Page 91 of Clive Cussler's Quantum Tempest
Juan watched the next male dancer drape another beaded necklace around Olmedo’s neck and withdraw. Cabrillo scanned the otherdancers. He wished he could see their faces, and especially their eyes, but their masks prevented it. Even cold-blooded killers had facial tells that betrayed their intentions, especially in the moment just before they struck their victims. All Juan saw were the weaponless hands and rhythmic bodies of the well-choreographed dancers as they moved in synch to the swelling music.
Cabrillo’s eyes fell on the next female dancer waiting in line to approach Olmedo. She seemed the least talented of the group—almost staggering rather than dancing. Her movements were so awkward even the other dancers next to her held her hands trying to steady her. As soon as it was her turn to approach the president, she let go of their hands and danced forward in a stumbling gait.
An adrenaline rush hit Juan and he pushed his way ahead. Standing nearly a head taller gave him an advantage over the locals as he wedged himself between bodies, ignoring the angry looks thrown his way. He was under strict orders from President Olmedo not to cause a disturbance or frighten the Indians. The last thing Olmedo wanted to do was poison relationships with the Indigenous communities that he’d worked very hard to reconcile with.
But Juan’s primary concern at this moment was protecting the president’s life. The woman’s jerky movements raised an alarm. If she was truly a dancer, she was a terrible one, or she was drunk, which seemed odd.
Cabrillo saw no weapons in her hands or on her person. He pressed in closer, and stood just a couple of rows away from the outer circle of dancers. The music was swelling toward a crescendo and roared in his ears.
As the woman got closer to Olmedo, Juan’s eyes focused on her ornamental mask. His eye caught the slightest detail. On the fringe of the mask stood a nearly imperceptible piece of wire standing tall amid a clump of feathers.
It had to be an antenna.
The woman was four feet away from the president, staggering toward him slowly. Juan surged forward, but the bodies in front resisted his urgency and blocked his path. The woman stepped closer.
Three feet away.
Two feet away.
?
“Any second now,” Vargas said to his technician. “Remember: on my mark.”
“Yes, sir.”
?
The woman stepped even closer.
Juan strained to burst through the crowd, but the wall of flesh wouldn’t budge. He reached for the pistol beneath his shirt as he shouted into his comms—
“Jammers! Jammers! Jammers!”
But nobody answered.
?
“On my mark. Fire,” Vargas said.
The tech stabbed the firing toggle.
?
The dancing girl came right up to Olmedo and took his offered hand.
Olmedo began his dance with her, but she suddenly stopped, clutched her stomach…
…and vomited.
Stomach juices burst from beneath her mask as her knees buckled and dropped her to the ground.
Olmedo pulled off his mask and fell to his knees next to the girl, ripping off her mask.
“Somebody call a doctor!”
?
“I said fire the weapon! Fire it now!” Vargas demanded.
