on a plane by now.”

Silence.

“Hello?” Quinn said.

“I’m still here,” Kim said. “Are you okay? Jacques said there was some trouble out there.”

“I’m fine,” Quinn said, making a mental note to talk to Jacques about the information that was passed on to his ex-wife. “Everything’s fine.” Saying it twice had always been necessary with Kim.

“I don’t want you to worry,” she said, “but my leg was reinjured during the attack this afternoon.”

“Reinjured?” Quinn pressed the phone tighter to his ear.

“I feel okay. It’s just a big bruise really, but the doctor is worried about blood clots if I fly.”

“Okay,” Quinn said. “What about Mattie?”

“She’s with your parents,” Kim said. “They are on the way to you now.”

Quinn gave an audible sigh of relief. “We’ll get you over as soon as you’re able to fly,” he said. “I’m not happy leaving you here with all that’s going on.”

“Yeah,” Kim said, her voice faltering, the way it did when she was about to get mad. “And I have to tell you, it scares the shit out of me to send Mattie over with someone I’ve never met. Promise me she’ll be all right.”

“Of course,” Quinn said. He fought the urge to snap back.

Kim laughed, changing the subject. “I never saw your dad fight before. I can see where you get it.”

Quinn smiled at that. “Nope,” he said. “I get that from my mom. She’s way meaner than he is.”

He promised to check in as soon as they got to Vladivostok—if they got to Vladivostok—then ended the call.

From the air, Cook Inlet resembled a giant beetle jutting up from the Gulf of Alaska with the Knik and Turnagain Arms forming two antennae that pointed north and east respectively. Lovita cut across the muddy tidal waters of the Knik Arm, losing altitude as they neared Birchwood, a small public-use airport. As its name implied, it was nestled among thick stands of white birch that blanketed the lower elevations between water and mountains north of Anchorage.

Quinn asked her to circle twice before entering the pattern, unsure if there would be a welcome party bristling with weapons to mow them down as soon as they climbed out of the plane. Quinn still had the MP7, as well as a .45 Ukka had tucked in his hand before they departed Mountain Village, but they would be sitting ducks as soon as they were on the ground.

Judging everything as clear as it would ever be, Lovita touched down on 1 Right, the gravel strip that her balloon-like tundra tires preferred to the adjacent asphalt runway.

Once the Super Cub came to a bouncy stop, Quinn grabbed his small duffel, including the MP7, out of the back and squirmed his way out of the tiny cockpit after Lovita.

No one shot them so he relaxed a notch.

He reached to shake her hand. “I owe you,” he said.

She pushed her way past his hand and threw her arms around his neck, giving him a trembling hug, all the tension and emotion of the flight bleeding out of her now that they were relatively safe. When she finally let go, she stepped back and looked at him, but said nothing, communicating in the way of her Yup’ik people with her eyes.

“You’re an incredible girl, Lovita,” he said. “A friend for life.”

She nodded, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world, and then took a few steps away from the airplane so she could light a cigarette.

“I got a friend who lets me use the apartment in her hangar when I come to the big village.” She pointed with her cigarette toward the line of metal buildings across the taxiway. “She’s got a dusty old bed and pretty comfortable couch. We can stay there tonight.”

“When are you going back?”

“I gotta make a Costco run tomorrow morning. My friend has an old car she lets me use too. I can take you to the airport.”

She took another drag off her cigarette and let it dangle in her lips while she checked her cell phone. “I need to call Ukka and tell him we made it in.”

Quinn couldn’t help but think of how small she was, like one of Mattie’s seven-year-old friends pretending to smoke.

“Good deal,” he said. “I need to make a couple of calls as well. Tell Ukka I’ll get with him in a few minutes.”

Quinn walked to the rusty hulk of an old fuel truck, still scanning for an ambush as he walked. When none came, he dropped his duffel on the asphalt and dialed Ronnie Garcia. He hadn’t spoken to her since he’d asked her to make the call to Aleksandra Kanatova and wanted to be certain everything was in motion.

He got nothing but voice mail. Two calls in quick succession was his signal that it was important, so he tried again. He got her voice mail again. He listened to the entire thing this time, happy, at least, to hear the familiar hint of a Cuban lilt in her voice. Exhausted, Quinn shoved the phone back in his pocket and walked toward the hangar. He couldn’t help but worry that his plan was coming unraveled right before his eyes. If Ronnie wasn’t answering, she was in trouble—and if Ronnie was in trouble, they were all in trouble.

 

G
ene Lindale found a discreet place to park one lot over from the convenience store and backed into the shadows against a graffiti-covered fence. He and Maloney watched as Garcia chatted up a guy fueling his motorcycle at the pump ahead of her.

“What do you suppose she’s saying to him?” Lindale muttered, half to himself. The dash lights cast a green, otherworldly glow on his face.

