“The old fella looks like a mean son of a bitch,” Thibodaux sneered, scooping up the martyr photos. “This mole ought to make it easier for your biometrics to key on ol’ Kalil. Damn thing looks like a dog tick…”
“Maybe,” Palmer said. His voice was calm, but worry lines stitched a high forehead. “I hate to say it, but until we get some kind of nibble, there’s not much we can do. You all may as well go home and get some rest. I have a feeling you’re all going to need it.”
Mahoney moved closer to Quinn, sitting on the couch beside him. He’d taken several digital images of the lab and they were spread out on the coffee table in front of him. She was close enough to smell the soap from his recent shower. His dark hair hung in loose ringlets, still damp. He had the look of a freshly bathed wolf, clean from all the blood but with the deadly look of a recent kill still smoldering in his eyes.
Mahoney had never been around someone who exuded such charisma. Her scientific brain told her it was chemical, but her emotions didn’t care where the feelings sprang from. They were just as strong. She let go of a stupid, fleeting wish that she’d worn something less severe than khakis and a white button-down.
Jericho Quinn was a handsome man, there was no denying that. He was shorter than the big Marine by a good four inches, but tall enough. A little on the gaunt side with hungry brown eyes to match the hollows in his cheeks. Athletic arms strained against the tight sleeves of a black polo. A curl of dark hair visible above the third button said he was no chest-waxing metrosexual. Quinn was a square jawed, five-o’clock-shadow-by-noon man’s man. He oozed danger, but something in her primordial self woke up and screamed that this was the kind of man who would protect her and their cubs…
Mahoney shivered in spite of herself. Afraid it was visible to the others, she feigned a sneeze.
She thumbed through the lab photos from the coffee table, eager to take her mind off thoughts of Jericho Quinn. Though taken through thick glass, the images were of surprisingly good quality and the torment on the victims’ faces was all too evident.
Mahoney studied the drawn face of the poor child, horrified by what she saw. She glanced up at Jericho, showing him the photograph. “Didn’t you say their eyes looked… flat, I think you said?”
“Ummhmm.” He nodded. “The way you described Ebola, I’d assumed it was part of the disease.”
Megan looked at the photo of the girl again. She took a small magnifying glass from the table and ran it over the other faces.
“Oh, my…” she gasped. The muscles in her jaw tensed and bunched as she fought the urge to vomit. “One of the virus samples I have back at Fort Detrick is made up almost entirely of aqueous humor — the fluid from inside the human eye. It looks as though they were trying experiments with a portable medium for the virus other than blood.”
Thibodaux’s brow furrowed. “Oh ye yi! You mean to say those bastards sucked the juice out of that little one’s eyes?”
Mahoney dropped the photos back on the table. “Her and all the rest.”
The big Cajun doubled both fists and stared hard at Jericho. “I hope you took care of the ones that done this, Chair Force…”
“Working on it,” Quinn said.
“Well.” Thibodaux rose slowly to his feet. “This is gonna be a pleasure.”
Kim called before they made it out of the lobby. Mahoney had remained behind to make a few phone calls of her own on Palmer’s STU phone. Jericho waved Thibodaux on. “I’ll meet you back at Miyagi’s,” he said as he took the call. Instead of going on without him, the big Marine went outside and sat on the steps, unwilling to leave a man behind for any reason.
The call was short, a simple session where Kim filled him in on Mattie’s newest achievements. This time, she’d been accepted to play in the prestigious Anchorage Youth Orchestra. His ex-wife never actually chastised him directly. Instead, she let the implications of his absence do the work for her, praising the great achievements and success of their daughter, in spite of the absences brought on by his “important job” and “save-the-world” overseas missions. She was extremely skillful at slowly beating him to death with backhanded compliments. “She’s doing amazingly well, considering she misses her dad so much…” It was Kim’s way of saying Mattie would be playing in Carnegie Hall if only Jericho were there to cheer her on. Still, he beamed at the news. At five years old his little girl was a musical prodigy on the violin. Kim was an excellent violinist in her own right; years of dedicated practice had seen her play in Seattle, Los Angeles, and New York. She had a permanent seat with the Anchorage Symphony and had over twenty students of her own. But privately, Jericho felt Mattie’s superhuman ability had more to do with inheriting his talent at languages. Music was, after all, just another language. He said nothing of this to Kim, more than happy to let her take the credit. Instead he listened quietly and told her he loved her. There was no way to tell her what he was actually doing. She’d never know he’d gone to Saudi Arabia — he wondered if she’d care if she did.
“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.”