Time of Attack (16 page)

S
ecretary of Defense Filson stood fidgeting in the Oval Office thirty-five minutes after Palmer had called to summon him on behalf of the president. Sec State Melissa Ryan was on the speakerphone. Palmer and President Clark were both seated. Filson, however, paced in place, his shirttail half untucked—as if he’d been playing basketball in his suit. Thick black glasses seemed constantly on the verge of jumping off a bulbous nose that should have held them firmly in place.

Lisa Kapoor, the director of Health and Human Services, sat across from Palmer in one of the twin Queen Anne chairs that flanked the Resolute Desk.

Kapoor, a well-respected heart surgeon before she’d been pressed into government service, was near the end of her briefing. It was nothing more than a summary of what they already knew, but at this early stage, that was to be expected. She was a matronly woman of Indian heritage with a keen intellect that matched the fire in her amber eyes. Blessed with the attendant real-world experience that came from being a grandmother of nine, she was not only smart, but just plain pleasant to be around. In her early sixties, she kept her curly gray hair neatly trimmed so it looked as though she was wearing a hairnet. Filson had tried early in the meeting to bully her as he did most people he met, but the fact that she’d raised three sons had rendered her immune to swaggering male bravado.

“It looks as though the only commonality in each affected U.S. city is the fact that they all had at least one soldier returning from Bagram Air Base,” she said. “The cases overseas appear to have ties to Afghanistan as well.”

Clark rubbed his face in thought. “But we’re still unsure how the illness is spread? Airborne, blood?”

Secretary Kapoor shook her head. “We do not know, Mr. President. I have CDC advising local providers to use all universal precautions. The spouse of each returning soldier seems to have contracted the disease as well. Of course, we’ve yet to determine if the cause is breathing common air, skin contact, or from unprotected sex.”

“Phhht,” Filson harrumphed. “If you’d been away from your spouse for a year, would you have protected sex?”

“Shut up, Andrew,” Clark said. “She’s just stating facts. I hate to do this to all those men and women who are scheduled to come home, but I don’t see any way around putting an embargo on returning troops to the U.S. from Afghanistan in general until we get a handle on this.”

“Understood and agreed,” Filson said, pushing his thick glasses back on his nose. “But I don’t like it. This whole thing has the smell of biological warfare.”

A smooth, feminine voice piped up over the speakerphone. It was Melissa Ryan, Clark’s Secretary of State—and Winfield Palmer’s significant other.

“Funny you should bring up bioweapons, Andrew.” She was no dove, but her struggle for diplomacy was consistently at odds with Filson’s hawkish behavior. “The president of Afghanistan made a statement to the press this morning, accusing the United States of carelessly releasing a biological weapon we had been planning to use against the Taliban.”

“You know that’s bullshit,” Filson scoffed.

“I do,” the Sec State said. “And so does he. Since when does the truth have anything to do with politics? What I’m telling you is that everyone is going to put their own spin on this thing. He’s got a country to control. We’re on our way out, so we make a likely fall guy.”

“It has already hit the major networks,” Secretary Kapoor said.

“That’s true,” Ryan’s honeyed voice said over the phone speaker. “Cell phones and the Internet have rendered secrets a thing of the past. I am sitting here in Mexico watching your favorite governor beat you to the podium.”

Clark cursed under his breath. “McKeon’s giving a press conference?”

“As we speak,” Melissa Ryan said. “He’s urging his good friend, President Clark, to get to the bottom of this outbreak and find our embattled troops some help.”

The president threw up his hands. “How long have we known about this, forty-five minutes? Where does this son of a bitch get off telling me about troops . . .” His voice trailed off and he took a deep, thoughtful breath. “Sorry, ladies,” he said. “Not very commander-in-chiefly of me. Lee McKeon may support my initiatives, but he can be a ruthless self-promoter in front of the cameras. We’ll ignore him as we usually do.” Clark turned to Secretary Kapoor again. “Tell me more about this Japanese study.”

The HHS secretary picked up her coffee from the side table. The bone-white mug bore the seal of the president.

