She was dressed as a tourist, and her green long-sleeve T-shirt and dark jeans were tight enough that anyone from the Security Police would not think to look at anything else. An hour before, she’d batted her eyes at the baby-faced airman as she’d come through the North Gate of the Academy, shoulders relaxed with the full knowledge that if he tried to search her vehicle she’d kill him before he got to the trunk.
Of course, he had smiled and waved her through.
Once on base, she’d parked in the lot at the Academy Visitors Center beside a van belonging to a group of elderly tourists. She’d carried the three pieces of the custom rifle — barrel and action, Kevlar stock, and 3X12 mil-dot scope — in a flowered green case meant for a tennis racket. It was the weekend, and, for all anyone on campus knew, she was a female cadet out to enjoy the warm weather. Once off the trail, the earth tones of her clothing made it easy to disappear into the leafy undergrowth that surrounded the Academy.
If anyone happened on her now that she had the rifle assembled, there would be no doubt as to what she was and what she intended to do. But that would not happen. She was well hidden. Her mission would be over in a matter of moments. She would pull the trigger and then melt into the traffic on Interstate 25 before the echo of the gunshot died against the mountains.
The young woman sucked on the peppermint, letting it click against her teeth as she played the scope’s graduated crosshairs across the wedding party. She let them rest on the gaunt lines of Quinn’s jaw, just forward of his ear. He was handsome enough, with the rugged, predatory look she preferred in her men. The scope was strong enough she could tell that he needed to shave. His movements were smooth, as if every one had been choreographed and practiced many times. It would be such a shame to kill him.
She let the crosshairs drop to settle over his bow tie. From this distance the 250-grain spitzer ballistic-tip bullet would drop enough to hit him center chest. But, it was not yet time for that. She nudged the scope to the left. There were other ways to destroy a man’s heart.
Quinn’s seven-year-old daughter, Mattie, skipped across the concrete deck, rescuing him from further philosophy discussions with Thibodaux. He leaned forward, shoulder locked so she could hang on his forearm and do pull-ups. Despite acting as human jungle gym, the dark blue lines of Quinn’s mess dress uniform were straight and razor creased. His shoulder boards — bearing the silver bars of a captain — his jump wings, and the three rows of miniature service medals on his chest were all perfect. Even the blue satin bow tie remained neat and snug, though he longed to rip the damned thing off and would at the first opportunity. Sometimes he thought he might hate neckties more than he hated terrorists.
The apple of Quinn’s eye, Mattie had the face of her mother but with his dark hair. She’d also been cursed with his boundless energy and lust for adventure. From the time the wedding ceremony ended hardly a moment had gone by before she started begging to carry his ceremonial Air Force saber. He’d been able to calm the little dynamo for the time being with gymnastics and prevent her from hacking away at the guests with the sword.
Kim, Mattie’s mother and Quinn’s ex-wife, looked on with pursed lips, as if she had a bug trapped behind her teeth. It was warm for January in Colorado and a slight breeze tousled her blond hair. She was beautiful when she wasn’t angry, which sadly was seldom the case. Her date didn’t seem to make her happy. He was an Air Force Academy classmate of Quinn’s. It stood to reason she’d end up with the guy. Gary Lavin had been sniffing around her since Quinn had taken her to the ring dance their junior year at USAFA. Apart from being a world-class know-it-all, Lavin was dull as uncooked oatmeal by Quinn’s standards. Maybe that’s what Kim was looking for all along — dullness — some-thing Quinn had never been able to give her.
Jericho couldn’t really blame her for bringing a date. They’d been divorced for years. She could see whoever she wanted to see. He certainly did. Jacques was right. He was with the most beautiful woman at the wedding — a fact that probably had a great deal to do with Kim’s sour expression.
Veronica “Ronnie” Garcia had received permission to take a long weekend break from CIA training at Camp Peary to attend the wedding with him. Of Cuban and Russian descent, she was a tall but rounded woman — as her father had put it, on the athletic side of zaftig. The curves and swells of her coffee-and-cream skin filled her bright yellow dress with a sort of snug innocence, as if she was unaware of how alluring she actually was.
“I think you and your papa could go on like this all day,” Garcia said, laughing an honest, abandoned laugh at Mattie and her pull-ups.
“That we could,” Quinn said. He glanced over his shoulder at the steps leading from the angular white spires of the cadet chapel where Steve and Connie Brun stood in mess-dress tux and radiant white gown for their last few photographs. Other wedding guests, including Major Brett Moore — the B-1 bomber pilot who’d rescued Quinn from the Bolivian jungle just weeks before — mingled at the base of the steps behind the photographer. Some wore civilian clothes, but enough were in uniform to leave no doubt that Connie had entered not only the Brun family, but the United States Air Force family as well. Everyone chatted and laughed, watching the couple in the sunshine. The weather along Colorado’s Front Range had given the bride a perfect wedding gift with unseasonable temperatures in the high fifties.
Quinn was glad for the warmth but wished they would hurry with the photos so he could go somewhere and get rid of his tie.
Kim took a step closer, clearing her throat the way she did when she was about to lay down one of her immutable laws. For a small woman, she could pronounce edicts like Queen Victoria.
“You’re rumpling your clothes, Mattie.” She put a hand out to take the little girl by the arm. “Come on. Let’s get you straightened up.” Both wore soft, robin’s-egg blue dresses that reminded Quinn of photos from all the Easters he’d missed.
Ronnie sidled up to pull on the ends of Quinn’s bow tie while Kim helped Mattie with the sash on her dress. Gary Lavin stood by, fidgeting. He’d chased away all the guests and could find no more victims to share in his vast knowledge.
Thibodaux sauntered back up with two of his seven boys, complete with their eye patches, swinging on a massive arm.
“Y’all go play with your brothers.” He shook them off, grinning at Quinn. “Hey, l’ami,” he said in an easy Louisiana drawl. “I’ll deny it if you quote me to another Marine, but you Chair Force boys manage to be pretty STRAC here at the Wild Blue U.”
Ronnie Garcia nodded, fluttering thick lashes that shone in the light like a hummingbird’s wing. She ran the tip of a long finger over Quinn’s shoulder boards. “Strategic, Tough, and Ready Around the Clock, that’s Jericho.”
“Is that what STRAC stands for?” Thibodaux snorted. He kept his voice low so Mattie couldn’t hear him. “I thought it meant Shit, The Russians Are Comin’…”
The Japanese woman behind the rifle was tempted to shoot the big Cajun in his good eye. He was Quinn’s friend, so his death would suit the purposes of her employer nicely. On the other hand, the new bride made a tempting target, fairly glowing in her white dress under the midwinter sun. A splash of red might make for a nice complement.
The woman swung the rifle a fraction of an inch. Perhaps the ex-wife. All reports indicated Quinn still worshipped the woman, though she would have little to do with him. That fact alone made her a less than desirable choice. Such a woman was better left alive to add to his misery.