Time of Attack by Marc Cameron Page B

making a mental note. “Sucking on a breath mint’s not like a professional assassin . . . ”
    Thibodaux’s eyebrow crawled above his black patch. “Maybe she was aimin’ at you and missed. That ain’t very professional.”
    Quinn’s head spun at a sudden realization, remembering how Mattie jumped just before Kim fell, how her ponytail had been neatly clipped away by the bullet. “The shot wasn’t for Kim. It was for Mattie.” Quinn reached in the pocket of his uniform slacks and pulled out the lock of dark hair. He swayed on his feet, dizzy, letting adrenaline overwhelm him for the first time since the attack. He fell back, collapsing in one of the waiting-room chairs.
    Ronnie sat beside him. Strong thigh pressed alongside his, she stroked the back of his hand.
    Thibodaux hunkered down in front of him so they were face-to-face. “Who would do that? Who’s out there that would kill your little girl but leave you alive?”
    Quinn sat very still, remembering his confrontation with a handful of Japanese punks while he’d been following Hartman Drake. A plan began to form in his mind. With every breath, his strength and resolve returned. At length he stood, letting Garcia’s hand slide away.
    “I don’t know,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “But the Speaker of the House will. I’ve been wanting to talk to him for some time now.”
    “What are you thinking, l’ami?” Thibodaux stood as well.
    “I’m going to call Palmer and find out where Hartman Drake is, then I’ll book the first flight there after I get Kim settled.”
    “We’ll come with.” Thibodaux gave a somber nod. “You better change clothes first. You look like you been choppin’ off zombie heads.”
    “It’s better if I do this alone.”
    “The hell you say.” Thibodaux frowned. “You were half a breath away from ripping that FBI guy’s head off—and, it pains me to say it, but he’s one of us. The way you’re feelin’, ain’t nobody gonna blame you for showing some emotion. But the last thing you ought to do is go in by yourself. You need a wingman.” He looked at Garcia. “And woman.”
    “This is liable to be bad,” Quinn said. “I can’t risk getting you two involved.”
    “For a guy who speaks umpteen languages you can be pretty dense, Chair Force. It’s because things might get bad that you need us along.”
    “No,” Quinn said.
    He took a tight breath through his nose, staring into space. In defensive tactics they called it a thousand-yard stare. It was almost always the precursor to a fight.
    “Okay.” Jacques threw up his hands. “I’ve seen that look before. You get like this and you can’t even get out of your own way. There’s no arguing with you. Even if I happen to be right and you happen to know it . . .”
     
     
    A redheaded nurse with a soft smile and a voice to match came in to tell them Kim was awake enough for Jericho to see her. He followed her through the swinging doors.
    Left behind, Ronnie Garcia’s heart tightened as if gripped by a fist. She found it difficult to draw a full breath as Quinn disappeared through the double doors toward the recovery room. She cursed herself for what she was thinking—blaming Kim for getting shot and ruining a perfectly good weekend. Garcia knew it was moronic to wish that she had been the one to take the bullet so Quinn would be worried about her instead. But that was the way her mind worked. Love sucked.
    She turned to Thibodaux, who’d become a great confidant. His jaw was still set from the run-in with Jericho. He was right to be upset, too. Quinn was out of his head with worry and guilt, but too bullheaded to accept help, even from his closest friends. For all his gruff, gunnery sergeant exterior, Thibodaux had a wife and flock of small boys who made certain he kept a nurturing side alive.
    “You know,” Ronnie whispered, “right after the wedding, Kim swore to me she would fight to get Jericho back.”
    “That’s weird,” Thibodaux