by Tinnean
“Don’t cry,” I advised Honeycutt. Tears were running down his cheeks, and that would simply clog his nose, making it very difficult to breathe. I patted his head and wheeled the cart out of there.
The room service manager wasn’t around when I returned the cart to the kitchen, and there was no one else to question why it had taken so long for a simple delivery. If there had been, I’d have asked for a mint, rubbed my lips, and said the occupant of 1276 hadn’t minded my age as much as anyone might think.
I went back to the suite rented by the WBIS, changed from the server’s uniform to that of housekeeping, and returned to twelve, this time pushing the laundry cart.
I let myself back into the room, removed the tie gingerly—by this time it was covered in snot—and took a roll of duct tape from the cart.
He spat out the handkerchief. “Thank…thank God you came back! I could hardly—”
I tore off a long strip of tape and slapped it over his mouth. That cut off whatever he’d intended to say and muffled the panicky sounds he began to make.
His eyes went wide and wild and he tried to jerk his head away.
I took the end of the tape and wrapped it around his head a number of times, covering his lower face, including his nose, in the process. Then I heaved him into the laundry cart along with the passports, his wallet, and his clothes, and covered everything with sheets and towels I’d brought along. For a minute or so the cart shook violently, but gradually it lessened. After about three more minutes, it stopped completely.
A glance around the room showed nothing incriminating. When someone finally decided to look into what was going on in 1276, it would look like Honeycutt had taken off, and for reasons unknown, never returned.
Whistling through my teeth, I wheeled the cart out of the room, hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob again, and retraced my steps to the service elevator.
“Going down.” I snickered, since I was alone, and pushed the button that would send the elevator down to the parking garage.
I had the perfect spot in mind for Honeycutt, down in Fort Washington. The rain on Thursday should have softened the ground enough so that I wouldn’t spend what was left of the night digging a grave. I’d get the cart into the van and hit the road south. Normally this was a twenty-three minute drive, but at this time of night it shouldn’t take me that long.
Not that it mattered. I’d be going home to an empty bed.
Chapter 8
I should have grabbed one of those pastries before I flushed them down the john. By the time I got home, my stomach was letting me know how unhappy it was with me. And because Quinn and I were supposed to have had dinner at Raphael’s, except for the bread in the freezer, the cupboard was decidedly bare.
It looked like I’d be having peanut butter sandwiches tonight. There wasn’t even any marmalade left.
And to top it off, I’d be sleeping alone.
I walked out of the stairwell into the third floor corridor. Even though it was early Saturday morning, it was very quiet. One of the best things about this building was the soundproofing. Of course it helped that there were only three units on each floor, and the occupants were professional couples who didn’t tend to throw wild parties.
I unlocked the door to my condo, let myself in, and was about to throw the various locks, when I realized there was a light on in the living room. The soft murmur of voices was also coming from that direction. Just as I reached for my Glock, it hit me: the door hadn’t been damaged.
That meant the only person who could be in here was Quinn. We were supposed to spend this weekend here, but I figured with this cock-up those plans would be deep-sixed. Now, to find him here, waiting for me….
I locked the door and walked into the living room. The television was on, but he was curled up on his side, asleep on the couch.
I’d had nightmares about finding him in my condo when I wasn’t there to let him in. The bad ones had me shouting at him.
“How the fuck did you get in here?”
“How do you think?”
“But….”
“Mark, I’m a very capable member of the CIA.”
“But….”
“I observed what you were doing.”
I felt myself turn cold. “Do you realize I could have changed the sequence?”
“But you didn’t.”
“But I could have!”
“You’re shaking.” Only then did he appreciate how serious it could have been.
“Goddammit!” I yanked him into my arms. “I could have lost you!”
“I’m sorry.” He held onto me. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“If you ever do something so stupid again—”I couldn’t think of anything awful enough to make him realize how serious this situation was. Tell him I’d kill him? Tell him I’d leave him? One was ridiculous and the other I wouldn’t suggest if my life depended on it.
But the worst ones were when I found him in pieces or in a charred mess like Sperling.
So I gave him the sequence when I gave him the keys to my condo, and I made sure he had the new sequence every time I changed it.
Now, Quinn’s head was pillowed on one arm, and I had to curl my fingers to restrain the desire to stroke back the hair that spilled over his forehead. There was something I had to do before I woke him up and got him into the bedroom. I removed the cassette case from the back of my waistband. It wasn’t likely to tie me to Honeycutt, but it wasn’t something I wanted left lying around.
The desk in my study had hidden compartments, but anyone with half a brain would suspect as much and go there. That was why I’d put a false back into one of the lower storage cabinets in the laundry room—in addition to the fact that Quinn had been away that weekend, I’d had nothing better to do. Afterward I stocked it with so many cleaning supplies it hadn’t been noticeable that the dimensions of this particular cabinet were off.
I rounded the island and went down the short hallway leading into the laundry room, flipped on the light, and placed the video and the Bible on the counter. It took a minute or so to empty the cabinet, but with that done, I crouched down before it and applied pressure to one corner. The false back swiveled open, and I reached for the tape and the Bible, tucked them inside, and made sure the back was shut and secured.
