State of Emergency by Marc Cameron Page A

he said. “Go bring back my phone.”

C HAPTER 8
    Austin, Texas
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    S ince the days after 9/11, Pastor Mike Olson and his wife Deanne, had nurtured a dream. Death and fear and hate had no place in the world, particularly when it came to religion. An open-minded couple, they allowed all men the right to worship according to their own conscience while adhering strictly to their own beliefs. Deanne was an accomplished musician who ran the youth ministry at the Sacred Peace Interfaith Church. It had been she who’d first voiced the dream—a Peace Choir made up entirely of children of all ethnicities and faiths. What had taken over a decade to fully form was now just weeks from becoming a reality. Through a televised extravaganza they would show the world that children—and everyone—could come together through music, no matter their views about what God looked like or what He liked to be called.
    Mike wiped a tear from his eye and sniffed. Deanne sat beside him and patted the back of his hand. They read the letter on the desk together for the third time.
    â€œI just can’t believe it, hon,” the pastor said. He pushed a lock of blond bangs out of his eyes. “He’s paying the entire bill.”
    Graying around the temples, Olson hadn’t changed his John Denver hairstyle since he’d graduated from the University of Texas in 1989. He’d gone on to get his master’s in divinity at UT as well and it was then that he’d met Deanne, the daughter of a local Presbyterian minister. She shared his goals in the ministry, and like him, wanted nothing more than a family. Though the good Lord hadn’t seen fit to bless them with children of their own, He had provided them with an outstanding youth group—and now this saint of a man, Mr. Valentine.
    â€œThe Erwin Center . . .” Deanne squeezed his hand. “Can you believe what we talked about all those years ago is actually happening? A choir of four hundred children from all over the world and now seating for over fifteen thousand. Oh, Mike, this could make a real difference. Mr. Valentine is truly an instrument in the Lord’s hands.”

C HAPTER 9
    December 19
Mt. Vernon, Virginia
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    E miko Miyagi reached across the seat of the fire-engine-red bike to hand Quinn the end of a ratchet strap so he could tighten it down to the wooden pallet for transport. Presumably in her early forties—though she could have been considerably younger—the enigmatic woman had her black hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail, exposing the nape of her neck. She moved easily, each action with a specific purpose but without apparent forethought. Hers was an egoless air. She wore formfitting jeans and a red three-button polo, open enough at the neck to show the hint of the mysterious tattoo above her breast.
    Neither Quinn nor Thibodaux could figure out what it was. They caught no more than a glimpse of the thing during her beloved yoga sessions or defensive tactics when she was kicking the stuffing out of both of them, often at the same time. Neither was brave enough to stare at her chest long enough to ascertain the true nature of the tattoo.
    She patted the small seat on the angular red bike. “Zamora rides a Yamaha R1,” she said absent any trace of a Japanese accent, though English was her second language. “It should help you get close to him if you ride the same motorcycle. I’ve done a bit of work on this one to coax out a little more horsepower, so watch yourself around the corners.”
    She leaned across the bike to pull in the clutch and pressed the starter, bringing the R1 to life. The throaty roar sounded more like a pair of motorcycles running together than a single race bike. “It is not the fastest motorcycle available, but with your riding skill, you could beat him if you wish.”
    â€œI should probably avoid that,” Quinn said.
    Miyagi killed the engine, showing the hint of