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many wounds he’d gotten in Japan—both physical and mental. His friends in the tiny Yup’ik Eskimo settlement of Mountain Village provided exactly what he’d needed.
    He’d made the long trip by oceangoing car hauler from Tokyo to Seattle, just one step ahead of Interpol. A barge going up the inside passage had taken him to Anchorage, where he’d caught an Era flight to the bush. He’d not chanced seeing his parents or his daughter, or going to any of his old haunts. They were all certainly being watched.
    Once he arrived in Mountain Village, Ukka’s wife and mother-in-law had tended to his wounds with traditional herbs as well as antibiotics they got from the clinic and school by feigning illness themselves. Of course, nothing went on without everyone eventually finding out in a close community like Mountain Village, called simply “Mountain” by locals. Soon, the entire village became accessories to the crime of harboring a fugitive. Few knew what he was wanted for, or his real name, but they knew he was wanted by the United States government, and that alone was enough of a reason for most to hide him.
     
     
    Ukka threw the skiff into reverse just before they scraped gravel. Quinn hopped to a clump of willows, using them to keep his feet on the slippery mud and vegetation along the eroding cut bank. Gnarled limbs and bits of wood from upstream littered the area from the recent “breakup” when thousands of tons of ice melted enough to crack and give way ahead of the pressure of meltwater building upstream. Great, frozen slabs scoured the riverbed as they were shoved downstream by the tremendous pressure that built up behind them.
    “Ukka,” Quinn sighed as he watched his friend jump to the bank beside him. “I’ll never be able to repay you for—”
    “So help me, Jericho”—the Eskimo shook his head—“you’re gonna make me cry. And if I start crying, the next thing you know, I’ll be picking berries and cutting fish with the women.”
    The Eskimo’s cell phone played the snippet of “Old Time Rock and Roll” that he used as a ringtone. He dug it out of his float coat.
    “This is James,” he said.
    He listened intently while Quinn scanned the hillside above them. Quinn switched on the dead contractor’s radio and stuffed the earpiece in his ear. He was tempted to say something cavalier, but thought it better to keep the new crew guessing as to what had happened to their river-based compatriots.
    Ukka’s face went white and he ended the call.
    “That was my neighbor,” he said. “Two of those bastards are heading for my house.”

Chapter 5
    Langley, Virginia
George Bush Center for Intelligence
     
    V eronica “Ronnie” Garcia looked away from the image on her computer and rubbed her eyes with a thumb and forefinger. A leaning tower of manila folders that she should have been analyzing sat precariously close to the edge of her desk. Each was striped and marked according to their classification level. She nibbled on the lipstick-stained straw sticking out of her cup of Diet Dr Pepper, taking a moment from the tedium of scanning the monitor for the last three hours.
    Sliding down to let thick, ebony hair fall over the back of her chair, Garcia looked around her cubicle. Apart from the purple stapler and a Far Side calendar, the only other decoration was a photo of her with Jericho tacked to the door of the overhead cabinet. It was early in their relationship, on a trip to Virginia Beach they somehow had been able to wedge between missions. Her canary yellow swimsuit accentuated long legs and a multitude of curves. The color was a perfect complement to her rich, coffee-and-cream complexion. Jericho wore blue bathing trunks and a rare smile, big enough to show his teeth.
    Garcia’s chair creaked as she leaned forward to touch the photo with the tip of a red fingernail, tracing the lines of Quinn’s bare chest and the many scars that mapped his body. She thought of something her Russian