Time of Attack (33 page)

 

“M
ister Speaker!” the House Sergeant at Arms shouted as he stepped through the heavy oak door and stopped. “The President of the United States!”

Thunderous applause rose from the House Chamber.

Governor Lee McKeon was lucky to have a seat among the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. House and senate members took up most of the floor. Vice President Hughes and the Speaker of the House, Hartman Drake, faced the hall above the lectern under a large American flag. Drake wore a sling over his left shoulder, cradling his wounded arm and reminding the American public that terrorism could strike all too close to home. His bright red bow tie looked like a second smile as he tapped the desk in front of him in polite, one-handed applause. Cabinet members and justices of the Supreme Court occupied the front row near the raised dais. Secretary of State Melissa Ryan, close friend and protégé to the president, was conspicuously absent. Since September the eleventh, one member of the Cabinet was customarily asked to wait in an undisclosed location so the entire line of succession to the presidency could not be wiped out in one fell swoop.

President Chris Clark began to work the crowd the moment he entered the chamber, kissing women, shaking hands, and smiling as though his dimpled cheeks might shatter. McKeon nodded cordially to Jack Blackmore, Clark’s lead Secret Service Agent. The two knew each other from the governor’s recent meetings with the president. Blackmore stepped aside as McKeon extended both hands, taking Clark in a firm, brotherly shake with both hands so the Rolex Sea Dweller’s crystal face rubbed the skin on the back of the president’s hand. It was little more than a passing touch, but, according to Ranjhani, it would be enough.

“Good to see you, Lee,” Clark said, pumping the man’s hand in an earnest handshake of friendship. Laughably, he thought they were allies.

McKeon released his grip and slid away. “Good to see you as well, Mr. President.”

Up on the dais, Vice President Hughes and Hartman Drake clapped politely as they watched Clark work his way down the imperial blue carpet toward the podium, shaking more hands along the way.

He couldn’t see it, but McKeon knew that on the desk in front of Hughes was a brand-new fountain pen, a gift from the Speaker of the House, who, in turn, had received it from Qasim Ranjhani.

Clark stepped up to the podium and handed an envelope containing a copy of his speech to the vice president and another to the Speaker. Turning, the president stood at the lectern, grinning while Drake introduced him.

“My fellow Americans,” he said. “Though recent horrific events may lead you to believe otherwise, the state of the union is . . .”

The president paused, scratching the back of his hand. He looked down at his copy of the speech as if he’d lost place.

“My fellow Americans . . .” The ever-present smile vanished from his lips. He clutched his arm and stared out into the chamber, eyes unfocused, his mouth agape in a silent cry of pain.

Special Agent Blackmore, ever attentive to the needs of his charge, rushed to the president’s side the moment before he collapsed, guiding him to the ground. Secret Service personnel rushed from the sidelines, forming an instant perimeter around the fallen leader.

From the back of the chamber, Governor Lee McKeon watched four other agents bound up to the vice president while Capitol Police officers moved to Hartman Drake, ready to usher the men toward the Speaker’s Entrance, away from any threat as dictated by protocol.

Bob Hughes turned to look back at the flurry of activity around the president, the heavy weight of responsibility certainly bearing down on him.

McKeon suppressed a smile. The vice president needn’t have worried. In a few short seconds, any possibility of him stepping into the presidency would be gone forever.

T
hibodaux and Garcia engaged Oda’s responding troops with a withering fusillade of gunfire as Quinn skirted to the north side of the palatial home. Two sentries rounded the corner of a covered pavilion beside a koi pond, nearly running headlong into Quinn. The Uzi burped in his hands, killing both of them before they realized they’d found him.

A flash of movement caught his eye from above and he watched Miyagi scuttle along the outer edge of the parapet that ran lengthwise down the top of the roofline. Oda had indeed modeled the place after a feudal castle. Each corner had a raised tower with a metal railing that allowed a commander or defenders to look down on anyone trying to mount a siege from below.

Quinn heard a twig snap behind him and spun, moving to the cover of a nearby cedar. A volley of gunfire rattled from the shadows. He raised the Uzi to return fire, but when he pulled the trigger nothing happened.

Tap-rack-bang, failure-to-feed, failure-to-fire drills had been ingrained into his brain from the time he’d first started to carry a gun for a living.
Tap
—he slammed his hand into the base of the magazine to make certain it was seated.
Rack
—he worked the Uzi’s open bolt to clear any possible misfeed, then aimed again and pulled the trigger.

No
bang
.

His back pressed flat against the tree, he lifted the weapon to check in more closely. A round had impacted the stamped metal frame, denting the action and rendering it inoperable.

