Dead Drop

Book 0: Jericho Quinn Thriller

by Marc Cameron

Genres: Action & Adventure; Spy Thrillers; Military Thrillers; Political Thrillers; Terrorism & Assassination Thrillers

Synopsis

New York Times -Bestselling Author: A water park is targeted by terrorists in a novella starring “ a formidable warrior readers will want to see more of” ( Publishers Weekly). Every summer, thousands of families head to the nation’s largest water park, famous for its 21-story waterslide, the “Dead Drop.” This year, one visitor didn’t pack his bathing suit. He packed explosives. When the bomb goes off, dozens are instantly killed. The rest are herded into the park’s massive pool by the bomber’s accomplices. An organized team of fanatical but well-trained terrorists, they seal off the entrances, turn the waterslide into a watchtower, and train their sights on the families below. But one hostage isn’t playing along. He’s special agent Jericho Quinn. He’s on vacation with his daughter. And he’s about to turn this terrorist pool party into one righteous bloodbath… “Jericho Quinn is most definitely one of the best characters in the thriller realm.”— Suspense Magazine

Release date: June 27, 2017

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 122

Sample

Fifteen minutes earlier

Jericho Quinn threw the Impala into park and took a deep breath, reminding himself that everywhere on earth was not a war zone—despite his experiences to the contrary. Still, a nagging sense that something was wrong gnawed at his gut—the Japanese called it haragei, the “art of the belly”—and Quinn had learned not to ignore it.

Even under the best of circumstances, he was not the sort of man to leave his guns in the car, but this evening he had, in fact, gone against every ounce of his better judgment and left his Kimber 10mm and his Japanese killing dagger locked in the safe back at his apartment in Alexandria. The “baby” Glock 27 was locked in a small metal vault in the vehicle’s console—where he knew it would do him absolutely no good. The usual complement of weapons that had driven his ex-wife to divorce him had been reduced to a thin Benchmade 943 pocketknife that he’d tucked discreetly into the inside pocket of his swimsuit. The huge summer crowds at Buccaneer Beach Thrill Park and the fact that Quinn was with his eight-year-old daughter only added to the helpless angst of being unarmed.

“What time do they close?” Mattie said, unbuckling her seat belt and leaning forward to stick her head between Quinn and his girlfriend, Veronica “Ronnie” Garcia, who sat in the passenger seat. The two wore matching canary yellow one-piece swimsuits, but, mercifully for Quinn, his little girl still had a few years before she would be able to wear it even close to the way Garcia did.

Mattie had the park’s website memorized, and Quinn knew full well that her question was not a question at all, but a jab at him for having to work late. Even the fact that he’d been in a meeting with the president of the United States was no excuse for cutting short their promised day at the amusement park.

“We still have four hours,” he said, eyeing the colossal waterslide that loomed in the dusky evening beyond the park gates like a skyscraper, with its looping, twisted guts hanging out. “Looks like we’ll make it in before the sun goes down.”

“Just barely,” Mattie said, falling—no, throwing herself—backward into her seat. The words came on the heels of an exasperated sigh that reminded Quinn of his ex-wife when she was angry.

“Don’t know if you’ve heard,” Quinn turned to look between the bucket seats at his daughter. “But they have this cool new invention called the electric light. Makes it so you can actually have fun after the sun goes down.”

Mattie ignored him. She had the passive-aggressive thing down to level-ten expert. But she couldn’t stay mad for long. The sight of the waterslide known as Dead Drop—so named for its trapdoor beginning—made it impossible for the little girl to even sit still. Pressing her face against the window to stare, her voice fell to a reverent whisper, as if she’d just discovered the golden idol in an Indiana Jones movie. “There she is . . . Shawn Thibodaux says she has a hundred and eighty-nine steps to the top.”

