Free Shadow Catcher by James R. Hannibal Page B

big guys in the squadron said that he was abnormally strong. He could run faster, jump higher, and carry more than any of his classmates. Yet, for all his strength, he could not overpower the alcohol in his blood when Haugen needed him most. Worse, he was a highly trained medical technician, a certified EMT. Yet, for all his knowledge, he couldn’t even provide basic rescue breathing when his friend lay dying.
    The smell of bile stung Quinn’s nostrils, and he reached down to wash the vomit out of the sink. As he turned the knob, he caught sight of the tattoo on his upper arm. The Angel of Mercy held the world in her hands. Beneath her, a scroll read THAT OTHERS MAY LIVE . Quinn flew into a rage, his green eyes flashing as he screamed at the mirror. He grabbed a sponge and scrubbed at the tattoo. When that did nothing, he grabbed the Brillo pad that he used for his pots and scrubbed even harder. Flesh tore from his arm. He ignored the pain, scrubbing until he could not see the angel anymore. Then he dropped the bloody Brillo pad into the sink, fell to his knees, and wept.

CHAPTER 13
    I t took a couple of days for the
Illustro
to drag the bomber out into the Arabian Sea, but when the captain finally set the stabilizing thrusters, the ship was more than twelve thousand feet over the ocean floor.
    â€œNow, Dr. Stone,” commanded Walker.
    Scott used a remote control to detonate the air-bag charges. The underwater explosions made hardly a sign, little more than a distant
thump
and a frothing eruption of bubbles. The shadow of the stealth bomber faded into the deep.
    Finally, at a preset depth of two thousand feet, the main explosives detonated. At that depth, no debris from the bomber would find its way back to the surface. The Triple Seven Chase could not leave their skeletons in any recognizable form for deep-sea mappers to find.
    Walker used the
Illustro
’s underwater sensors to confirm that the charges did their job. He nodded with satisfaction as the sonar showed the aircraft separating into hundreds of individual pieces, raining down into the abyss. The last remnant of the squadron’s first tactical mission made its final descent into Poseidon’s care. After ten years, he could rest a little easier.
    Doc Heldner watched the sonar screen over Walker’s shoulder. “It’s too bad,” she said.
    â€œWhat’s too bad, Pat?” asked Walker.
    â€œThat Nick and Drake weren’t here to see the fruits of all their labor.”
    * * *
    â€œTell me again why we’re letting Joe tag along for this one?” asked Drake. “He’s too soft and pudgy for field work.” He and Nick sat in a white Pajero SUV just outside the corporate terminal of the Kuwait International Airport. They watched through the chain-link fence as a short, slightly round man with receding salt-and-pepper hair stepped out of a Bell commuter helicopter. Both of his hands were full, with a carry-on bag in one and an aluminum briefcase in the other. He crouched beneath the chopper blades and loped toward the terminal building.
    â€œWe need that cell phone interceptor for the stakeout,” Nick replied. “And you know how Joe is about field ops.” He put the Pajero in gear and pulled up to the passenger pickup zone. “The colonel wants to use this little milk run to build up some goodwill credit.”
    Joe Tarpin clumsily shouldered his way through the terminal door, nearly smashing the glass with his metal case. The aging CIA agent had been the Triple Seven’s go-to man at Langley for more than a decade. Anytime Nick needed special equipment, satellite networking, or just someone to run interference with the deputy director, Tarpin took care of it. But his help came with a price. Like any agent who has been relegated to a desk, Tarpin longed to be back in the game. He constantly pestered Nick and Walker to let him join the team for their missions. Usually, the colonel