Chapter 15
Pentagon City, Virginia
K
im Quinn saw the man with the flap of blond hair again as they exited the mall. He was standing next to the Metro entrance between the taxi road and the main thoroughfare of Hayes Street. Worried over why someone might be following her, she’d talked Mattie out of dinner at Johnny Rockets and decided to go straight back to their hotel room. Jericho’s parents were there—Pete Quinn would know what to do.
Kim tried to tell herself a life with Jericho had made her paranoid. But there was definitely something wrong. This guy had ignored her when she’d almost run into him. He hadn’t given her a second look—which was virtually unthinkable. Kim had always been proud of her legs. The one that she had left was well worth gawking over—and the metal one drew even more stares, even from polite people who were usually more startled than anything. The fact that this man hadn’t paid her any attention set off an alarm in her head.
Over the span of their marriage, Jericho had droned on and on about how she should trust her instincts. Go with her gut, he said. Her gut told her the man with the flap of blond hair was dangerous.
Pausing for just a moment outside the mall, she took Mattie’s hand in hers.
“Stay with me,” she said, leading her across the taxi and tour bus service road and weaving through the throng of summer vendors, lined up under umbrella carts, selling bottled water and W
ASHINGTON
, DC T-shirts. The air was thick, but she didn’t know if it was humidity or dread.
She cursed herself for not taking a closer parking spot. Her pride had made her want to show off to her daughter, so she’d parked across the street in the larger Costco lot, hoping to demonstrate that she was tough and resilient.
The blond man didn’t move from his post by the Metro escalator, and made no secret of the fact that he was now staring directly at Kim. He must have taken the Metro tunnel out from the food court level of the mall and surfaced outside to wait.
Kim shot a quick glance up and down the street. She fought the urge to scream for help, realizing she was in the middle of a crowded sidewalk, and nothing had actually happened. The area around Washington, DC, was a busy place any time of year, but summer was the worst with visitors from all over the world pouring out of buses, taxis, and rental cars. Every ten feet she saw someone who looked like they might be working with the man by the Metro. There was a crosswalk to her right, halfway down the block at Fifteenth Street. It would be closer to where she’d parked the car across the street at the Costco lot. But the crowds thinned out down there. She made a decision to cross mid-block, staying with the herd for protection.
There were plenty of people here, she reasoned. No way anyone would try anything in the open in broad daylight.
Mattie kept quiet, sensitive to her mother’s mood. With Jericho Quinn as her father, she was much more accustomed to sudden violence that any seven-year-old should have to be.
Kim was sure the pedestrian light was the longest in history of mankind. A middle-aged man in a loose Hawaiian shirt asked if she needed help crossing the street and she nearly punched him out of panic. Realizing he was just being kind, she thanked him instead and assured him she was fine. The last word had no sooner escaped her mouth than a tan minivan squealed up to the curb and stopped directly in front of her.
The door slid open and two men jumped out to the sidewalk. Both wore absurd-looking clown masks. One grabbed for Mattie while the other planted both palms in Kim’s chest and gave her a rough shove, sending her sliding on her butt on the pavement.
The man in the Hawaiian shirt stepped in between the kidnapper and Mattie, shooing her behind him as he punched the other man in the jaw. He was strong, certainly no out-of-shape tourist, and the blow connected with a loud crack. He went to follow up, but the man who’d shoved Kim shot him twice for his trouble. He staggered, then slumped to the sidewalk.
“Mattie, run!” Kim screamed. She was on her feet in a moment, forgetting how difficult such a simple task had been in physical therapy. Swinging her cane like a baseball bat, she struck out at the gunman, impacting on the base of his skull. He squealed in pain and staggered into his companion. Kim swung again, but the aluminum cane was much too light to do any real damage and the kidnapper grabbed it in midair, yanking her to him and into his waiting fist.
Kim had never been hit so hard in her life and found it oddly liberating. She’d heard Jericho say punches didn’t really hurt until later and was astonished to find out how right he was. Instead of wilting like a battered woman, she launched herself against her attackers with the renewed fury of a mother protecting her child. She tore at the gunman’s eyes with her fingernails, screaming like a madwoman, intent on ripping his face off his body.
Nearly back to the doors of the mall, Mattie stopped in her tracks when she heard her mother’s cries. She had her father’s blood in her veins, so it was no surprise when she turned on her heels and ran back to help her mother.
The man with the blond flap of hair caught her as she came past and scooped her up in his arms.
“Let’s get you out of here,” he said, trapping her arms and legs so she could do the least damage with all her kicking and screaming.
“No!” Kim screamed, as the gunman hit her again, this time sending a shower of fireworks exploding behind her eyes. “Mattie!”
A distant roar seemed to fill the street, growing louder as Kim’s vision cleared enough for her to make out what was happening.
