The Damaged

by Brett Battles

  “It’s okay to be a little scared,” Abraham had said. “It means you’re taking the situation seriously. But it’s also the kind of thing that can get you or others working with you killed. You want to know what I do?”

  She nodded.

  “Whenever I feel that fear,” he said, “I grab on to it, bundle it up, and keep it deep in my gut where others can’t see it and where it can’t hurt me.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “No, it’s not.” He smiled. “When you go to his room, don’t let your uniform be the only thing that makes him think you’re a maid.” He pointed at her head. “Be the maid in here, and it will show up here.” He patted her softly on the cheek. “Become who you are pretending to be, and whoever you’re trying to fool will never know the difference.”

  After they’d successfully finished the mission, he’d enrolled her in nine months of acting lessons in Los Angeles. And while the classes gave her the actual tools she now used whenever she went undercover, it was Abraham’s words she always thought of: “Become who you are pretending to be, and whoever you’re trying to fool will never know the difference.”

  Though she still wouldn’t admit to herself, a part of her knew she’d been undercover with Durrie for months now, acting understanding when she wanted to scream, uninterested when she knew giving him too much attention might set him off, and unaffected when his actions or inactions made her wonder why she was sticking around.

  So, upon hearing his steps approaching the front door, it was almost without thinking that she donned the shell of the happy, easygoing Orlando.

  When the door opened, she glanced over from where she sat on the sofa, a book in her hands that she hadn’t been reading.

  “Hi, hon,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  On the scale of Cranky Durrie to Stay-Away-at-All-Costs Durrie, he appeared closer to the former than the latter. Which was about the best she could hope for.

  “How was your afternoon?”

  “It was fine.”

  He walked toward the kitchen, undoubtedly to grab a beer. Before he got there, she said, “I was thinking about fish tacos. What do you say to hitting up Rubio’s?”

  It was one of his favorite places, not a random suggestion.

  He stopped short of the kitchen entrance and looked over. “Yeah, I could do that.”

  They drove over to Rubio’s on Grand Avenue, near the beach. While Durrie did the ordering, Orlando grabbed the last empty table outside. He brought the food out about five minutes later and set the tray on the table. After grabbing one of the cups of soda, Orlando dumped the contents into the landscaping separating the patio from the sidewalk. She covertly filled the cup with beer from a can she’d brought in her bag, and handed the cup to Durrie.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Thanks.”

  This was about as close as he’d been to a good mood as she’d seen in a long time.

  After he finished his first taco and was about to start in on his second, she said, “More beer?”

  “You brought two?”

  “Please. I brought three.”

  He chuckled—also something she hadn’t seen in ages—downed the last of his drink, and handed his cup to her.

  She waited until he was halfway through his second cup before saying, “Quinn called.”

  Given Durrie’s outburst after the Mexico City job, she assumed this would be the trickiest part of their conversation. But if the news affected him, it wasn’t showing on his face.

  “About the job?”

  She nodded. “It’s on.”

  He chomped off another bit of his taco and chewed it down. “Cool. When does he need me?”

  “You’re flying out on Tuesday.”

  Second taco done, Durrie picked up his third. “No clues on what the job is?”

  “He didn’t tell me, but he did want you to call him.”

  Durrie finished the taco and his beer without another word.

  “You want some more?” she asked, nodding at his glass.

  “I’m good. You feel like ice cream?”

  The question caught her off guard, so it took her a moment before she said, “Sure.”

  They walked to the beach and picked up a couple of cones. Not once did either of them bring up the job again. In what was becoming a whole evening of surprises, Durrie actually took her hand when they reached the water.

  Though she knew she shouldn’t get her hopes up, she couldn’t help but think maybe he’d turned a corner, and whatever demon he’d been struggling with was on its way out. Maybe, finally, the old Durrie would return, and she could fall in love with him all over again.

  That night, as they lay in bed, Durrie said, “I’ll call Quinn first thing in the morning. Get the details.”

  Orlando felt a wave of relief and wanted to throw her arms around him and hug him tight.

  But again, not wanting to push him too much, she simply said a sleepy “Okay.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  SATURDAY

  FIVE DAYS UNTIL OPERATION REDEEMER

  When Durrie called him, Quinn had asked if they could meet in person and said he could come down to San Diego.

  “I wouldn’t want to put you out,” Durrie said. “I can come up there, if it’s easier.”

  “I’ve already booked a flight for early this evening. How about grabbing dinner?”

  “Sure. That sounds good.”

  “Is that hole-in-the-wall Italian place still in business?”

  “Leonetti’s? It is.”

  “Meet you there at eight?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Quinn arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early, and was taken to the table he’d reserved near the back. It was the most private location, separated from the other customers by a wide aisle the servers used to go back and forth from the kitchen.

  Durrie walked in at exactly eight p.m.

  This was the first time Quinn had seen him in months, so his stomach clenched with trepidation of the man he feared Durrie had become. But that was the reason he’d wanted to have a face-to-face before the mission started. He didn’t want to go in blind, and had decided to see first who he would be dealing with.