“I don’t really give a shit,” Maloney said. “I just wish she’d go home and take another shower.”

“You got that right,” Lindale said, watching through binoculars now. “She paid at the pump. Wonder why she’s going inside.”

Lindale panned the binoculars, watching Garcia through the window as she browsed up and down the aisles. The shop was well lit and the shelving was low, so it was easy to keep track of her. She paused at the magazine rack long enough to flip through a couple. Instead of buying anything, she made her way to the counter, where she waved at the clerk like she knew her, then picked up a key chained to a toilet plunger, presumably to the restroom, before walking out of view toward the back of the store. A moment later, the kid with the bike went inside as well. Like Garcia, he loitered up and down the aisles until he apparently found what he was looking for.

“That’s no coincidence,” Lindale said. “That kid just went for the same magazine. She just passed him something.” He looked at his watch. “And anyway, where the hell is she at? How long does it take a girl to take a piss?”

Maloney cracked open his door. “I’ll go around and check to make sure she didn’t slip out the back.”

“You do that,” Lindale said, his voice muffled by his hands holding the binoculars. “Watch yourself. Big-ass girls like that can fight. Take my word for it.”

Five minutes later, Lindale began to worry. Maloney was MIA and Garcia had yet to show her face. The stupid kid was still inside the store, buying cigarettes and killing time talking to the clerk, who was old enough to be his grandma.

Lindale tried to shake off the worry. Maloney was probably taking a leak himself. But even if that was the case, he should have been back by now. Something just wasn’t right. Lindale unbuckled his seat belt, deciding to go inside and talk to the kid—and if Garcia came out and saw him, so be it. It would be a lot better to get burned than to lose her. Lindale pitched the binoculars on the passenger seat and opened his door. His left shoe had just touched the pavement when he heard a faint scrape of gravel in the darkness behind him.

Ronnie padded up, quickly reaching the driver of the green Expedition before he had time to turn around. Putting her full weight against the door, she slammed it hard against his exposed shin, letting it bounce before she slammed it again. She heard the satisfying crunch of bone a millisecond before his scream rose from the space between the door and the SUV’s interior. In the middle of turning when she’d come up behind him, the man fell toward the vehicle. Ronnie helped him along, using the heel of her hand to slam his head sideways, bouncing it hard against the doorpost. She leaned in, lifting the sidearm from his belt as he slid to the ground, writhing in pain from the shattered leg.

Squatting beside him, she snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Cell phone!”

Eyes clenched, he threw his head back, wailing, “You broke my leg, you bit—”

In his agony, he’d forgotten he was still clammed between the open door and the Expedition. She gave it another slam to get his attention, catching him across the ribs and pinching his right arm above the elbow. He retched. Spittle dangled from his chin as if he might throw up.

“You need to talk nice,
postalita
,” Garcia spat. “Now, where’s your cell phone?”

He shoved it to her, his head lolling in the direction of the stop-and-rob. “Maloney?”

“Is that your little girlfriend’s name?” Garcia said. She leaned inside the Expedition and yanked the wires out of the radio. “He’ll live . . . but he’ll be singing with the soprano section of the choir for a while.” She looked down at the laptop on the center console. “I assume this is what you were using to spy on me.” She shook her head in disgust. Standing, she snatched the man’s credential case from his jacket and flipped it open. “Seriously, Agent Gene Lindale, what’s with all this following me around shit? I’m a federal agent too, you know. Sneaking around like this is a good way to get yourself killed.”

“I . . . I’m with ID,” he groaned.

“Yes.” She nodded. “I can smell that.”

He retched again, head hanging toward the pavement. “You got no idea how much trouble you’re in now. . . .”

“Oh, I know.” Ronnie gave him the sweetest smile she could muster. “I’m royally screwed.” Garcia squatted low on her haunches so she could look Lindale square in the face. “But you know what, Gene? I got no patience for guys who hide a camera in a girl’s bathroom. I mean seriously, my computer, my phone, even my kitchen table. I do a lot of work there so that I can understand. But what kind of valuable intelligence did you think you were going to get from spying on my toilet?”

She threw his keys over the privacy fence and crushed his cell phone under her heel. Spitting in disgust, she gave the door one last slam for good measure. At this point, breaking another bone or two wouldn’t dig her in any deeper.

Back at her Impala, she grabbed the duffel and two bungee cords from inside and dropped the keys in the front seat, leaving them for the kid. She’d left an envelope inside the store with the signed title to the car and ten one-hundred-dollar bills in exchange for the keys to the Kawasaki. Using the bungees to fasten the duffel to the back of the bike, she threw a long leg over the seat and hit the ignition.

The green Ninja gave off a bright metallic glow under the stark lights of the fuel bay. It felt incredibly powerful beneath her, just a little bit out of control—which, under the circumstances, was just what she wanted.