The lights draped from the high eaves of the three-story inn to the beech tree, across to the motorcycle shed, then back to the inn, forming a lighted stable for two dozen adventure motorcycles and half again as many people. Beaked GSs and larger GS Adventures made up the bulk of the bikes since Bursaw had the BMW concession, but the herd was dotted with a handful of KTMs, Yamahas, and Triumphs. They all looked aggressive and predatory. Two black Corvettes and a gleaming lime-green Dodge Challenger Hellcat sat parked along the edge of the road facing the lighted stable as if they were looking over the bikes.
Quinn peeled off his helmet and hung it on the Toaster’s handlebars. The incredibly thick and herby odor of spit-roasted lamb hit him full in the face and caused his mouth to water. He knew he’d have to make excuses and get going, but he also had to eat. The heady smells of fresh bread and cooking meat made him realize his body was running on reserve. Off the bike, he arched his back, popping his neck from side to side. The wind on the ride back had almost dried his wet jeans but left him chilled and exhausted down to his bones. Some sort of nourishment was fast becoming an imperative.
Petra had outdone herself with two long tables of assorted Croatian dishes. There was a long line crowded around the lamb so Quinn grabbed a piece of crusty bread and a small fish grilled simply in olive oil and herbs. He ate it in two bites while he walked over to let Kevin know his prized Toaster Tank Beemer was, amazingly enough, still intact.
“Hey, man,” Bursaw said, shaking Quinn’s hand when he walked up, still careful to let him pick the name he wanted to use to be introduced. Bursaw gestured to a rangy-looking man with a blond goatee to his left. “You’ll have to forgive my nephew, Craig,” he said.
“He won’t shut up about his new muscle car.”
“John Martin,” Quinn said, using the name on his Australian passport. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“American muscle, Uncle Kevin,” Craig said. A lit cigarette drooped from the corners of his grinning lips. Though he spoke excellent English, his Balkan accent gave him away as being from Petra’s side of the family. He didn’t look much younger than Kevin. He nodded proudly and gestured toward the shiny green Dodge with the glowing cigarette. “Just picked her up from the customs lot three days ago. She is a 2015 SRT Hellcat. She has a 707 horsepower Hemi engine, capable of zero to sixty miles per hour in three seconds—”
“Yeah.” Kevin laughed, “And it cost you more than my house.” He stuffed a bite of cheese and pršut, the prosciutto-like cured meat of Croatia, into his mouth.
Bursaw’s nephew, whose real name was Crepko, but who had changed his name to Craig because he loved American things, swung the red and black key fobs in his hand and gave a resigned shrug. “Maybe my car is expensive, but I had the money.” He wagged his head and jabbed at him with the cigarette to make his point. “And don’t tell me you don’t want to take her out on the road and let her speak to you, Uncle. Perhaps Aunt Petra would not allow you because the women would flock like birds to such a sexy machine…”
Song walked up and touched Quinn’s arm. He didn’t mind small talk if it was about motors and speed.
“I need to talk to you, dear,” she said. Her voice was tense, pointed.
The other men raised their eyebrows and gave Quinn a knowing nod. They stepped away to give the couple space.
“I am informed that Big Uncle is no longer in Madrid,” she whispered. Her eyes darted from guest to guest as she spoke. “He has set up shop in the United States.”
“Okay.” Quinn nodded thoughtfully. “So the Fengs are going to the US. Do you know where?”
“Washington,” she said.
“The capital,” Quinn mused.
Song shook her head. “The state. Big Uncle now runs his triad from Seattle.”
“Interesting,” Quinn said, his brain going into overdrive. He went over the long list of possible targets in the Northwest — military bases, nuclear facilities, the major cities themselves.
“We need to get to Seattle then,” he said. “And in the meantime, you need to tell me more about this Black Dragon so we can consider where they might hit.”
Song folded her arms tightly across her chest and stood silently in front of him. To others in the group it probably looked like they were having a fight instead of discussing how to avert a war between their two countries. Quinn couldn’t help but notice that even in their present situation Song’s shoulders bounced and bobbed to the lilt of the music, as if she might break out dancing at any moment. Her foot tapped along with the beat.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll get Kevin to take us to the airport.”
Song shook her head, rolling her lips as if she wanted to make sure she didn’t let the wrong words slip out. “There are no flights for another seven hours.”
“The Citation?” Quinn said.
“Already tasked with another mission,” she said.
“A mission more important than this?”
“I warned you,” she said. “There are those within my government who believe war with the United States would work to the eventual benefit of China. My allies grow fewer in number with each passing hour. Very soon it may just be me and you.”
“I’m still an undecided in that regard,” Quinn said.
“In any case,” she said, still watching the band. “We are booked on a British Airways flight to Seattle in the morning.”
“Nothing to do but wait then,” Quinn said. He paused, looking directly at Song. “Do you play?”
Her head snapped around. “What?”
“We’re talking about World War Done and you haven’t taken your eyes off those musicians.”
She bowed her head and gave him a sheepish nod. “The violin,” she said. “Back at the university. I was quite good at it. I studied fiddle music in the United States my second year, intending to make it my profession before my present job… occurred.”
“The fiddle,” Quinn mused. “That explains the country music.”
Kevin Bursaw walked back up in the middle of the conversation. He looked at Quinn. “Bo never told me you play the fiddle.”
Quinn laughed. “I couldn’t even play the triangle.” He nodded at Song. “She’s the fiddle player.”
Bursaw held his paper plate with one hand and put two fingers to his mouth in a piercing whistle, bringing the band to a stop. “Papa,” he yelled across the crowd. “We have a beautiful young lady here who plays the fiddle. Do you think Silvano would mind if she had a try?”
All eyes turned in their direction, giving Song no way out. She flashed Quinn a pinched look that said she might shoot him.
Bursaw noticed the look as well and picked up a ball of fried dough crusted in sugar as they watched Song step up on the portable stage. “Make sure and try Petra’s fritule before your girlfriend cuts your guts out.”
The three musicians gave Song the stage, happy for a short break to partake of the feast. Quinn watched in rapt attention as she raised Silvano’s violin to her shoulder, and, after a few plucks of tuning, launched into a frantic buzz of “Flight of the Bumblebee.” Everyone at the party stopped what they were doing as the notes swarmed from the strings. Then, as if the bees had turned back on themselves, the violin transformed into fiddle. A few notes later and the eerie screams and groans of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” began to spill from her bow. The crowd of riders erupted in whistles and applause when she finished. Song bowed, then moved to climb down off the stage, but a chant rose up, begging her to continue. Quinn found himself shouting along with the crowd, hoping to convince her to play another, if only for her own sake.