The Damaged

by Brett Battles

  Beta One had to wait a few seconds for an opening before he could do the same.

  “Beta One for Juarez!”

  “Go for Juarez.”

  “Something’s wrong. They’ve just turned around and are going back the other way. Fast.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “No. I don’t think so.” He explained what he’d witnessed.

  “Do you still have them in sight?”

  “Barely,” Beta One said, his eyes on the roof of the trailing SUV a block ahead.

  “Don’t lose them. We need to know where they go.”

  “Copy.”

  “I got this,” Durrie said, then whipped around Quinn and hurried into the building.

  What the hell? Quinn thought.

  “Hey, slow down. We need to make sure this place is clear first.”

  Either Durrie didn’t hear him or was ignoring him, because he continued on.

  “Dammit,” Quinn muttered.

  He stepped into the warehouse, following his mentor, scanning the room to make sure they were alone.

  Over the comm came “Beta One for—”

  Quinn continued forward, expecting the conversation to pick back up but the comm remained silent.

  Ahead, Durrie was passing a small stack of wooden crates near the center of the room.

  “Durrie, for God’s sake, wait for me,” Quinn said in a loud whisper.

  Again, his mentor ignored his order.

  “Durrie, stop right—”

  Automatic gunfire rang out from the other side of the space. As Quinn dove to the floor, he looked toward Durrie to make sure his mentor reached cover. What he saw instead was Durrie’s body jerking wildly from the impact of bullets.

  No!

  Quinn rolled behind a set of old crates and shimmied to the far end, thinking maybe he could arc around and come at the shooter—or shooters—from the side. As he started to move out from the boxes, though, the gunfire stopped, and was replaced by two sets of running feet across the concrete floor. A moment later, a door opened and closed, then silence.

  Quinn stuck to his plan, and circled around until he had a view of where he was pretty sure the gunfire had come from. The spot looked deserted. Knowing he had very little time, he pressed his luck and ran over. Dozens of shells lay on the floor, but whoever had pulled the triggers of the guns that expelled them was gone.

  Quinn scanned the area between the ambush spot and the door he’d heard open. There was no one there and nowhere to hide.

  He rushed over to Durrie and dropped on his knees. Durrie lay on his stomach, blood soaking his clothes and pooling beneath him. Hoping he wasn’t too late, Quinn put a hand on Durrie’s throat and searched for a pulse but found nothing.

  He sat back on his feet and stared at his dead teacher.

  Orlando. How am I going to tell her?

  Something scraped the floor directly behind him. In his shock, he took almost a second to turn to see what it was.

  Ortega entered the warehouse a few moments after seeing Quinn move inside.

  Unlike him—and the ops team, for that matter—Ortega and Durrie had visited the site the night before, so Ortega knew all the nooks and crannies and hiding places.

  He made it to the space Durrie had picked out for him just as the gunfire broke out. Ortega’s hands shook. While the men Durrie had hired were mostly shooting blanks, there were a few narrowly targeted live rounds thrown into the mix, to cause damage to convince anyone who might check later this was a real attack.

  When he peeked around the post he was hiding behind, Ortega saw Quinn had moved behind some boxes and was crawling away in the other direction.

  Durrie had said there were only two possible responses Quinn would make: either he’d rush to the boxes next to where Durrie had gone down, or he’d try to flank the gunmen by swinging around the side. It appeared he had chosen the latter.

  With Quinn’s back to him for at least another few seconds, Ortega repositioned to a post only four meters from Durrie.

  Boy, did Ortega’s real boss look dead. The blood packets under his shirt had exploded perfectly. But it was the drug Durrie had self-administered as the shots rang out that would really sell it. By now, it would’ve slowed his heartbeat to nearly nothing, and all but stopped his lungs, putting Durrie in a state he had called a light death.

  Ortega checked on Quinn. The cleaner was approaching the spot where the shooters had set up.

  Hurry up, Ortega thought.

