Time of Attack Read Online Free PDF Page A

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