A Harley-Davidson motorcycle roared up the mall service road, scattering tourists and vendors. At the same moment a black GMC pickup jumped the curb, ramming the minivan and raking the gunman with a running board. The biker rode straight for the blond kidnapper, striking him with the front tire before he could throw a squalling Mattie into the minivan. She scrambled out of the way, running back toward the mall.
Six feet, two inches of extremely angry grandfather boiled out of the black pickup. Pete Quinn sent a massive fist crashing into the temple of the stunned gunman, felling him like a tree. He bounced the second man’s head off the hood of the minivan as the man on the motorcycle jumped off the bike and ran for the open door of the van. He was wearing a helmet, but moved with the same easy stride of Jericho. It had to be his brother, Bo.
The frantic driver threw the minivan in reverse, narrowly missing the downed Good Samaritan in the Hawaiian shirt, and then sped away down Hayes Street, fishtailing around the corner to disappear down Fifteenth.
Kim breathed a measured sigh of relief.
The sullen blond tried to push himself to his feet, but Jericho’s father put the toe of his heavy leather boot to good use, nearly kicking the man’s head off his body. As far as he was concerned, anyone stupid enough to grab his granddaughter would get no forgiveness in this world or the world to come.
The gunman’s jaw hung oddly to the side, half out of its socket, courtesy of the punch from the man in the Hawaiian shirt. He jumped up and attempted to run, but Bo grabbed him by the collar, yanking him into a devastating left hook that reset his jaw and crumpled him into an unconscious heap.
Once she saw Mattie was okay, Kim half knelt, half fell to the pavement beside the wounded Good Samaritan. Her damaged prosthetic splayed awkwardly to one side, but there was nothing she could do about that now. She put a hand to his chest, pressing against the bullet wound. He was still breathing but losing a lot of blood.
“Thank you,” Kim whispered. “For helping us.”
The man smiled, but grimaced when he tried to speak.
A crowd of onlookers began to gather, happy to form a circle around the commotion now that the apparent danger had passed. Several people called 911 at the same time, arguing about what happened and their actual location. There was a firehouse just blocks away and sirens blared moments later. An ER nurse coming out of Fashion Center mall stepped in and relieved Kim to care for the man in the Hawaiian shirt. Pete Quinn, Jericho’s father, helped her back to her feet.
“You okay?” He put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. His dark hair was mussed and the top button of his shirt had been torn off, but there was a glint in his eyes that said he’d enjoyed the scrap. He was broader than either of his sons, bigger boned, but he moved with the same purposeful intensity that Kim had always seen in Jericho. In all the years she’d known her former father-in-law, he’d always been in the shop or out working on the boat. They’d really never sat down to have a long conversation. To see him now, like this, was nothing short of mind-blowing.
Kim thanked him, panting so hard she could hardly speak. She fanned her face with an open hand. She’d just thought she’d been sweating before.
“I think my new bionic leg is toast,” she said, glancing down at the bowed metal that no longer bent correctly at her knee. She dabbed her lip, tasting blood. “Where did you guys come from?”
The elder Quinn shrugged. “Bo thought someone ought to keep an eye on you.” He’d never been one for much chitchat.
A shiver shook Kim’s shoulders. The world around her began to blur and ooze.
Pete Quinn caught her as she swayed.
Three Arlington Police cruisers rolled onto the scene. Unsure of what was going on, the officers approached with weapons drawn, eyeing Pete and Bo Quinn as hard as they did the downed kidnappers.
Jericho’s propensity to grow a heavy beard had come from his father. He’d surely shaved that morning, but already looked as though he’d gone a week. Bo, the younger and more wayward of his two sons, had bleached blond hair that was long enough to blow in the wind when he rode. He was more baby faced than his brother and father, but his life in a Texas motorcycle club that dabbled in the gray edges of the law had aged and hardened him.
Seven-year-old Mattie, clutching Kim’s leg, appeared to calm the arriving officers a degree. Two of them handcuffed the downed kidnappers, while one checked on the status of the man in the Hawaiian shirt.
The responding sergeant, a tall, clean-shaven man named Oldham, approached Pete Quinn, nodding politely at Kim. He looked like a man with an easy smile, but for the circumstances. “They were trying to kidnap the little girl?”
“That’s right,” Kim said, still feeling shaky. “She’s my daughter.”
“And you guys stepped in to help?”
“Correct.” Pete nodded. “I’m the grandfather.”
Oldham collected their IDs, stopping to peer back over at them when he read the names.
“
Quinn
,” he said, lips pursing in distaste. “You all related to the Jericho Quinn who’s wanted for the murder of a Fairfax police officer?”
Bo began to speak, but Pete Quinn held up his calloused hand. “We are,” he said. “But this has nothing to do with that.”