  The longer Durrie stayed in his current condition, the higher chance his temp death would turn permanent.

  Finally, Quinn hurried over to Durrie. The moment he started to kneel, Ortega silently stepped out and crept across the floor.

  He was barely half a meter away when a bit of grit on the concrete rubbed against the bottom of his shoe.

  Quinn started to look back but his reaction was too slow, and the sap in Ortega’s hand was already arcing down at the back of Quinn’s neck.

  Quinn fell onto the floor next to Durrie, never having laid eyes on Ortega.

  Ortega checked the cleaner and was pleased to see the single blow had been more than enough to knock Quinn out cold.

  He dropped the sap and pulled a paperback-sized plastic box out of his pocket. Inside lay three preloaded syringes. He removed the longest one, felt along Durrie’s ribs for the spot he’d been told to use, then plunged the needle in and injected him with a dose of adrenaline.

  One moment, Durrie was aware of nothing. The next, he felt as if he were being yanked viciously through a tunnel barely wide enough to fit him. As consciousness returned, his body arched and he gasped for air.

  “Jesus,” he said, panting.

  “Are you all right?” Ortega asked.

  Durrie lay silent for several seconds, gathering a bit of strength. “That…depends. Where’s…Quinn?”

  “Right here.” Ortega moved to the side.

  Durrie turned his head and saw Quinn on the floor, maybe a meter away. He smiled. “So…it worked?”

  “It worked.”

  “No problems?

  “None.”

  Durrie looked at the ceiling again. “Then I guess I’m…fine.” He took another breath. “What’s happening…with El-Baz?”

  “I-I don’t know. The signal…”

  Crap. Durrie had forgotten about the jammer he’d turned on after entering the warehouse. He pulled it out of his pocket and switched it off. The comm blared to life in his ear.

  “Quinn, report!” Juarez was saying. “Where the hell are you?”

  Durrie looked at Ortega, who stared back, nervous.

  “Just like we practiced,” Durrie said.

  Ortega nodded and activated his mic. “This…this is Ortega. I, um, I’m working with Quinn.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s unconscious.”

  “What?”

  “We…we were ambushed. Our third guy is dead. I’ve got them both in the van. I’m taking Quinn to our medical contact.”

  “Ambushed? Shit! Did you see them?”

  Ortega glanced at Durrie, who mouthed, Stick to the script.

  “No, I, um, tossed a smoke bomb between us so I could get my team out. Look, I know there’s still work to do. After I get Quinn to the doctor, I’ll, uh, come back for the bodies. I…might need a little help, though.”

  Durrie smiled. Ortega’s tone had been the perfect blend of dedication and uncertainty.

  “Negative,” Juarez said. “We’re aborting.”

  “Aborting? Were you ambushed, too?”

  “No, but El-Baz has changed course. We don’t know where he’s going but he’s definitely not coming here.”

  Ortega looked at Durrie, an eyebrow raised. Durrie thought for a moment, then shook his head. One of the contingencies they had practiced was for Ortega to try to draw more information out of Juarez, but that seemed unnecessary. El-Baz had clearly received the text and taken it seriously. Durrie was sure the terrorist would
meld into the city, and eventually find his way back home.

  Someday, if Durrie needed a favor, he’d let the man know who had saved him. At the moment, saving himself was priority.

  He pushed into a sitting position, his strength returning. “Did you give him the drug?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, get on it.”

  Ortega pulled a second syringe out of a small kit and stuck the needle into Quinn’s arm, delivering a mild sedative that would keep Durrie’s former apprentice unconscious for at least thirty minutes.

  Ortega then retrieved the van and pulled it up to the door so they wouldn’t have to move Quinn very far.

  A few minutes later, they had Quinn strapped into the front passenger seat, and were heading toward their local medical contact.

  Durrie crouched between the front seats and held his hand out to Ortega. “Syringes.”

  Ortega handed him the small kit, and Durrie removed the last unused needle.

  “You ready?” Durrie asked.

