Marc Cameron - National Security

Thibodaux sat behind the wheel, whipping expertly in and out of traffic. He took the spur road off highway 267, following the signs to the International terminal. It was midmorning and the commuter gridlock had let up enough that an aggressive driver could make good time, particularly going away from the Beltway. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Mahoney.

“Sure you had the right number?” he said, slamming on the brakes to avoid rear-ending a Boar’s Head meat van.

“I spoke to the customs inspector.” Mahoney nodded, redialing and getting nothing but a busy signal. “He said he was putting on someone from the FBI.”

“What’s the Bureau doing there?” Quinn sat in the front passenger seat, his eyes shut, head back.

“Beats me,” Mahoney said. She couldn’t blame Quinn for resting. Since Win Palmer had put Hamid’s name and photograph on every lookout in the Western world, they’d been to Reagan National airport twice and Baltimore once, checking possible hits. Until now, they’d been false alarms, look-alikes. She’d assumed this one would be the same until they’d hung up on her. She’d dealt with the Bureau before, and though most of the individual agents were highly capable and pleasant enough, the agency had a certain inertia to it that could be difficult to overcome. “From my experience these guys can be mighty parochial.”

“That’s an understatement, cher,” Thibodaux said. “I’m fixin’ to get us right up by the door. We’ll crash their party no matter if they invite us or not.”

Quinn had his door open before Thibodaux put the Toyota in park. Mahoney handed a black bag marked XXL to Thibodaux just as a security guard in a gray uniform and yellow vest strode up. He was bald in the back, but his remaining hair was cut in a long flattop, pointing skyward like a smokestack, badly in need of a trim.

“You can’t park that here,” the guard said, nodding toward a sign along the curb. “Tour buses only.”

“FBI,” Thibodaux barked.

“Oh, uh…” the guard stammered. “Okay.”

“Damn.” Thibodaux grinned as the three walked away from the Toyota toward the terminal door. “No wonder the Bureau’s so parochial. Their name’s like a damn magic word.”

“We had to be telling the truth.” Quinn grinned. “Who would lie about being FBI?”

When Hamid hit the ground, the arm of his chair had snapped, leaving him cuffed not to the entire piece of furniture, but a stout club of heavy wood.

“What do you think, Hammy?” Chaffee said, stooping to lift the panting Arab back upright. He could get inside this guy and he knew it. “You feel like talking or should I ask my partner and her chubby friend to step out for a moment so I can shove that little vial of yours down your throat?”

Hamid said something, barely audible, under his breath, more of a squeak. Agent Chaffee grinned. This was too easy…

Hamid struck like a snake, grunting with exertion as he brought the heavy wood across Chaffee’s forearm. Bones cracked. Chaffee screamed, plowing into the Arab. The pain in his arm sent waves of nausea through his gut. His head reeled, but he knew he had to close the distance between himself and the club or risk being brained-especially now that his gun hand was useless.

Bellowing like a bull, Chaffee charged the far end of the room, taking the Arab along with him. Hamid slammed into the wall first, woofing as the air left his lungs. Unfazed, he continued to use the club, striking wildly but landing blow after blow on the agent’s back and shoulders. Chaffee rained left hooks into the Arab’s ribs, keeping him pressed against the wall with the point of his shoulder. He kept his broken wrist wedged against his own sidearm, fending off Hamid’s snaking hand as best he could. It was only a matter of seconds before the Arab would have his gun.

“Somebody shoot this son of a bitch!” Chaffee yelled as he felt the Glock slip from his holster.

He heard two quick pops and Hamid went limp. The gun slid away with a muffled thump against the carpet.

Chaffee was vaguely aware of the smell of gunpowder as he let the Arab’s body slump to the floor. Nausea brought on by the excruciating pain in his arm and a cold gush of adrenaline flowed back with full force. He staggered once, lowering himself to the floor with his good hand, cradling the broken arm across his lap.

Betty Bureau Blue Suit towered over him, her issue Glock still trained on a gurgling Hamid. Ernie too had found a pistol somewhere under his sweater and stood, aimed in at the threat.

A cool tickling caused Chaffee to touch his face. His hand came back bathed in red. Miller’s second round had caught Hamid high in the shoulder, shattering his collarbone and spraying Chaffee with blood.

“Bob,” Agent Miller said, her voice a half an octave higher than it had been. “You good?” She kicked the pistol away from Hamid’s twitching hand.

“I’m fine,” Chaffee winced, cradling his wounded arm. When he twisted around to thank her, his eyes locked on the shattered glass vial at Agent Miller’s feet.

Palmer’s fury had shown in his twitching face after Quinn told him of the near miss with the fighter jets at Union Station. He’d vowed to keep any further communications about the virus out of the hands of the Gang of Five until he’d checked back with the Hammer Team. Until that time, he advised them to fly low and handle things as discreetly as possible.

Jericho’s OSI badge and a few moments of explanation to TSA and a harried airport police sergeant had gotten all three of them past the screening point with the bags of biohazard gear. Their real roadblock turned out to be a pudgy airline gate agent wearing blue uniform shorts and a wrinkled white shirt. Apparently, Mr. Brandon Milford felt as if it was his solemn duty to safeguard the magnetic lock on the door leading to the back corridor of the International Terminal. Had it been left up to Jericho, he would have been happy to choke out the hairy-legged little butterball with the lanyard from his name tag.

Instead, he was content to let Mahoney explain their way in. Jericho would save his energy for the moments when his particular skills were needed and let the good doctor handle the diplomatic niceties.

Thibodaux leaned against a concrete pillar beside him, looking on smugly with a raised eyebrow. “She’s losin’ her temper,” he said, taking a flat toothpick out of his mouth and dipping his head toward a red-faced Mahoney. “See how her butt cheeks are startin’ to clench inside her khakis?”

“Sounds like you’ve made a study of this,” Quinn mused.

“Oh, yeah.” Thibodaux grinned. “When I see my wife’s tail end clench like that, it’s time to hunt a different piece of real estate. Means she’s fixin’ to throw a frying pan or somethin’ heavy at my head.” The big Marine tossed the frayed toothpick on the floor. “If I was this guy, I’d be gettin’ ready to duck…”

“I need authorization,” the gate agent said, folding his arms and setting his egg-shaped face as if it were granite. “You’re not going back there until someone answers the phone and I get authorization. It won’t do you a bit of good to get testy with me. I’ll punch the code and let you in.” His nasal voice had the annoying whine of a mosquito. “ After I get authorization.”

“Excellent,” Mahoney said. “Call and get it.”

“I have,” Milford said. “They don’t answer.”

“Call someone else, then.” Mahoney threw her hands in the air, shaking her head in dismay. “Call the airport police. We just talked to one back at security. He said you’d let us in.”

The gate agent shook his head emphatically. “The airport police are not on my list of people to call. You say you’re federal. You know they wouldn’t have any jurisdiction over customs anyway. Look, I’m really busy right now. You have a seat over there and I’ll give them another call in a few minutes. I’m sure someone will answer then.