“I have a team made up of people from CDC, FDA, and the Immunization Safety Office on the way to Fukuoka, Mr. President. If they find the Japanese do have a viable vaccine, they’ll start the necessary testing.”

“Let’s say their science works,” Clark said. “How long are we talking for FDA approval?”

Secretary Kapoor took a deep breath. “Approvals, with all the attendant trials and such, can take as long as ten years, sir—but I’m hopeful we can get this done in six months—”

“Six months?” Clark snapped. “That’s just not going to work. Didn’t we help China get a swine flu vaccine up and running in a couple of months?”

“True,” Kapoor said. “But that was a special case.”

The president raised a hand to show that he wasn’t interested in excuses. “Everyone who has contracted this disease has eventually died. Is that correct?”

“It’s still too early yet for us to tell with the cases that have presented in the U.S., sir,” Kapoor said. “They’re too new. But mortality in Japan was one hundred percent of those affected, yes.”

Clark stood with the groan of a much older man. He turned to look out the windows at the Rose Garden as he spoke. “I have to address the American people in four days. By that time, it seems to be an absolute certainty that some of the infected souls in our country will have perished. I am not about to tell their families we have a possible vaccine but need time to run more tests.”

“With respect, sir,” Kapoor said, “I would urge restraint. My information says the vaccine that Japan has developed is an attenuated virus.”

“Speak English, dammit!” Filson grumped.

Kappor sighed. “That means the bugs are weakened but still very much alive. Live-virus vaccines are tricky things. Even if this Japanese company has developed one that works, it will take time to grow it for mass implementation.”

“We don’t have to immunize everyone right off the bat,” Sec Def Filson mused, looking at the president. “Just the military and first responders. That would send a signal—”

“I’m aware of the country’s vaccination plan, Andrew,” Kapoor said.

“Pompous or not,” Clark said, “Secretary Filson is right about one thing. The American people need some sort of hope of a vaccine—even if it’s on the horizon. They must be told we are implementing a plan as fast as humanly possible. Neither they nor I have any stomach for bureaucracy—”

Palmer’s cell buzzed. Clark nodded for him to take it, then went back to his discussion with the Cabinet secretaries. He believed wholeheartedly that world-saving ideas sprang from a healthy debate.

Millie, Palmer’s dutiful secretary, was frantic on the other end of the line. Her excitement was infectious, and Palmer found himself gritting his teeth as she spoke.

Quinn’s driver’s license and license plate had been flagged as soon as he started working for Palmer, so his office was alerted if anyone ever ran a check. When Fairfax County had stopped Quinn’s bike and run the plate, the first flag had pinged the system. Millie had called Fairfax County and gotten the gist of the story as it unfolded, giving it to Palmer moments later.

Palmer cleared his throat.

“What is it, Win?” Clark said. You look like you could use some Maalox.” Clark had known him long enough to realize that if he interrupted the president, Winfield Palmer had important information.

“I apologize, sir,” Palmer said. “I must ask to be excused.”

 

B
rakes squealed and tires crunched on gravel as a half dozen patrol cars and two unmarked sedans converged on Quinn from both directions. Doors swung open like a phalanx of Greek shields, and an army of police officers bailed out, bristling with weapons, all of which were pointed at him.

“Hands! Hands! Hands!” a gruff voice shouted.

Crazed barking came from behind Quinn as he let the Sig clatter to the street. A half breath later, he heard the thump of loping paws on pavement and wheeled in time to see a snarling Belgian Malinois leap toward him in a brindle flash of teeth and angry yellow eyes. The dog and officers alike were all hungry for a piece of anyone who would dare to harm one of their own.

Quinn raised his left arm in time to give the dog a viable target, hoping the responding officers’ desire to see him mauled outweighed their urge to shoot him. Even through the thick Transit leather, it felt as if a refrigerator had been dropped on his forearm. The dog grabbed a mouthful of leather and pliable crash armor, pinching his arm just below the elbow. It was a solid hold. Quinn kept his tone soft and unthreatening. Saying “good boy” and “good job.” The animal shook its head back and forth, but Quinn stayed with it, mimicking the actions of training with a bite sleeve. The last thing he wanted was for the dog to try to establish a different hold that might not be as protected.

