Marc Cameron - National Security

“Good.” Mahoney nodded, tapping the clipboard with her pen. “Failure is a good thing when it’s them doing it. Of course, we don’t know how the stuff will affect a human…” She looked up to see Justin on the other side of the window, his young face drawn tight in abject terror.

“What?”

“Dr. Mahoney, you need to get out of there now!”

“Justin,” Mahoney said, glancing up to make certain she was still attached to an air hose. “What the hell are you talking about? Is my su-”

The metal clang of a cage door behind her answered her question. She turned slowly, to find C-45-all 31 pounds of him-hunched on the spotless tile floor. In his fist, he held his wooden gnawing stick like a club.

“Justin, honey,” Mahoney said, voice sticky as a Georgia peach. “Did you remember to fasten the door after you put C-45 back in his cage?”

“I… I… thought I did,” the boy stammered. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I’ll come in and help you get him caught.”

“Stay put!” Mahoney barked. Justin underfoot was the last thing she needed. The horny idiot would flirt on his way to the guillotine.

Mahoney clutched the clipboard in front of her chest. The tiny square of Formica would work about as well against a running chainsaw when C-45 attacked, but it was all she had.

The big macaque heaved as it squatted on the floor not ten feet away. She’d been the one to give him the needle full of virus-laden juice. The scowling face said he held a grudge. Blue lips pulled tight. Fangs dripped ribbons of thick saliva down the green numbers tattooed across his pink chest-saliva that was surely hot with an unknown strain of hemorrhagic fever.

Mahoney reached slowly to unhook her breathing hose, then began to ease-inch by inch-toward the door. She didn’t think about the pain of teeth ripping into the flesh under the flimsy layer of her rubberized suit. The agony and almost certain death from exposure to the virus didn’t even cross her mind. One sound dominated her thoughts, a sound that pressed at her chest and made it impossible to catch a full breath. The whooshing thud of a three-hundred-pound metal door echoed in her imagination like a recurring nightmare-the Slammer.

The angry macaque didn’t even have to break her skin. A simple tear of her suit-one breath of ambient air-and her next stop would be the stuff of nightmares. She could already hear the door crashing shut behind her, trapping her in the empty bleach bottle that would be her prison-possibly for the remainder of a very short and agonizing life.

“I don’t think she likes me very much.” Thibodaux grunted, tossing back a liter bottle containing a mixture of water, chocolate protein powder, and a cup of raw oatmeal he’d let soak long enough he could chew it.

Across the breakfast table, Quinn made do with granola and soy milk. “Why do you say that?”

“I dunno…” The Marine wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm. “Because I can’t do a handstand on my nose or some shit like that.”

Mrs. Miyagi had woken them before five with an entire new wardrobe, including T-shirts, running shorts, and shoes. They’d arrived with literally nothing more than what they had on their backs and had given their sizes to Palmer the day before, but neither expected to have the promised clothes by the next morning.

Each man was accustomed to a strict regimen of exercise and they put the new gear to use without being told. Thibodaux didn’t look like a runner, but as big as he was, he stayed shoulder to shoulder with Quinn for six miles through the neighborhoods around Mt. Vernon at a blazing seven-minute-mile pace. When they sprinted up Mrs. Miyagi’s tree-lined driveway, they found her in the backyard, resting serenely in a sort of handstand on her forearms; her back arched slightly, legs straight up in the air. It was, she explained, a yoga move called Pincha Mayurasana and the sooner they mastered it the better for everyone involved.

It was impossible to tell the mysterious woman’s age. She was compactly built, just a breath over five feet tall. Her black leotard revealed the muscular upper body of an Olympic gymnast, the defined hips and thighs of a sprinter. She moved like an athlete with a sort of fluid, feline confidence that took immediate control when she was present. Her coal-black hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. She wore no nail polish or any apparent makeup; her only adornment was the fleeting, crimson edge of an unidentifiable tattoo, barely visible at the scoop neck of the leotard over the swell of her left breast.

Her workout over, she dressed in faded jeans snug enough to accentuate the curves of her figure, and a white oxford polo that left the tattoo a hidden mystery. Under some lights, her flawless skin and ever serene demeanor made Quinn guess she was still in her thirties, but in momentary flashes, particularly when she spoke, the deep, ageless wisdom in her eyes said she was much older.

Miyagi joined the two men in the dining room just as Thibodaux finished his protein and raw oats. She carried an aluminum Zero Halliburton briefcase in each hand.

“The DNI tells me I am to issue your equipment immediately,” she said.

“ Arigato gozaimasu. ” Quinn accepted his case with both hands and a slight bow. It was large, at least five inches deep, and it had some heft to it.

“You are welcome.” Mrs. Miyagi’s lips perked into just the hint of a smile, the first Quinn had seen of such sentiment in the mysterious woman. “Palmer San said I should watch what I say around you.” There wasn’t the slightest trace of a Japanese accent in her words. Her teeth and her emotions vanished as quickly as they had appeared. “Now, if you gentleman will please open your cases, I will explain your new weapons.

“New weapons?” Thibodaux rubbed his big hands together. “I like the sound of that.”

Quinn snapped the latches and raised the lid on the brushed aluminum case to find a pair of Kimber Tactical Ultra II pistols chambered in ten millimeter. The Kimber was built on the venerable 1911 design some operators felt had to have been revealed by the Almighty to John Browning.

Nestled between the matched handguns was a custom Glock in. 22 caliber with a threaded barrel, Gemtech silencer, and a box of subsonic ammunition. There were extra magazines and a variety of concealment holsters for each weapon.

Miyagi waved an open hand over the contents of both cases. “The Director leaves the choice of sidearm up to each of you, since that is a personal issue. He makes you the gift of these pistols and reminds you that you are no longer constrained by the need to carry NATO-approved ammunition. The ten millimeters are for times when immediate stopping power is required.”

“I can’t think of a time when it’s not.” Thibodaux smiled. He peered down the sights of one of the Kim-bers with the broad grin of a boy on Christmas morning. As a special agent with OSI, Quinn was accustomed to carrying a pistol wherever he went, both in and out of the United States. Thibodaux only carried a weapon when he was overseas or in training, and in the Marine Corps that was customarily a rifle.

“When silence is paramount”-Mrs. Miyagi smiled serenely as if she’d done her share of specialized pistol work-“the. 22 caliber Glock fitted with the Gemtech should serve you very well. From my experience with the Director, it is my belief that you will employ this system far more often than you will the Kimber.” She turned to Quinn, studying him for a long moment. “I understand you often use a blade in such circumstances.”

“I have on occasion.” Quinn nodded, wondering how much this woman knew about him.

With his particular skills and the broad range of opportunities to put them to use in Iraq, Jericho had learned to utilize the weapon that got the job done. In the beginning, he’d never set out to kill a man with a knife, but it had happened more than once. Quinn had discovered the method to be supremely effective and silent. The aftermath of blade work had the added benefit of throwing a psychological headlock on others among the enemy camp who came upon the bloody scene. It also gave him a reputation that made other OSI agents steer clear of him at parties but jump at the chance to work with him in the field.