Marc Cameron - National Security

Mahoney turned toward her Toyota, then back again. She nodded toward the 395 bridge that would take them across the Potomac River and into D.C. proper. An endless procession of cars inched along, brake lights flashing. Construction on the lanes going north into the city squeezed inbound traffic into a single chute, making it crawl as slowly as the clogged outbound lanes.

“It’ll take me an hour to get there in the 4Runner,” she said. “You’ll be able to cut lanes on the motorcycles, but I’m dead in the water.”

Jericho popped open an aluminum case and handed her a helmet. “This is my ex-wife’s. She’s sort of big headed so it might be a little loose.”

Mahoney put up both hands. “Oh, no, I… are you sure?”

“Come on, Dr. Mahoney, I’m a safe driver.” He grinned. “According to the CDC, we’re only about six times more likely to die in an accident on a bike than a car.”

“Your really know how to convince a girl,” she said. “I guess we’re all dead anyway if that virus gets out. I may as well come along for the ride.” She blushed, holding the helmet in front of her like a shield. “If I’m going to be clinging to your waist, I wish you’d call me Megan.”

“Okay, Megan, I’m Jericho.” He patted the bike’s rear seat with his black glove. “This is easier if you get on first.”

He couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he didn’t hope-just a little-that what Thibodaux said about her fishing was true. He took her hand, helping her swing a leg over the tall bike, catching the scent of her perfume as she moved. White Shoulders-Kim wore White Shoulders… He swallowed, pushing away the thought.

“There’s a cord coming out of the left side of your helmet,” he said, once she was situated. “I need to plug it in to this socket….” He pushed the small jack into the connection a half inch below her left thigh. “You and I will be able to talk to each other. I can talk to Thibodaux by radio, but your commo is only hardwired to me.”

“Got it,” Mahoney said, sounding much more capable than he thought she would.

“Hey, Boudreaux,” Jacques’s voice crackled across the intercom in Jericho’s helmet. “I’m thinking we might not even make it across on the bikes in time. That traffic’s murder, beb.”

“The GS is just an oversized dirt bike,” Quinn said, settling himself aboard, hands on throttle and clutch. “You feel comfortable doing a little off-road?”

“Not really,” Mahoney said from behind him. She sounded a little queasy at the thought.

“You know me, brother!” Thibodaux flipped his visor shut and gunned the BMW’s boxer engine. “ Laissez les bon temps rouler!”

Quinn eased his GS out of the parking lot and into traffic along the Old Jeff Davis Highway, giving Mahoney a quick moment to get her riding legs under her.

“Rule number one,” he said, thankful they had the intercom. “When I’m going less than fifteen miles an hour, you sit still. No shifting around or you could interfere with what I’m doing. Faster than that and feel free to stand on the seat if you want.”

“Okay,” she stammered. “Just don’t forget I’m back here when you go ripping off the pavement.”

She clung to his waist as if she might fly away. Her right arm rested just above the butt of the pistol under his Transit Leather jacket.

“You with me, Jacques?”

“With you, beb.”

“Okay, the Mount Vernon bike path runs along the river. We’ll jump the curb here and take that to the Arlington Memorial Bridge, then across toward the Lincoln Memorial about a mile up. The sidewalk’s pretty wide.” Mahoney tensed, tugging him closer. Even through the armored jacket, he could feel the weight of her against his spine. He shook his head to chase away a fleeting memory of riding with Kim. It was too easy to get nostalgic with the feeling of a good woman behind him on the bike…

Loose gravel and red dirt spun from his rear tire as Quinn jumped the curb and crossed an open patch of ground before cutting north on the smooth pavement of the Mount Vernon Trail. He punched a button on his right handle bar. While he waited for the dial tone, he explained what he was doing to Mahoney. “I’m going to give Palmer a quick call.”

He could feel the doctor nod her head behind him, but she said nothing.

The phone rang once before the DNI answered.

“Palmer.”

“Sir,” Quinn said. “We’re doing a bit of creative navigation to reach our target. I’d appreciate it if you’d let D.C. Metro and the U.S. Park Police know not to get in our way.”

“Consider it done,” Palmer said. “Last report has Kalil walking along Massachusetts Avenue in front of Union Station. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, khaki slacks, and brand-new white tennis shoes. There’s a Metro cop on horseback across from the taxi stand by the flagpoles. He’s got eyes-on but has orders not to approach.”

“Roger that-”

Quinn leaned hard to the left, narrowly evading a pack of angry in-line skaters who scattered like quail before the roaring motorcycles. “Gotta go, sir.”

Both Quinn and Thibodaux made liberal use of their horns. That, along with the sound-muffling qualities of their helmets, protected them from the steady torrent of cursing that followed them down the path from each bicyclist and jogger who had to leap out of their way and into the thick foliage. Three spandex-clad cyclists on graphite racing bikes rode straight into the river in front of the Navy-Marine Memorial.

Ducking and dodging, Quinn flew up the path, paralleling the stalled traffic on the George Washington Parkway. He felt Mahoney tense, heard her catch her breath as he darted across the access road, weaving in and out of the creeping traffic below the gray stone breastwork of Arlington Memorial Bridge. He accelerated to climb the grass embankment to the sidewalk that would carry under the Eagle arches and across the bridge. The inbound traffic to D.C. was indeed lighter, but Quinn kept to the wide walk. He leaned over the handlebars, throwing his weight forward to keep the front wheel down as the powerful motorcycle cleared the bridge in a matter of seconds. He cut left at the Lincoln roundabout, then took to the dirt beside the Reflecting Pool. Thibodaux stayed tight on his tail, hollering like a joyful schoolboy at each twist and turn.

Quinn was sure he’d have to have to peel Mahoney off his back when they stopped.

At least a hundred middle school students in crimson T-shirts parted like the Red Sea when they looked up from loitering at the base of the Washington Monument. Girls and a couple of the boys screamed at the top of their lungs.

“Damned little mouth breathers,” Thibodaux grumbled as his bike threw up a cloud of red dust, narrowly avoiding a pack of kids who walked toward him with their heads down listening to music. “That’ll teach ’em to take out the earbuds.”

Two minutes later saw the riders shoot past the Smithsonian Museums, then up Louisiana Avenue toward Union Station. Two blocks away they took to the street, falling in with evening traffic to keep from arousing suspicion on their approach.

“Got him,” Thibodaux’s voice came across the speaker in Quinn’s helmet. “He’s leaning up against a construction barricade along First Avenue. Gray T-shirt and khakis. I can see his big ol’ mole face from here… dammit! I thought Palmer said the locals were going to stay out of this…”

Quinn found himself stuck behind a produce truck without a clear visual on the target. “What do you mean?”

“Looks like the D.C. mountie has decided to ride on over and chat up Mole Face.”

Quinn downshifted into third and cut between the curb and the delivery truck, gunning the throttle to zip quickly out of the driver’s blind spot. He wasn’t so worried about making the trucker mad, but he wanted to be seen.