Ronnie Garcia turned to give Quinn a sultry wink, touching one of the many pale shotgun-pellet scars visible below the hem of his board shorts on his otherwise copper-colored thigh. “You didn’t tell me that freaky, ginormous slide was a she.” Thick black hair cascaded over her broad shoulders and fell across the leather upholstery. She reached out and ran the tip of her index finger across the stubble of his dark beard. Quinn had shaved for the Oval Office meeting but, as usual, grown a healthy five o’clock shadow by noon. Thankfully, Garcia didn’t seem to mind that even in a suit, he typically leaned toward the shaggy side.

Quinn shrugged. “I didn’t know it was female, either, until just now.” He threw a glance back at Mattie, who was now up on her knees staring out the window. She had his dark hair and copper skin but, thankfully, her mother’s oval face.

Garcia’s head lolled against the seat. Her full lips perked into a smile. “I guess it makes sense,” she said, hints of her Russian and Cuban heritage seeping out in her accent. “Mattie’s been hanging out with the Thibodaux boys over the last couple of weeks. To hear their dad talk, all the scariest things in the world are female.”

Quinn smiled while he chewed on that for a minute but was too smart to agree out loud.

Garcia was attached to the same working group—she from the CIA, he from Air Force Office of Special Investigations, or OSI. Both fell under the immediate supervision of the President’s National Security Advisor. She’d been present in the Oval Office meeting earlier that day. Quinn had known her long enough to be able to tell by the way she hummed softly under her breath that she was busy processing all the new information. Garcia was always more contemplative after intelligence briefings, as if she took terrorist threats personally. Quinn couldn’t blame her—not considering the things she’d been through, the way she’d been hurt.

“Well, we got here, anyway,” Quinn said, banging the flat of his hand on the top of the Impala’s steering wheel like a judge imposing a sentence. “Now remember, we have to stay together.”

Garcia smiled at him again and opened the door, gathering her gauzy cover-up and small handbag in her lap before climbing out into the sticky evening heat. Quinn didn’t like crowds, but as he sat and watched her exit the Impala, he couldn’t help but look forward to an evening with his buxom girlfriend and her yellow swimsuit. He wasn’t artistically or musically inclined, but if he were, she was the sort of woman who would inspire great works from him.

Marine Gunnery Sergeant Jacques Thibodaux, Quinn’s friend and partner, wheeled the black fifteen-passenger van he called the TAV—Thibodaux Assault Vehicle—into the vacant spot beside the Impala. Quinn counted four round faces pressed against the side windows. He knew there were three more somewhere in the van. The Thibodaux boys ranged in age from twelve to one—no small feat considering the gunny had spent much of the last eight years deployed to various hot spots around the Middle East.

Shawn, the oldest, shot a glance at the setting sun as he jumped out of the van, followed by five of his younger brothers. A frown turned down on his freckled face. All of them wore matching white T-shirts and blue board shorts like their dad, but Shawn had taken a pocketknife and cut the sleeves off his shirt.

“Marlin Shawn Thibodaux!” his mother bellowed as soon as she saw him. “That was a brand-new shirt, mister!” A dark and brooding South Carolinian of Italian heritage, Camille Thibodaux seemed to get pregnant every time Jacques walked by her. Seven energetic sons had made her an expert bellower. A sheer white cover-up hung to her hips, revealing her black one-piece swimsuit that showed off her full figure. She gave one of her patented glares.

The boy shrugged, flashing her a grin. “Sun’s out, guns out, Mama,” he said, flexing his newly discovered biceps. He’d spent much of his life in the northeastern United States, but there was a definite Cajun drawl to his voice. Five minutes around the kid and it was apparent he took after his daddy in physique and irreverent demeanor. He was only twelve, but he was already taller than his mother. Mattie thought it was a secret, but Quinn was well aware that she had a crush on the boy.

One of the other boys, a sensitive eight-year-old named Denny, bent over the pavement beside the open door of the van.

“I need a Band-Aid, Mama,” he said. Blood dripped from his nose.

“You can’t bandage a bloody nose, son,” Jacques said.

“It’s for his wart,” Ca. . .