  “I guess.”

  “It’s okay to be scared. He’ll expect that. Just remember, if you stick to the points we worked on, you’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.”

  “The hard part’s behind us.” He patted Ortega’s shoulder. “You’ve done a great job. Thank you.”

  Ortega smiled, clearly happy he had pleased Durrie. “Glad I could help.”

  “Me, too. All right. Here we go.”

  Durrie gave Quinn the shot. It contained just enough stimulant to ease his apprentice into wakefulness. When Durrie was done, he took the needle kit into the back with him, climbed inside the body bag on the floor, and zipped himself up.

  A sense of movement before anything else.

  Then a drone of some kind of machinery. Everywhere—below, to the sides, front and back. It sounded as if it was coming from above, too.

  It took several attempts before Quinn could pry open his eyelids. He seemed to be facing sideways, so he turned his head to be more in line with the rest of his body. Pain radiated in bolts from the back of his head. Slamming his eyes shut again, he reached back and fumbled around for the cause. At the base of his skull he discovered a knot, about the size of a tangerine, that was tender to the touch.

  He opened his eyes again, only to squeeze them shut once more due to what seemed like dozens of lights shining directly at him. When he tried again, he lifted his lids slowly, letting the lights filter in through his lashes until he could see without squinting.

  He was in a vehicle, the offending glare the headlights of cars and trucks in the opposite lanes. He glanced to the side. Ortega was in the driver’s seat, of what Quinn realized was the van they’d been using for Operation Redeemer.

  “Wha…what happened?” he asked.

  Ortega jumped at the sound of Quinn’s voice, then glanced over. “Oh, thank God. You’re awake.”

  “How did I get in here?”

  “I put you there.”

  “I-I don’t understand.”

  Ortega nervously checked the vehicle’s mirrors. “I was monitoring things on the comm when El-Baz started to run. Juarez tried to reach you but you didn’t—”

  “Wait. El-Baz ran?”

  Ortega nodded. “His vehicles were about ten minutes away when they suddenly turned around and took off.”

  “He didn’t show up?”

  “No.”

  “Was anyone able to catch him?”

  “Last I heard, they’d lost sight of him and don’t know where he is now.”

  Son of a bitch. Quinn started to tilt his head back in annoyance, but his wound barked at him again. When the pain subsided enough, he said, “I remember I was next to Durrie, but nothing after that.”

  “Like I said, Juarez tried to reach you but you didn’t answer. I decided I should go check. I found you and Durrie on the ground next to each other. I-I-I thought you were both dead until I saw that you were breathing. I carried you into the van. And…and then Durrie.”

  Quinn looked into the back and spotted the body bag on the floor.

  Despair dropped on him like a boulder falling from a cliff. Orlando had been counting on him to make sure nothing bad happened to Durrie, and he had failed.

  Durrie was dead.

  He could imagine no scenario in which she would take the news well.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Dr. Carrillo’s.”

  It took Quinn a second to remember Carrillo was their medical contact. His brow furrowed. “Durrie’s gone. There’s nothing he can do.”

  “Not for Durrie. For you.” Ortega glanced at Quinn, then back at the road. “You can’t see it but your neck is pretty bruised up. And that bump doesn’t look good. Whoever hit you knew what they were doing. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a concussion, too.”

  Quinn was about to protest that he was fine, but that would’ve been a lie. And since the job was apparently a bust, it made sense to get himself checked out now.

  They arrived at Carrillo’s clinic fourteen minutes later. The doctor was waiting at the back door, having been alerted by a phone call Ortega had apparently made while Quinn was unconscious.

  “If you don’t need me to go in with you, I can, you know…” Ortega’s gaze flicked to the back of the van.

  Quinn was hesitant to let him deal with Durrie’s body, but he had no idea how long he’d be at the doctor’s office, and something would have to be done.

  “All right,” he said. “That’s a good idea.”

  “What do you want me to do with him?” The implied question was whether or not they would transport Durrie back to the States as is.