“My experience,” Sergeant Oldham muttered, still studying the two men, “is that this always has to do with that. And from where I’m standing, it looks like you have a lot in common with your son.”
Pete Quinn took a deep breath, mulling his words carefully before he said them. “Sergeant,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Haven’t you ever had a relative that disappointed you?”
Oldham thought about that for a long moment. “Guess you can’t choose your relatives,” he said at length. “My bad. I’m going to need you to come down to the station and fill out some paperwork.” He looked at Kim. “And I’m gonna get a paramedic to take a look at you.”
Bo leaned in as Sergeant Oldham went to summon a paramedic. “The disappointing one—that’s me you’re talking about, right?”
“Pshh,” Pete said. It was his way of dismissing any notion as so utterly inconceivable it didn’t merit an answer. “I don’t know about that guy, but I’m proud of my family. When he comes back, tell him I had to make a call.”
Kim knew exactly who he was about to call—and she’d never wished for that man to be there as much as she did at that moment.
Chapter 16
Alaska
J
ericho’s cell phone began to vibrate seconds after he’d fastened the shoulder harness in the cramped backseat of the tiny airplane. The little yellow Super Cub was a tandem-seat tail dragger. Lovita sat in the single seat directly in front of his. In her baggy pink fleece with the large green headphones over her orange hair, she looked like a child pretending to be a bush pilot.
The rain had started to fall in earnest on the way to the gravel strip and beat against the outside of the airplane as if someone was pelting them with a steady barrage of pebbles. Quinn used the forearm of his wool shirt to wipe away the condensation on his window, scanning what was left of the eastern horizon for the other plane as he pressed the phone to his ear.
Lovita applied the brakes to keep the Super Cub from rolling forward, and then slowly increased the throttle until it shook in place. The little airplane groaned, straining to leap off the gravel strip. Lovita watched the handful of simple engine gauges, checking oil pressure and both magnetos. She spun the dial to reset her altimeter and checked the fuel level in the clear plastic tubes above each window on either side of her seat. Satisfied, she worked the stick between her knees in all directions, and pumped the rudder pedals back and forth. An identical set of controls in front of Quinn moved in time with her as if operated by some ghost.
The rag and tube construction of the Super Cub did little to block the deafening roar of the Lycoming engine. Quinn wedged the phone under the earpiece of his headset and leaned down as best he could in the cramped confines behind Lovita’s short seat.
He listened in horror as his father related the kidnapping attempt on Kim and Mattie. His stomach twisted tighter with each word. By the time he ended the call, he’d already reached a decision.
Lovita’s husky voice crackled in his headset. It sounded much too mature to be coming from the little girl sitting in front of him.
“That other plane just overflew Pitka’s Point,” she said. “They’re gonna be here any minute.”
“Can we steer clear of them?” Quinn asked, looking out the window at the white sheets of rain marching along the river.
“Maybe so,” Lovita said, releasing the brake. “But first we have to get in the air.” The plane lurched forward. Fat tundra tires bounced toward the end of the gravel strip as they picked up speed. The tail lifted almost immediately, leveling the plane and giving little Lovita a better view out the windshield.
“I need to make a couple of quick calls before we lose reception,” Quinn said, punching buttons as he spoke.
“Go for it.” Lovita added throttle and pulled back on the stick, causing the little plane to leap off the runway. One hand on the throttle, the other on the stick at her knees, Lovita worked the rudders at her feet, engaged in a sort of dance with the airplane as she committed it to the turbulent mixture of fog and driving rain.
Quinn felt his stomach fall away at the same moment Ronnie Garcia picked up on the other end of his call. He longed to talk to her more, but kept the conversation brief. There was still one more person he had to contact before he lost reception.
“We’re going to need that babysitter,” he yelled.
“The babysitter?” Garcia’s voice came back amid a crackle of static. “You’re certain about this?”
“Call my dad,” Quinn said. “He’ll explain.”
“I love you,” Ronnie said.
The phone went dead before he could answer.
Quinn punched in the second number as Lovita dipped a wing, banking the Super Cub to the right toward the razor-thin line of open sky between soggy tundra and trailing clouds. The plane lurched hard, buffeting as they flew through a band of turbulence where cooler air over the river gave way to warmer stuff over land. Rain splattered the windows, streaming backwards as they picked up speed. The Kilbuck Mountains lay ahead, and beyond them, the Alaska Range, and then the city of Anchorage—and somewhere in between, the other airplane.
Lovita cheated north, leaving the Yukon River and the sprawling settlement of Mountain Village. Breaking nearly every rule in the book, she nosed the little plane upward and into the clouds in an effort to avoid the other plane. The cell tower disappeared behind them in a shroud of gray mist. Quinn pressed the cell phone to his ear, knowing he didn’t have long before he lost reception altogether.
“Come on,” he said under his breath. “Pick up, Jacques.”