Time of Attack by Marc Cameron Page B

railing of the bridge to land with a splash in the clear blue water of the gondola canal ten feet below.
    The man in the hoodie hit the surface flat on his back, catching the brunt of the force. Quinn landed on top of him, hands at the throat of the hoodie. Kicking as hard as he could, he drove the man down to the bottom of the shallow water. A cloud of silver bubbles erupted from the man’s mouth as Quinn kept pushing, forcing the air from his lungs. Aware that his opponent had a gun, Quinn kept the pressure up, squeezing the man’s throat and hoping the desire to breathe would outweigh any ability to shoot.
    Quinn held him under for a full minute, writhing on the bottom of the crystal blue water and surely giving the crowd above a good Vegas spectacle. They broke the surface together, the man in the hoodie choking and spewing water, gasping for air. A ring of security stood along the railing above, shouting orders but unwilling to get themselves wet now that their quarry was contained.
    Quinn twisted the shooter’s arm behind his back, wrenching upward, not caring how much damage he caused. He spun the man around so he was facing away and Quinn could talk directly into his ear.
    “Who sent you?” he hissed, water spraying from his mouth.
    The man, a Pakistani from his accent, rattled off a vehement oath. Although Quinn didn’t understand completely, the gist of the words was clear. He wrenched the arm higher against the man’s back. Sidestepping, Quinn bent at the waist, using the man’s arm to shove his head underwater.
    Along the railing, some people clapped, still thinking it was a show.
    The Pakistani struggled as Quinn held him under, ignoring the shouts from the security men above. “I need a name,” Quinn said, lifting him back to a standing position.
    Sputtering, the Pakistani looked up as if to speak. His body suddenly tensed, as if hit with a bolt of electricity.
    “The Foo Dog,” he said under his breath, mouth hanging open. He backpedaled furiously, trying to get away.
    “What?” Quinn jerked the man upright again.
    A series of muffled woompfs from a suppressed pistol popped in the humid air. Quinn felt a splash across his face. The Pakistani convulsed and then went limp in his hands, a gaping wound where his forehead had been. Quinn held the body up as a shield, spinning slightly to make sure he kept the dead Pakistani between him and the shooter. Four more shots came in quick succession, riddling the Pakistani but obviously meant for Quinn.
    He caught a glimpse of dark hair beyond the Venetian railing above, tucked back in a small recess beside the stone support column that led from the escalator to the Canal Shoppes.
    “Hands in the air!” a voice barked from the gondola docks. Quinn looked up to see a Las Vegas Metro police officer, pistol pointed directly at him.
    He let the dead man fall and raised his hands, not bothering to mention he was a federal agent. They would find that out soon enough. For a split second, he got a clear view of the woman beyond the railing. A uniformed Palazzo guard stood immediately beside her, not realizing that she was the shooter.
    The law enforcement and casino security chasing Quinn had run right past. They’d left her virtually alone long enough to fire several rounds from her suppressed pistol, which was obviously now tucked under her brown leather jacket. She was compactly built, with narrow hips and long hair that hung like a thick mask over much of her perfectly oval face. Black eyes stared out from beneath the curtain of hair. An exasperated sneer hung on her small mouth.
    Quinn looked away long enough to follow orders from the Vegas Metro officer, who was shouting at him to walk backward to the side of the canal.
    Quinn’s heart sank when he realized how little he had to go on. Drake had told him nothing, and the Pakistani shooter had given him only two words.
    Foo Dog .
    These ferocious lion dogs guarded virtually every temple and shrine in Asia. The