  He caught his mentor’s eye and waved him over. Putting on a smile, Quinn stood and held out his hand as Durrie approached.

  “Hello, Johnny,” Durrie said as they shook.

  “Right on time. You look good.”

  “I look like shit and you know it.” Durrie chuckled and sat down.

  As Quinn retook his seat, a waitress approached. “Something to drink?”

  “Definitely,” Quinn said. He glanced back at the open menu on the table. “A Peroni, please.”

  “Sounds good to me, too,” Durrie said.

  The waitress smiled, said, “I’ll be right back,” and headed for the kitchen.

  While waiting for their drinks, Quinn and Durrie perused their menus and covered all the small-talk bases.

  How’s San Diego?

  Can’t beat the weather. How’s L.A.?

  L.A.’s L.A. And Orlando? How’s she doing?

  Just fine. How’s dating life?

  What dating life?

  Conversations like this were not something either of them was particularly good at, but they managed to stretch it out until the waitress returned, avoiding what would have surely been an awkward silence.

  “Have you decided on what you’d like to order?”

  Quinn went for the gnocchi with pesto sauce, while Durrie opted for the penne arrabbiata.

  “So,” Durrie said when they were alone again, “what’s the deal with the job?”

  “Standard clean. Travel day, two days on site, travel back.”

  “Cargo?” Durrie asked, meaning how many bodies they’d have to deal with.

  “Five to ten.”

  Durrie’s eyes widened. “Five to ten? And we only have a day to prep?”

  “Disposal’s already worked out. We’ll just be de
livering site to site.”

  “I see. Well, I guess that’s better. Still a lot for just you and me to handle.”

  “It won’t just be you and me. We’ll have a driver who can also act as a third pair of hands.”

  “Oh, good. That’s…that’s good.” Durrie paused. “If, uh, you haven’t filled the position already, I met this guy I think you’d probably like working with. Angel Ortega. You know him?”

  “I don’t. But I’ve already got someone lined up.”

  “Figured you probably did. Who is it?”

  “Trevor Hart.”

  Durrie furrowed his brow. “Was that the guy on that Grenada thing with us a few years ago?”

  “No, he hasn’t been around that long. You’ve probably never worked with him before but I’ve used him a few times. He’s good. Listens to instructions.”

  Durrie smirked. “Unlike me.”

  “I wouldn’t know. This is the first time…” Quinn trailed off, wishing he hadn’t said that much.

  “The first time you will be my boss?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “It’s okay, Johnny. It’s the way things go sometimes, you know. I…do appreciate you taking me on.”

  A part of Quinn wanted to tell him it hadn’t been his choice to hire Durrie, but he kept that to himself. “Happy to have you on the team.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Of course.”

  That awkward silence they’d avoided finally caught up to them. Soon, their food arrived, and they were able to mask their lack of conversation as they dug into their meals.

  It was Durrie who finally spoke again first. “Hey, uh, about the Mexico City job.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. It got taken care of. Everything went fine.”

  “Yeah, Orlando told me. I just want you to know that I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”

  Quinn was pretty sure Durrie had never said I’m sorry to him before, not without irony anyway, and wasn’t sure how to react.

  Durrie saved him from having to do so by asking, “Who’s our target?”

  “That information will be distributed once the job starts.”

  “Seriously, Johnny? I’m not just some freelancer on his first gig.”

  Quinn grimaced. The stakes on this mission were high. They were going after a bin Laden associate. Peter’s brief had stressed the information should be parsed out on a need-to-know basis. While Durrie would need to know eventually, he didn’t need to now. But Durrie was also the man who had taught Quinn how to be a cleaner. Who, in the process, had shared secrets he probably shouldn’t have. He had trusted Quinn, and Quinn owed him that.

  In a low voice, Quinn said, “It’s a man named El-Baz.”

  Durrie frowned and shook his head. “Never heard of him. What is he—Iraqi?”

  “Saudi. You’ll get the rest of the brief when we meet up.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Your flight leaves LAX at 12:20 a.m. on Tuesday.”

  “That’s basically Monday night, not Tuesday.”

  “You’ll have to take it up with the airlines. It’s the best I could do. You’ll arrive in San Juan, Costa Rica, the next morning, where I’ll meet you at ten a.m. We have a private jet that will take us to our final destination.”

  “Which is?”

  Quinn hesitated. “Rio.”

  “Rio, really? Okay, cool. That’s a hell of a lot better than it could have been. But why are we meeting in Costa Rica and not just flying straight there?”

  “Because that’s where we’re meeting.”

  “All right,” Durrie said, raising his hands in surrender. “You’re the lead. You know best.”

  By the time they finished eating, Quinn had allowed Durrie to tease out a few other, albeit minor, details from him. Quinn paid for the meal, and they headed outside to pick up their cars from the valet.

  As they waited, Durrie said, “Thanks for coming down.”

  “My pleasure. It was good to see you again.” The sentiment was genuine. The meeting had gone much better than Quinn had hoped. He had seen none of the problems he’d expected, and was beginning to think he’d been worried about nothing.