  Quinn thought for a moment. He wanted nothing more than to take Durrie’s body home with them. But that was not protocol. And Durrie, at least the old Durrie, would have never tolerated Quinn violating protocol.

  As painful as it was, he said, “The usual. But bring me back the ashes.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  EIGHT DAYS LATER

  SAN DIEGO

  Quinn had ended up staying in Rio far longer than he’d expected, before Dr. Carrillo cleared him to fly. He would have ignored the medical warnings and flown home as soon as he could, but Peter had insisted he stay.

  “Don’t be an ass,” Peter had told him. “There’s nothing happening so important that you need to get back right away. Do as Carrillo says. I’ll put you on medical leave.”

  If his injury had been only broken bones, Quinn knew Peter wouldn’t have cared. Hell, if it had just been the blow to the back of his head, Peter probably would have insisted Quinn get on the next plane out. Undoubtedly, Peter’s directive was driven by the fact Quinn had witnessed his mentor being gunned down. An event that would likely affect even the most hardened agents.

  The night Ortega had taken Quinn to the doctor’s office, Quinn had known he should call Orlando. Through the pain and Carrillo’s examination, Quinn had played through his head countless ways of breaking the news to her. None were great, but he chose what he thought was the best of the bunch.

  When the doctor stuck the needle in his arm, Quinn had assumed it was an antibiotic. Thirty seconds later, as his thoughts jumbled and his eyelids grew heavy, he realized it had been a sedative.

  Perhaps that was best, he’d reasoned. He could use a little rest. And in a few hours, when he was clearheaded, he could talk to Orlando.

  What he hadn’t anticipated was the shot keeping him under until well into the following afternoon. As soon as he realized what time it was, his pulse had spiked. He knew Orlando would have been up all night wondering what had happened. He made the call but was sent immediately to voice mail. He hoped this meant she was getting some much needed rest. For a split second, he wondered if he should leave a message, but realized that would be a mistake.

  He’d tried her again an hour later. And an hour after that. And again. And again. And again.

  His anxiety grew exponentially with each unanswered call.

 
; At nine p.m., Peter had rung him.

  “Ah, good, you’re awake. How’s the head?”

  “Sore.”

  “Yeah, well, to be expected,” Peter said.

  “Anything new on El-Baz?”

  “At this point, our best guess is that he placed the ambush team there just in case anything went wrong. When they saw you guys show up, they realized it was a setup and informed their boss. They then tried to take you and Durrie out. In the meantime, El-Baz fled.”

  “Still no sign of him.”

  “No. I’m guessing he’ll turn up in Saudi Arabia, or more likely Pakistan soon enough. We’ll have to wait for another opportunity to take him out.”

  Quinn’s jaw tensed. “When you do, I want to be on that job.”

  “If I can make it happen, I will.”

  Sensing Peter was about to hang up, Quinn said, “Have you…have you heard from Orlando? I’ve been trying all afternoon. Someone needs to let her—”

  “I talked to her early this morning.”

  “Oh…okay. Um, good. And…you told her.”

  “I had to.”

  “I see. How did she take it?”

  “About as badly as you’d expect.”

  Quinn closed his eyes. Dammit.

  “Thanks for doing that,” Quinn said. “I’ll check in with her when I get home. See how she’s holding up.”

  “You might want to give her a little time. She’s working through a lot.”

  “Of course. Yes, you’re right,”

  As Quinn turned onto Orlando’s street now, he wondered if eight days counted as enough time.

  He parked at the curb in front of her place and glanced at the house. Closed shutters prevented him from seeing whether or not she was home.

  He looked at the cardboard box on the seat beside him. Inside was the silver metal urn containing Durrie’s ashes.

  “It’s going to be fine,” he mumbled, but felt far from confident.

  With a sigh, he picked up the box, climbed out of the car, and approached Orlando’s front door. After another quick round of trying to psyche himself up, he pressed the doorbell.