“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.”
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!”