Free State of Emergency by Marc Cameron Page A

present himself as the globetrotting playboy—extravagant parties dripping with women and booze, expensive cars, ski getaways to the Alps on a whim. He hosts a track day in Homestead twice a year.” Palmer looked at Quinn. “Fancies himself quite the motorcycle racer, so this should be right up your alley. I’d like you both to try and get close to him. See if you catch anything that would indicate he’s got the bomb. If you don’t get anywhere, then we’ll pick him up as a last resort and . . . talk to him.”
    Thibodaux bounced on his feet. Even his flattop seemed to stand a little taller. “Hang on now, sir,” he said. “You mean I actually get to follow Chair Force on a mission?”
    During the last two major operations, the mountainous Cajun had been forced to stay behind while Quinn traveled overseas. He made no secret of the fact that as a Marine used to being the tip of the spear, he’d been more than chapped over such an arrangement.
    Palmer chuckled. “Mrs. Miyagi says it’s about time you earned your keep.”
    The Cajun darkened. “She would say something like that.”
    Since they’d been recruited to work for Palmer, Emiko Miyagi had become the men’s official trainer and quartermaster. A more enigmatic woman Quinn had never met. Perhaps it was because Japanese was one of the five languages he spoke, but she’d seemed to have an instant affection for him. For whatever reason, Thibodaux brought little more than a resigned sigh of barely hidden disdain.
    â€œChin up, Jacques,” Quinn said. “She’ll eventually warm to you.”
    Palmer rose from the marble bench to brush off the front of his suit.
    â€œOne thing,” Quinn said, standing along with him. He reached in the pocket of his leather jacket and took out a crumpled blue bandana. “Regarding that little roadblock I was telling you about in Old Town. If you could have these identified it might lead us to who the Speaker is working with.”
    Palmer looked inside the bandana. “I certainly pick the right sort of man for these jobs.” He smirked. “But this is the last time you’re allowed to give me the finger.” He rolled up the bandana and slipped it inside the pocket of his suit coat, apparently unbothered that it contained severed human body parts. “Mrs. Miyagi will set you up with a race bike to help you cozy up to Zamora. I think you could use a little female help down there.”
    Thibodaux’s head snapped around. “You mean to tell me she’s coming with us? Oh, this should be rich—”
    â€œYou misunderstand me, Jacques.” Palmer winked. “Not Mrs. Miyagi. I have someone else in mind. This one’s a killer, though—make no mistake about that.”
    Quinn groaned. He knew full well who the boss would send. His gut tightened at the thought. Sadistic, gunrunning terrorists notwithstanding, it was this woman who was likely to get him killed.

C HAPTER 7
    5:15 PM GMT
Guinea-Bissau, West Africa
    Â 
    V alentine Zamora blotted his lips with a folded handkerchief and smiled sweetly.
    â€œI’m sure we can reach some form of agreement that is . . . mutually beneficial,” he said.
    His Portuguese was better than his Russian, which was the main reason he liked to do business in this particular backwater republic. Beyond the language, the added benefit of working in one of the poorest countries in the world was that officials were more easily bought. Mafia states, they called them. U.S. pundits ranked Zamora’s own Venezuela among such mafia states where the criminal enterprises were not only condoned, but intermingled with the business of government. From what he knew of his father’s drug empire, Valentine could hardly disagree.
    Outside, a pleasant ocean breeze rustled feathery albizia trees, carrying their faintly sweet odor of tobacco, but the interior of the metal airplane