“You know what they call handcuffs in Spanish?” she asked, settling in against the cushions.
“No idea,” Quinn said. He spoke five languages but Spanish wasn’t one of them.
“Esposas.” She winked thick, heavily mascaraed lashes. “It is the same word for wife. Fitting, don’t you think?”
Quinn didn’t answer. He’d have to check that one with Garcia. He set the television to a home shopping channel and turned up the volume.
“You don’t have to worry about the noise, baby,” Dolores said. “The ladies who clean on this floor are used to me making a lot of racket. I give them a nice tip when I leave.”
“Good to know,” Quinn said, stuffing half a wadded washcloth in the hooker’s mouth. She accepted it with little more than a roll of her eyes.
A sudden rattle at the door, followed by the electronic whir of the lock, sent Quinn around the corner between the wall and the plush king bed. From here he had a clear view of Dolores and would be in the perfect spot to ambush Drake when he walked down the small entry hall past the bathroom.
He popped his neck from side to side, letting his shoulders hang loose and ready to move. He’d waited over a year for a chance to have a few minutes alone with Hartman Drake. The picture of Kim, lying on the concrete covered with blood, flashed before his eyes. Quinn pushed thoughts of revenge down in the dark recesses of his gut. It would be so easy to end this man here and now. Beating him to death would bring a certain closure if not real satisfaction, but there were still too many questions that had to be answered.
Quinn held his breath.
“Honey, I’m home!” Drake clapped his hands, stepping out of his shoes as he came through the door. Quinn heard the jingle of a belt buckle before the man even made it down the short hallway. “Let’s get this show on the—”
Fighting was rarely something Quinn took lightly. Underestimating an opponent could cost the battle, or worse, your life. But in this case Drake did half the work for him. His arms were occupied with shrugging off his sport jacket when he came around the corner, while his ankles were effectively hobbled by the puddle of loose slacks at his feet.
Well muscled, Hartman Drake was no one to toy with even when hampered by his pants. A snap-kick to his unprotected groin bent him double and put his chin in a perfect line with Quinn’s uppercut. Quinn was on him in an instant, slapping him hard across the ear to keep him stunned.
Pressing the advantage of momentum, Quinn rushed in, pummeling Drake with blow after blow to the ribs, driving the wind from his body and shocking his heart. With no time to collect his thoughts or regain his bearings, Drake could do little but give a halfhearted attempt to ward off the assault. Ten seconds from the time he’d walked into the room, warm in the knowledge he would have some quality time with sweet little Dolores, Hartman Drake found himself nauseated, dizzy, and half-deaf.
Quinn caught the Speaker’s wrist and wrenched it backward, feeling a satisfying crunch as tendons stretched and tore. Dolores half turned on the couch to watch the show and looked on with an interested sparkle in her eye. Quinn used three zip cuffs from the lining of his jacket to hog-tie Drake and leave him lolling, facedown, on the bed. With his target incapacitated for the moment, Quinn took the protesting Dolores by the arm and dragged her into the bathroom. She managed to spit out the washrag on the way.
“Whoa!” she said, wide-eyed. “You’re pretty damn good at what you do. Can I please watch? I’ll be quiet as a mouse, I swear.”
“Safer for you if you don’t hear this,” Quinn said, checking her cuffs. He took another zip tie from his jacket and fastened her to the sink before turning on the faucet in the tub for background noise. Stuffing the washcloth back in her mouth, he shut the door.
With Dolores stowed out of the way, Quinn sat on the bed beside a blinking, wide-eyed Drake. “Now,” he whispered, “you and I have some things to talk about.”
“Do you even know who I am?” Drake mumbled, his face smashed against the bed linens.
Quinn grabbed him by the hair and lifted his head. He looked the man over, as if considering how to carve a piece of meat, then let his head fall back to the mattress. “Let’s see what I know… I know you’re the kind of trash that kicked out three of your wife’s teeth and then held her underwater until she drowned. Yeah, I’d say I’m probably one of the handful of people in this country who actually does know who you are. What I need to know is who is pulling your strings.”
A flash of panic crossed Drake’s eyes. “There are a bunch of Capitol Police guys looking for me right now…” His words slurred against the bed with a line of drool.
“I’m going to ask you this once.” Quinn’s voice was barely audible above Drake’s whimpering. “Who shot at my family?”
Drake began to sob uncontrollably, flinging his head from side to side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Seriously… I am…” He panted, as if trying to catch his breath. “I am the Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives. My name is Hartman Dra—”
Quinn slipped into Arabic. “Who is the Japanese woman that was sent to shoot at me?”
Drake rolled his lips, pressing them together in a tight line as if to keep himself from talking. “Mister,” he finally said, trying to regain some of his bravado, “you have no idea what a shitload of troub—”
Quinn cuffed him on the back of the head, then drew the suppressed .22 from the shoulder holster under his Transit jacket. “As you wish,” he said, pressing the weapon to Drake’s temple. Without another word he turned the pistol slightly and fired a round into the mattress. Drake flinched at the shot. The spent casing ejected and landed in his ear, causing him to howl as if he’d been splashed with molten lava.
“I know you worked for Doctor Badeeb,” Quinn said, still in Arabic. He leaned in for effect. “And I know you tried to kill my little girl.”
“Please, I can’t understand what you’re saying,” Drake yowled. “I don’t speak Arabic…”
Quinn sighed. His voice grew calmer, almost sweet. “Perhaps you will not mind if I shoot you in your foot.”
Drake flinched at the words, doing the best he could to move his trussed feet out of the line of fire.
“You understand me perfectly,” Quinn spat. He flicked the pistol a fraction of an inch to put a round in the sole of Drake’s foot.
The .22-caliber bullet punched completely through, snapping tiny bones and spraying the sheets with a fine mist of blood.
“Okay! Okay! Stop!” Spittle spewed from Drake’s mouth. “Don’t shoot me anymore! But stop speaking Arabic. Badeeb was Pakistani. I barely understand Arabic.” He turned his head sideways, cheek against the mattress, sobbing through clenched eyelids. He nodded in defeat. “What do you want to know?”
Quinn leaned in, whispering. “What was killing her supposed to do to me, exactly? Make me lay down and die?”
“Seriously…” He panted, trying to catch his breath. “I don’t know anything about that…”
“I need a name, Drake,” Quinn said, his voice an acid whisper. “I don’t care about you or your failed attempt at the White House. I want to know who shot at my daughter.”
Drake looked up, puzzled. “Shot at?” He panted. “She missed?”
“Who is she?” Quinn aimed the little .22 at Drake’s other foot.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Drake screamed, wincing at the pain it brought his battered ribs. “What’ll you do with me if I tell you?”
Quinn jerked him sideways to get his full attention. “You should be more worried about what I’ll do if you don’t.”