Marc Cameron - National Security

“You doin’ okay, Chair Force?” Thibodaux asked as he and Quinn walked across the parking lot toward their bikes, a stone’s throw from the Pentagon.

“I’m all right,” Quinn said. “A little worried about my daughter, that’s all.” The whir of a thousand cicadas droned from the surrounding greenery, in harmony with the memory of Kim’s parenting sermon that still buzzed in his head. A dazzling afternoon sun reflected off hundreds of parked cars. The evening rush hour had already begun, clogging the arteries that fed D.C. proper. The Jefferson Davis Highway and 395 had slowed to a lethargic trickle.

“I don’t like to get in another man’s business,” the Cajun said, “but you appear to be a mite conflicted-and in my experience conflicted men are apt get themselves killed.”

Jericho felt his stomach tighten. It was difficult enough to gain the trust of an operator like Thibodaux. The last thing he wanted to do was jeopardize it with screwed-up thoughts of ex-wives and dying home fires. They had a job to do and a high level of trust between them was vital. The best way to engender that trust was to be honest.

Quinn stopped and looked up at the big Cajun. “Before Palmer recruited us, I told my wife I’d quit.” Saying the words was like throwing up on the dinner table, then waiting for a reaction.

Surprisingly, a huge grin spread across Thibodaux’s face. “Hell, we all promise ’em we’re gonna quit every once in a while. Just like they promise us they’re gonna lay off the brownies while we’re deployed.” He shrugged and began to walk toward the bikes again. “I make all kinds of promises to get in her panties.”

Quinn laughed. “I wish I’d thought of that last time I was in Alaska.”

“It ain’t even a lie if you mean it at the time.” Thibodaux winked.

“You’re away from home as much as I am,” Quinn said, relaxing by degrees as they walked. It felt good to be able to talk to someone. “And you still decided to have a big family?”

The Cajun looked out over the Potomac. “I dunno. My child bride wanted to have a mess of kids. It was all part of the deal from the get-go with her. Who was I to say no when the process is so damn enjoyable?”

Quinn sighed. “Yeah, Kim was always on my back trying to have more kids.”

Thibodaux stopped in his tracks. “Well”-he chuckled-“if she was on your back, it’s a wonder you even had the one.”

“I’m serious, Jacques,” Jericho said. “You seem to have the family warrior thing all figured out.”

Thibodaux resumed his long strides, thinking a moment before he spoke. “My granddaddy once told me there was only two things in the middle of the road: a yellow stripe and a dead possum. I don’t want my boys to stand anywhere near the middle of the road and I figure the best way to guard against that is for them to see me fight for what I believe in. Besides,” he said, “I don’t know if you are aware, but there’s a war on.”

“I hear you.”

“Anyhow,” Thibodaux went on, “my wife and I get along much better when I’m not there underfoot all the time. I honestly believe if I was a mailman or something that kept me home every night she’d wind up shootin’ my ass.”

At their bikes now, Jericho nodded. “Thanks for the words of wisdom.”

“Hell.” Thibodaux smiled. “Even stone-cold killers need to talk now and again. The point is, you shouldn’t hold this kind of shit in. It’s like being mentally constipated. That’s what conflicts us, and that which conflicts us doth get us killed. You may quote me.”

“Thank you, Dr. Daux Boy.”

The men both turned to watch Mahoney step from the double glass doors and into the parking lot.

“Doc Daux Boy says that woman there done gone and got all Matthew 4:19 on you.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Since when did you start to quote the Good Book?”

“My granny was a sure ’nough Bible scholar. Whenever I had some little gal after me, Granny’d say she was Matthew 4:19-fishin’ for menfolk.”

Standing at the rear of his BMW, Quinn opened the aluminum side case to retrieve his padded black gloves and leathers. He took his helmet and fiddled with the GPS display inside the visor as he spoke. “Seriously? You think the good doctor was flirting with you?”

“Not me, dumb-ass,” Thibodaux laughed. “She’s been oo-awing you with her baby blues from the get-go. I saw her fall when she first heard that honey-sweet voice of yours over the com-line from Al-Hofuf.”

Quinn shrugged on his armored jacket and waved off the idea. It was warm so he flipped the switch that flushed the jacket with coolant. Mahoney was still twenty feet away, a wide smile across her face. Her broad, swimmer’s shoulders were thrown back as she walked. Low rays of sun turned her hair into a golden halo-not blond but not red.

“You could do a hell of a lot worse,” Thibodaux whispered.

“She hasn’t said more than ten words to me,” Quinn said, his voice hushed.

“Just because she ain’t thrown her hook in the water don’t mean a thing.” The big Cajun winked. “You mark my words, brother, she’s fishin’.”

Mahoney stopped, shaking her head slowly back and forth when she saw the two men dressed in their sleek Transit Leather jackets beside the tall BMWs. Her eyes were wide with wonder. “Whew,” she gasped. “You run around the world blowing up terrorists and ride big honkin’ motorcycles when you come home. What do guys like you do when you have a midlife crisis?”

Thibodaux gave Quinn an I-told-you-so smirk. “Well, beb, in this kind of work, we’d be damn lucky if we didn’t pass midlife somewhere back in our teens. But, if I do happen to live a little longer, I plan to sire myself a couple more sons.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward Jericho. “I reckon he’ll settle down and marry his ex-wife…”

Thankfully, Quinn’s cell phone saved him from the conversation with a pestering buzz.

It was Palmer.

He listened a moment, then snapped the phone shut, eyes hard on Thibodaux.

“Surveillance cameras on the Postal Museum picked up a match to our number-two martyr, Kalil.”

“The one with the dog-tick mole on his cheek,” Thibodaux said. “Got it.” Helmet in hand, he climbed aboard his GS and let it run through the electronic diagnostics before he started the motor.

Jericho turned to Mahoney. “Palmer has Metro Police watching the guy. Sharpshooters are moving up on the scene now, but he wants us there yesterday.”

“They can’t approach him,” Mahoney warned. “If he deploys the virus everyone around the Museum could be infected.”

Quinn bit his bottom lip. “It’s worse than that,” he said. “The Postal Museum is directly across the street from Union Station. It’s rush hour. I don’t know how many thousands of commuters go through there every day.”

Mahoney ran a hand through her hair, looking across the Potomac into downtown D.C. “Like Palmer said, we have to think containment here. If the virus goes airborne anyone exposed to it will have to be stopped where they are and kept there. That means shutting down the Metro trains coming in and out of Union Station…”

“Being done even as we speak,” Quinn said. “D.C. SWAT and FBI HRT are en route to set up a perimeter to keep folks quarantined until we can mobilize National Guard troops… if it comes to that. No one is being told exactly what they’re dealing with, but they know it’s serious-some sort of flu.”

“Good thinking,” Thibodaux threw over his shoulder. “Any kind of flu sounds better than bleeding-outta-your-eyes Ebola.”

Quinn looked at his watch. “Listen, Doc, I hate to drag you into harm’s way, but you’re our resident expert. I’m gonna need you to meet us over there.”