State of Emergency

CHAPTER 9


December 19

Mt. Vernon, Virginia





Emiko Miyagi reached across the seat of the fire-engine-red bike to hand Quinn the end of a ratchet strap so he could tighten it down to the wooden pallet for transport. Presumably in her early forties—though she could have been considerably younger—the enigmatic woman had her black hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail, exposing the nape of her neck. She moved easily, each action with a specific purpose but without apparent forethought. Hers was an egoless air. She wore formfitting jeans and a red three-button polo, open enough at the neck to show the hint of the mysterious tattoo above her breast.

Neither Quinn nor Thibodaux could figure out what it was. They caught no more than a glimpse of the thing during her beloved yoga sessions or defensive tactics when she was kicking the stuffing out of both of them, often at the same time. Neither was brave enough to stare at her chest long enough to ascertain the true nature of the tattoo.

She patted the small seat on the angular red bike. “Zamora rides a Yamaha R1,” she said absent any trace of a Japanese accent, though English was her second language. “It should help you get close to him if you ride the same motorcycle. I’ve done a bit of work on this one to coax out a little more horsepower, so watch yourself around the corners.”

She leaned across the bike to pull in the clutch and pressed the starter, bringing the R1 to life. The throaty roar sounded more like a pair of motorcycles running together than a single race bike. “It is not the fastest motorcycle available, but with your riding skill, you could beat him if you wish.”

“I should probably avoid that,” Quinn said.

Miyagi killed the engine, showing the hint of a smile from her normally placid face. The guttural howl of the uneven firing sequence from under the seat was enough to put a grin on a marble statue.

“Palmer-san believes Agent Trainee Garcia will provide the bait you need to draw this man in close enough to see if he has the device.”

“Yes,” Quinn mused, picturing Ronnie Garcia’s long legs and broad smile. “She’s definitely good bait.”

He hooked the strap to an eyebolt on the pallet and worked it tight before tying off the trailing end. Satisfied the Yamaha was secure, he looked up at Miyagi. Apart from her assignment to keep Quinn and Thibodaux trained and outfitted, she was also a defensive tactics instructor at the CIA training facility outside Williamsburg known as The Farm.

Garcia had been in training there for almost two months now, and she and Quinn had not parted on the best of terms.

“How’s she doing?” he asked.

“She works harder than most,” Miyagi said. “Though she does not need to. I suspect she is trying to impress someone. Her shooting has improved dramatically—and it was not too bad to begin with.”

Quinn gave a slow nod, thinking about the times she’d saved his life. He started to say as much when the BlackBerry on his belt began to buzz.

Mrs. Miyagi motioned for him to take it and excused herself.

“Daddy?” It was Mattie, his seven-year-old daughter.

Quinn melted inside each time he heard her voice. She had his dark hair and copper complexion, but Kim’s accusing blue eyes.

“Three more days!” she squealed.

“You’re funny, sweet pea,” he said. “Christmas is still over a week away.”

“I know that, silly,” she said, sounding more and more like her mother used to, all those years ago when they were young and happy together. “I know when Christmas is. I mean when you’re coming home. I have a big purple circle around December twentieth on my calendar.”

“Yeah,” Quinn sighed. He had to be in Miami on the twentieth. “About that . . . how would you feel if I celebrated Christmas with you a little later this year?”

There was silence, the rustle of paper, and a sniff.

“You okay, sweet pea?”

Fortunately, Mattie had not inherited Kim’s unforgiving nature. “I’m sad,” she said. “But you tell me what day and I’ll put a circle around it.”

“Let’s make it January twenty-fifth. One month. If I can be there earlier I will.”

“Okay,” Mattie sighed. “Will you be sure and be here?”

“Count on it,” Quinn said, hoping he wasn’t telling his daughter yet another lie. “Can you put Mom on the line?”

Mattie giggled. “She’s been on for the whole time,” she said. “You’re my bestie, Dad.”

Quinn heard a faint click on the line.

“You still there, sweetie?”

“She hung up.” It was Kim’s voice, quiet, brooding like a glowing ember in a steady breeze.

Unable to stand the nights of sleepless worry, she’d told him to hit the road not long after he returned from his first deployment with OSI. She still loved him, she’d said, still wanted to keep in touch, but as long as he carried a gun and put himself in harm’s way for a living, she couldn’t be married to him. As much as he loved her, as much as he wanted to quit and work as a greengrocer or a postman, Quinn knew he’d die if he did anything else.

When he’d given the broken thirteenth-century Japanese dagger Yawaraka-Te back to Miyagi, she’d simply said: “It broke doing what it was made to do—and so it is with you Quinn-san. The blade must cut, even at its own peril.”

Quinn waited for Kim to say something else, anything. She didn’t.

“How are you doing?” he said, craving a few more words in spite of himself.

“We’re fine,” she said. “My mom’s retiring this year so that will help out with carting Mattie around to orchestra practice and indoor soccer and everything else.”

“I don’t remember being that busy when I was seven,” Quinn said, a weak attempt at conversation.

“You were never seven,” Kim said. “Your dad once told me you popped out already grown up and ready to pick a fight with the doctor for putting your mom in such an unladylike position.”

Quinn sighed. “Guess you heard I can’t be there till later,” he said, sounding more sheepish than he would have liked. It didn’t suit him.

“I heard,” Kim said.

“I’m really sorry,” Quinn went on. The conversation was beginning to make his head hurt. “If it wasn’t extremely important, I’d blow it off.”

“I know where we rank, Jericho,” Kim said, her voice quieter now, but just as acid.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” she said. “But I gotta tell you, I don’t deserve to worry myself to death all the time and Mattie doesn’t deserve to grow up with a part-time father.”

“Okay,” Quinn said. “I am sorry, though. Someday I’ll be able to explain.”

Kim sniffed. “Seriously, Jer,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. To tell you the truth, I stopped putting circles around important dates on my calendar long before we ever got divorced.”