“We did not get to finish our contest,” a woman’s voice said from the other side of the tree. “The foolish whore prolonged your miserable life.”

Quinn dropped the Uzi to the ground. “So,” he yelled, “you want to finish what you started?”

“Pitiful Mr. Quinn,” the woman said, “that is exactly what I plan to do.”

He stepped around the tree, short sword in his hand. He half expected her to shoot him but only breathed a hair easier when he saw the long sword held before her in two hands. She’d beaten him before with the shorter wakizashi. Now she had another foot and a half of razor-sharp reach and the leverage of a two-handed grip.

The woman cocked her head to one side, hair hanging in a sullen flap across her eyes as she studied him. Absent the heavy motorcycle jacket, she was even smaller than Quinn had realized. She was dressed in tight black spandex pants—like Miyagi wore during their workouts—and a loose cotton blouse, open but for the bottom two buttons to reveal the swirling colors of the tattoo that covered her chest like an undershirt. Unlike Miyagi, there was no un-inked line running up the center of her body. She appeared to use the tattoo as some kind of psychological weapon, depending on the sight of it to disarm her opponents.

“What do you think of the design?” She gave a toss of her head.

“I’ve seen better.” Quinn shrugged. His feet slid over the rough ground, matching her pace as she circled.

“That is laughable.”

“Seriously,” Quinn said. “I have seen your mother’s tattoo. It is more skillfully applied.”

A flash of panic crossed the girl’s eyes. “What do you know of my mother?”

“She is my friend.” Quinn suddenly changed directions, closing the distance more quickly than the young woman had anticipated. She blocked his strike and slashed the sleeve of his jacket, toying with him before she stepped back to disengage. She was not quite ready to finish him until he’d satisfied her curiosity.

“I will ask you this only once.” She began to circle counterclockwise, forcing Quinn to lead with his left leg, sending waves of agony radiating from his injured kidney. “What do you know of my mother?”

Quinn smiled inside, remembering the words Miyagi had spoken in her garden the last time they’d sparred.
Just because you hold a sword, does not mean it is the only weapon you can use to win the battle
.

 

 

Gunfire popped and rattled in pockets below as Miyagi made her way along the rooftop. She’d encountered three sentries and dispatched each of them in turn silently with her dagger. Only one man stood at parade rest beside Oda at the far corner facing the knee-high stone parapet.

“I see you have resorted to bodyguards,” Miyagi said when she came up behind them. It had been years since she’d seen him, and yet it still seemed as if a fist gripped her heart.

Both men wheeled. The guard raised a pistol, but Miyagi put three bullets in his chest and a fourth in his forehead in case he happened to be wearing a vest.

Oda’s mouth fell open at the sight of her.

“Incredible,” he whispered. “You haven’t changed at all.” He had no weapon and raised both hands as if to embrace her as she advanced.

Miyagi found herself amazed at how much he’d aged. Still, there was a ferocity in his eyes that said he was not some old man to be trifled with. She took a half step back, fighting a rising panic.

He saw it and his face softened at once, drawing her in. A smile spread over rosy cheeks. She’d forgotten how handsome he could make himself.

“Oh, how I have missed you, Emi-chan,” he said. “I often wondered if you would ever return home.”

“Home . . .” Miyagi mused. “You were never that to me.”

Oda shook his head, chiding. “I gave you sanctuary,” he said. “And a beautiful daughter.”

“It would seem,” Miyagi said, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, “that I gave the daughter to you.”

“As you say.” Oda shrugged. “But you were always my favorite. You know that, don’t you?”

Miyagi struggled to keep her face passive. “Takako-san was once your favorite,” she said. “I just came from her home, where I witnessed what you do to former
favorites
.”

“That was an unfortunate necessity,” he said. “But, she had become slow of wit—unlike you, it appears.”

“Is that so?” Miyagi said. She wanted to shoot him, but the gun felt like it weighed a thousand pounds in her hands. “It might interest you to know she left behind volumes of notebooks detailing her work for you over the past years—including information on your present relationship with a man named Ranjhani. Not so slow of wit, it seems.”

“Then I was right to kill her.” Oda sighed, but Miyagi caught the tiniest glint of worry in his eyes. “You are strong, Emi-chan, much stronger that she ever was.” He flicked his fingers. “Come, put down the gun and let us relive old times.”

“And what of Ayako?” Miyagi stared at him. “Was she your favorite as well?”

“No, no.” Oda waved away the thought, vain enough to believe Miyagi actually wanted to be his favorite. “Ayako-chan was only a vessel. You are certainly stronger than that foolish whore.”