After what seemed like an eternity, the handler shouted a command in Dutch. Front paws on his chest, the Malinois eyed Quinn a moment longer, shook him once more for good measure, then disengaged to drop onto the pavement. The handler moved in to take the trailing leash.

An instant later, someone the size of a college linebacker plowed into Quinn from the side, shoving him into the pavement and grinding his face into the gravel. It was all Quinn could do not to fight back, but these first responders were looking at a bloody scene involving someone they knew. Until he was in handcuffs, there was too big a risk one of them would shoot him.

Quinn caught the acid stench of vomit on the air where one of them had already thrown up at the sight of Officer Chin. Head wounds from a large-caliber weapon were not nearly so clean and neat as they were portrayed on the big screen. Amped by the sight of a violent encounter and the death of a friend, there was still the distinct possibility they’d shoot Quinn even after he was in custody.

A muscular young officer with spit-shined boots and a tight uniform shirt cut to accentuate the V of his back put a knee between Quinn’s shoulder blades and patted him down for weapons. He shouted “gun!” when he saw the tiny Beretta and “knife!” when he found the CRKT Hissatsu in the scabbard along Quinn’s spine.

The Malinois whined on the sidelines, hungry for a second bite.

Another beefy officer, this one older, with short, salt-and-pepper hair walked up and toed Quinn’s jaw with a black leather boot. The officer studied him for some time as if trying to decide whether or not to kick out his teeth.

“Mason, get this guy out of my sight,” the older officer said. The plate on his uniform said his name was Kincaid. “We’ll let CSU get here to secure the scene before we take him in. It’ll do him good to sit on his hands a bit.” Kincaid let his eyes fall to Officer Chin’s body. He shook his head sadly and then planted the toe of his boot squarely in Quinn’s ribs.

Quinn tried to roll with the kick, but handcuffed and on his belly there was nowhere to go. He groaned, bracing himself for another.

“I’m not going to waste my time,” the officer said, and walked away.

The streets had rained law enforcement shortly after the first police officers on scene threw Quinn in the back of their patrol car. Everyone that walked by gave him a glare that said they’d be all too happy to carve out his liver. He couldn’t blame them. Their friend, a fellow officer, had been murdered in an extremely violent way. Her dead body remained in the middle of the street, just as she had fallen, uncovered and vulnerable until crime scene investigators could get there to gather evidence.

Larsson sat in the open door of an ambulance with a bandaged skull, telling trumped-up lies and turning Quinn into the devil incarnate.

Inside the patrol car, Jericho began to work on the handcuffs as soon as Officer Mason slammed the door. Popping the stitching in his khakis over the small of his back with a fingernail, he kept his upper body as motionless as possible while he slid the thin metal shim out of his waistband. He worked as fast as he could, knowing it wouldn’t be long before sitting on his wrists caused him to lose the dexterity he needed to manipulate the tiny piece of metal. Officer Mason had been charged with adrenaline and anger during the arrest and had been none too gentle with the cuffs. They were already cutting off the circulation in Quinn’s hands.

Thankfully, the handcuffs hadn’t been double locked, letting Quinn click them one notch tighter as he inserted the shim farther into the mechanism. It was painful but allowed easier access to the teeth that actually locked the cuffs so he could push them out of the way. Once the left cuff was off and circulation restored to his hand, it was relatively simple to shim the other side.

He tucked the shim back in his waistband just as young Officer Mason got in the front seat. Kincaid flopped down in the passenger seat, then turned to glare at Quinn through the Plexiglas screen. His eyes burned with righteous hatred.

“I wouldn’t want to be you, son.” The officer dripped with unmasked contempt. “Jenny Chin worked at Fairfax Detention before she came over to the PD. She still has a lot of friends there, and they are going to turn your life into a living hell. It wouldn’t surprise me if you don’t survive the night.”

Kincaid turned to face forward, motioning for the junior officer to drive with a flick of his wrist.