  The valet pulled up in Durrie’s car. Durrie took his keys and tipped the man, but instead of leaving, he turned to Quinn. “I need to ask you a favor.”

  “Um, sure.”

  “It’s about Orlando.”

  “Orlando?”

  “You’re her best friend. If she needs anything, and I’m not there to help, you make sure she gets it.”

  Surprised by the request, it took Quinn a moment to realize what Durrie meant. If something happened to him, he wanted Quinn to take care of Orlando.

  “You know I will,” he said.

  Durrie locked eyes with him, his expression turning dead serious. “By helping, I don’t mean moving in. You get me?”

  Quinn blinked. “I—”

  “I’m not stupid. I know you love her, Johnny. But she’ll always be mine. Understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “Promise me.”

  A beat. “I promise.”

  Durrie relaxed, and his smile returned. “I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

  “See you then.”

  Quinn watched Durrie drive away, feeling both guilty for his feelings toward Orlando and uneasy about Durrie’s emotional swings.

  Chapter Fourteen

  SUNDAY

  FOUR DAYS UNTIL OPERATION REDEEMER

  Quinn’s flight to San José, Costa Rica, left at 7:10 a.m.

  Though he had implied to Durrie the trip had something to do with the El-Baz job, it did not. The truth was, within a few hours he’d finished most of the prep work that could be accomplished in California, the last item on his list being the face-to-face with Durrie. Once that was all out of the way, he still had two-plus days until he needed to head for Rio.

  It seemed a waste to spend the time sitting around his Studio City townhouse. The beach was still calling him. And while there wasn’t enough time to head back to the Mediterranean, there were plenty of excellent alternatives between Los Angeles and Brazil.

  There was one in particular that came to mind. He had booked his ticket, and arranged for Durrie and Hart to meet him in Costa Rica on the way to South America.

  By the time Quinn picked up his rental car and navigated his way west, to the village of Playa Agujas, it was after four p.m.

  Though it wasn’t a large town by any means, it took him forty minutes to find the house he was looking for. Turned out he’d driven by it three times, but because of a thick copse of trees in front of it, he hadn’t even realized a house was there until after he finally stopped and asked a local for directions.

  The house was smallish as far as beachside residences went, and looked quiet, like no one was home.

  The only vehicle present when he drove up was a motorcycle sitting off to the side that could have been there for ten minutes or three years.

  Quinn walked up to the front door and knocked.

  Nothing. Not even the muffled steps of someone inside. The only thing he could hear was the waves on the other side of the house. He knocked again, but the door remained closed.

  His instinct was to try the knob but this wasn’t a job, and he had no need to enter without being invited. Besides, there were…other dangers to walking in unannounced.

  He headed over to the carport and passed through it to a chest-high wall running along the back.

  “Damn,” Quinn whispered, impressed.

  Directly behind the house was a large infinity pool that probably cost more than the home. Surrounding it, an expensive-looking wooden deck, populated with deck chairs and tables and a large outdoor kitchen. And on the opposite side of the deck from the house, framed by at least two dozen palm trees, sat ten meters of sandy beach and the Gulf of Nicoya.

  After letting the beauty soak in for a moment, Quinn took a slower look around. A few towels lay in a crumpled pile on a lou
nge, and on the table beside it, a glass half filled with what looked like beer. There was no sign of who they belonged to, though.

  Quinn entered the backyard through a wooden gate in the wall, and had his first look at the rear of the house. Smack dab in the center was a set of open, sliding glass doors. Through it, he could see an unoccupied living room.

  Quinn took the three-tread staircase onto the deck and moved to the door, but remained outside.

  “Anyone home?”

  The house remained quiet.

  He walked over to the lounge where the towels lay, and noted the condensation on the half-filled glass. The beer was still cold, so whoever it belonged to couldn’t be too far away.

  He looked to the beach, and then out into the ocean. It took a moment before he spotted a person swimming parallel to the sand, about thirty meters from shore.

  There was a telescope just inside the house, but Quinn’s personal code would not let him enter without permission. He jogged back to his car and retrieved the compact binoculars he kept in his backpack.

  On the deck again, he aimed the glasses at the swimmer, and had to watch for a few strokes before the man turned his head to take a breath.

  Quinn smiled. He was definitely in the right place.

  It wasn’t until the sun was almost touching the horizon that the swimmer finally headed to shore. When water became shallow enough for him to stand, he looked toward the house and paused, noticing he had a visitor.

  He waded out of the ocean and crossed the sand, acting the part of an easygoing, nonthreatening vacationer. If Quinn had been a thug come to take advantage of a tourist, he would have been in for a big surprise when the approaching man inevitably turned the tables on him. But as soon as Quinn’s friend drew close enough to see who was sitting on his deck, he laughed.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Quinn smiled. “Hello, Markoff.”

  “You get fired from a job again and suddenly have nothing to do?”

  “Cute,” Quinn said. He had never been fired in his life. “Actually, I’ve got a gig starting the day after tomorrow and this place just happens to be on the way, and I thought you were probably lonely so why not stop in and cheer you up.”