Miyagi leveled the MP5, letting anger chase away her uneasiness. Oda was a monster, but he was merely a man, not a god to be feared.

Miyagi put two rounds in Oda’s belly, low so he would feel it. He stumbled backward, teetering at the edge of the roof. He reached out, hands flailing for support, seeking to control her even to the end.

“Emiko . . . help me . .
.
”

Miyagi let the MP5 fall against her sling and drew her sword, extending it toward the falling man. Groping blindly, he grabbed the blade with both hands, leaving his fingers behind as he tumbled over the parapet.

“Ayako-chan survived when you cut her daughter from the womb,” Miyagi whispered, peering over the edge at Oda’s shattered body below. “She was the strongest woman I have ever known.”

Quinn feinted left, offering his injured side to draw the tattooed woman out.

Believing he was beaten, she struck again, slicing the sleeve of his Transit jacket. This time he was ready and took the cut on the crash armor, sliding by so he was inside her guard. Crashing in, he gave her a vicious head butt, shattering the bridge of her nose and sending her staggering backward.

Quinn kept coming, punching her over and over in the face with his left hand. She raised the sword to fend him off. It was a blind reaction but caused him to sidestep to keep from getting cut. Far from beaten, she held the sword with her left hand and brought her right around in a brutal punch to his kidney.

Fighting through the pain, Quinn pressed closer so he was chest to chest with the young woman, rendering her long sword useless.

“Get off me, you fool!” she spat. The odor of peppermint hit him full in the face.

A torrent of white-hot fury flowed through his body. He stepped to the side, stomping laterally at her knee, hearing the satisfying crunch as cartilage tore and the joint gave way. She screamed, twisting to the side to relieve the sudden pain. Quinn stepped behind her, grabbing the flap of sullen hair and jerking her head backward as he snaked his arm over the top of her throat, catching her head under his arm so her body was arched in front of him, her neck bent backward with nowhere to go. Hauling upward and back, he felt a dull snap.

The sword fell from her grasp, but he held her there a full minute longer, panting, squeezing, his entire body shaking from shock and relief. Finally satisfied that she was dead, Quinn let her body fall to the ground. He wasn’t far behind her, collapsing to his knees on the gravel.

Thibodaux and Garcia came up moments later. Ronnie fell beside him, supporting him with strong arms. Jacques let out a mournful sigh. “I wonder if we’re ever gonna run out of folks to kill . . .”

“Oda?” Quinn whispered.

“Miyagi took a gun to his knife fight,” Thibodaux said.

Still panting, Quinn found the strength to roll the dead woman over and raise her shirt so he could check her tattoo on her back. “
Komainu
,” he said under his breath.

“What?” Ronnie stayed locked in beside him.

“A foo dog,” Quinn said. “This may be difficult for Emiko to see—”

Miyagi’s voice came from behind him. “I am sorry to say it is not so difficult for me after all,” she said, standing over the body to peruse the tattoo. “This is not my daughter.”

“But the tattoo,” Quinn said, “it is just as you described.

“So it is,” Miyagi said. “But I was a fool not to remember that
komainu
come in pairs. One most always has his mouth open; on the other, the mouth is closed, as it is here.” She used the tip of her sword to point to the dead woman’s back. The ferocious temple dog did indeed stare at them over a closed mouth.

“Then who?” Quinn closed his eyes, knowing the answer before she told him.

“Her name is
Hiromi
. Ayako-chan had a difficult pregnancy,” Miyagi said. “She feared that she would lose the child and tried to sneak away, but Oda caught her. He cut out the baby with a dagger and left Ayako to die. Even Shimoyama, who had to that point looked down on the younger girls, took pity on the poor thing and helped her get medical attention. She saved Ayako’s life but gave up a little finger in return—and the trust of Oda.”

“Of course,” Quinn said, remembering the signs he should have seen—the visceral way Ayako had reacted when he mentioned Oda’s name, the way she’d gone pale when he told her he was looking for a girl with a
komainu
tattooed on her back. Though Hiromi would have no memory of her real mother, Ayako would have kept up with her. Hiromi was the reason she’d kept disrupting his aim during the chase through Yanagi Pharmaceutical. She was the reason Ayako had dropped the pistol during the motorcycle chase.

It was the first time she’d ever seen her daughter since the day Oda cut the child from her belly. No wonder Ayako wanted to protect her—but even the love for a daughter had limits. Something had snapped when she’d seen her damaged daughter cut down the innocent children. Even then, as she lay dying, she’d given Quinn the last clue in her warning.

“She is fierce,” Ayako had said. “Just like her mother.”