Brute Force by Marc Cameron

twenty-by-twenty room. A bald Chinese man with his shirtsleeves rolled up over brawny forearms stood over Belvan Virk beside the column to Quinn’s left. The muscular Sikh slumped in a chair, chin to chest, his bare feet and hands tied in place with thick cords. His face was a swollen mass of blood and bruises, but he managed a crooked smile when he looked up to see Quinn.
    At the other end of the room, at the foot of a tidy double bed, Gabrielle Deuben was also tied to a chair. A tall man stood over her while two henchmen wearing jogging suits slouched on the foot of the bed, as if waiting for orders. Deuben wore only a thin cotton gown that had ripped in some earlier struggle and now hung well off a pale shoulder, exposing more than it covered. Deuben was far from being the sort to slump in defeat, but the tendons in her neck strained like knotted ropes as she arched her back and fought the ropes that held her in place. The Mongol’s men had not been gentle when they’d tied her up and her hands and bare feet were purple from loss of circulation. Spittle dripped from her lips.
    Deuben’s face fell slack when she saw Virk’s change in demeanor, but a smile of her own spread over her face when she followed the Sikh’s gaze. Catching Quinn’s eye, she shot a quick look at the tall man looming over her, as if to let him know this was the one behind her present troubles. This had to be Grigor The Mongol.
    He was more thickly built than the others in his crew, and there was a natural curl to his head of shaggy black hair. His brows grew wild and bushy over deep-set eyes. An expensive leather vest covered a tailored white dress shirt, complete with gold cuff links. The shirt was unbuttoned halfway down the front, exposing a dozen gold chains draped across his hairless chest. He clutched a heavy riding crop of braided rawhide in a gloved hand. Far from a simple quirt or whip, the rough leather resembled a short version of a South African hippo or rhino skin sjambok , capable of flaying skin or worse.
    It was easy to see how such a man might intimidate a more timid sort into doing business with his “black hotel.” Full of his own perceived power, he misjudged the situation completely when he saw Quinn.
    None of his men appeared to have a gun, but Quinn knew from hard experience how quickly a weapon could materialize.
    Thibodaux had never really stopped moving when he reached the top of the stairs. He chose the man sweating over Virk as the object of his fury. A deep growl grew in the big Cajun as he plowed into the much smaller man. Lifting him high over his head by the belt and scruff of the neck he slammed the man into the floorboards like a bug against a windshield. A boot to the ear kept him there.
    The two goons who had been sitting on the bed sprang to their feet and bore down on Quinn at a run. He sidestepped the leader like a matador, dropping to a crouch as the second man ran into him, intent on a tackle. The point of Quinn’s shoulder caught the man low in the belly, driving the wind from his lungs. Quinn twisted slightly, matching the man’s momentum while springing upward at the same time, pushing with his legs. Upended, Quinn’s would-be attacker flipped face-first into the wooden floor with a sickening thud. Quinn booted him hard in the ribs to keep him down.
    The man who’d run past decided to keep going, yelling over his shoulder at his boss that he was going for help.
    “Don’t let him get away!” Quinn snapped, but Jacques was already sprinting toward the stairs.
    Seeing one man abandon him and two more reduced to crumpled heaps on the floor, The Mongol turned to face Quinn. His mouth twisted into an unnatural twitchy half smile—he was a cruel man, now terrified for his own safety. He held the rawhide swagger stick like a sword above Deuben’s head. “I will break her neck before you could reach me,” he said.
    “Shzi!” Quinn spoke in rapid-fire Chinese. “Idiot! Do you have any idea who