Mason nosed the patrol car around two more units that had cordoned off Fort Hunt Road, working his way northwest.

Quinn took a deep breath and settled back in his seat. As a rule, a prisoner’s tension grew as the jail loomed closer. Law enforcement officers’ anxiety levels were highest at the point of arrest and tended to relax as more time passed. Angry and victorious, the closer they got to the safety and security of the jail, the sloppier they were likely to become.

Quinn was counting on it.

Ten minutes away from the scene, he started.

“Hey,” he said, kicking the back of the passenger seat. He got no response, so he kicked again.

Kincaid turned and slid the two-foot Plexiglas divider open so he could be heard.

“So help me,” he said through a clenched jaw, “I’m just looking for a reason to stop this car and beat the shit out of you.”

“How well do you know that Larsson guy?” Quinn said.

“Do yourself a favor and remain silent,” Kincaid said, slamming the divider.

“Hey!” Quinn kicked the seat again.

The officers ignored him. They were professional enough not to pull over and beat him. That was going to make things substantially more difficult.

“I want to confess!” He yelled so they could hear him through the screen—feeding them what they wanted. “Right now. I’ll give you a slam-dunk case. Tell you exactly why I shot that girl. You guys can be the heroes and I’ll get my time on TV.”

Quinn waited for a moment to let his offer sink in.

He’d rehearsed the plan completely through twice in his head, choreographing it like an intricate, perfectly timed dance. Mason was right-handed. He carried his weapon in a leather security holster that required the activation of a button with his index finger when he drew. He was new on the job and likely depended heavily on the security design of the holster to retain the pistol—a grave tactical error. Kincaid was left-handed and carried his pistol in a simple leather holster with a thumb-break snap. It would be easier to grab, but as an old salt, he’d surely been in more fights where he’d had to hang on to his weapon.

Where possible, Quinn made it a point never to screw with the old bull when a youngster was present—someone who didn’t know yet what he didn’t know.

The moment Kincaid opened the divider, Quinn screamed as if someone had just run out in front of the car.

“Look out!” he yelled as he moved.

The officers’ attention was momentarily drawn forward. Mason stomped the brake instinctively, throwing them both off balance. Quinn snaked an arm through the open divider, pushing in all the way to his shoulder in order to reach the rookie’s pistol. Defeating the security button with his thumb, he drew the pistol with his left hand and used it to smack Kincaid in the side of the head.

Still not comprehending what had happened to their handcuffed prisoner, the older officer raised a hand to ward off the blow. Quinn grabbed a wrist with his free hand and hauled back, drawing the older officer’s hand into the backseat with him, bending it into an arm bar against the sharp lip of the steel divider.

A deafening boom shook the inside of the vehicle as he shot two rounds at the radio.

“Pull over or I’ll kill him!” Quinn yelled, hauling back on Kincaid’s arm.

He felt the older officer move his right hand and shot another round through the divider, between the two men. “Leave the gun alone,” he said. “I don’t want to kill you. I just want out.”

Mason looked at Kincaid but kept the car moving.

“Look at it this way, kid,” Quinn yelled above the ringing in his ears. “If you let me go, you’ll have a chance to catch me all over again.”

Kincaid nodded, cursing like a sailor.

“Good job,” Quinn said when Mason had stopped the car. He directed the younger officer to open the back door and put his face against the windshield while Kincaid ditched his pistol in the front seat. A half a minute later and both officers stood handcuffed to each other, hugging a street sign. It was a quiet neighborhood and someone had surely called the police the moment they saw two patrol officers forced out of their marked cruiser at gunpoint.

Quinn leaned in close to the older officer.

“I didn’t kill your friend,” he said. “Larsson did.”

“Shut your mouth,” Kincaid hissed.

“Give it time, and you’ll realize you don’t know him as well as you thought you did. Notice how you’re handcuffed to a pole and I’m not shooting you?” He turned to leave, then spun, kneeing Kincaid hard in the ribs. It drove the wind from the man’s lungs even with the ballistic vest. “That’s for kicking me when I was down.”