With the supplies in place again, I closed the cabinet door and glanced at my watch. It was almost three in the morning. I turned off the light and returned to the living room.
Quinn hadn’t moved at all.
I picked up the remote and turned off the television. This time I did run my fingers through his hair, brushing it off his forehead, and he blinked and rubbed his eyes.
“Mark? Did you just get in?”
“Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up,” I lied. I removed my suit jacket and draped it over the back of the couch.
“I was just dozing.” He rose and stretched, and then abruptly threw himself into my arms.
“What…?”
“I know you wanted to cancel dinner, but I had to see you!”
“Hey, works for me, baby.”
He leaned away from me and smacked my arm. “Would you get your mind out of bed for one fucking minute?”
Whoa! That was unexpected. “Quinn, what’s going on?”
“It’s Drum.”
“Jesus, what did that asshole do now?”
“It’s not what he did—it’s what he wants me to do!” He gave me a brief rundown of his meeting with Drum earlier in the day at the OIG.
I became quietly furious. “He’s dragging you into this?” Drum hated my guts and constantly called me a sociopath—neither of which particularly concerned me. It dated back years, when he’d wanted to bring someone I was tracking to justice, and I’d just wanted the son of a bitch dead. Since I was better at what I did, it wound up to my satisfaction. Drum never got over it, but that was his problem.
But getting Quinn involved was unacceptable.
Drum li
ked hunting. He fancied himself the Daniel Boone of the new millennium. Maybe he’d have an accident. God knew it happened frequently enough, given this administration.
Fortunately, Quinn had no idea what I was considering. He knew how deadly I could be, but I didn’t want to flaunt it at every turn.
“He wants you behind bars, Mark,” he said, holding me. “And he doesn’t care what it takes to get you there. He said whatever I had to do, even if I had to resort to making something up.”
“Son of a goddamned bitch! He actually told you to make something up?”
“Of course I won’t.”
“Ass. Why the hell did he drag you into his bullshit?” I chewed on my lower lip. “That doesn’t sound like him.” One of the reasons the major was such a pain in my ass was because of his Goody Two-shoes attitude—he looked down his nose at anyone who bent the rules to get the job done. That he was doing the same thing now….
Quinn sighed and tightened his hold. “I know. He’s become worse this past year.”
“He always thought of himself as straight, didn’t he? In spite of the fact he has the hots for you. Hey!” He’d smacked my arm again.
“Drum never came on to me.”
“But that isn’t to say he didn’t want to, even if it was subconsciously.” I ran my fingers through Quinn’s hair again. He must have been here some time, since it had been drizzling when I’d put the car away and walked to my building, and his hair wasn’t damp. “But if he was that deep in the closet, getting fucked by Lynx may have pushed him off the deep end.”
“Do you think?”
“Maybe I should call Pete and find out what went on.” I’d known Lynx and Anacapri had shot Drum up with a drug the Division had come up with, which was guaranteed to make him so horny he’d beg to be fucked by anyone or anything—I was supposed to convince the man who ran Prinzip I was trustworthy by injecting Quinn with the same drug. Only they had and I hadn’t.
And now Prinzip was a thing of the past, a sour taste in the mouths of the worldwide intelligence agencies.
“If you think it’s necessary.” Quinn didn’t seem happy about me getting in touch with the Division operative.
“Hey, babe. Pete is a friend, but he was never anything more than a fuck buddy.”
“But he’d have liked to be more.”
“No. At one time he’d let any guy who looked hot fuck him—”
“Including you.”
Well, yes, but I had a feeling it wasn’t my looks that had tickled his fancy. When we’d first met, he’d taken me for a businessman in a bad suit. It was my attitude that piqued his interest. “—but he’s got Reuben now, and I don’t think he’d jeopardize that.”
“If you say so. What are you going to do?”
“I’ll keep an eye on Drum. Or better still….”
“I know that look, Mark. What are you planning?”
“I have a contact in the OIG—”
“Is there any organization where you don’t have a contact?”
I ignored that question as being beneath him. He should know by now there wasn’t. “I’ll have them mention Drum is acting erratic, that maybe he hasn’t recovered from last year’s trauma.”
He frowned at me. “And what might that trauma be? No one’s supposed to know what Lynx did to him.”
“No, but his half brother refused to come back to the States with him.” Drum’s father, a highly decorated officer, had been taken prisoner during the Vietnam War, and had somehow wound up transported to one of the satellite Soviet countries. He’d escaped with the help of a group of resistance fighters, and had eventually gotten involved with one of the women. That resulted in the birth of Drum’s half brother. Kirill Aleksandrov had been raised in a Soviet orphanage after his father and that pocket of resistance was wiped out in Kyrgyzstan. Years later, Drum learned he had a brother and went to Europe to bring him home. Aleksandrov, who by that time had become a soldier, declined, but that wasn’t what drove Drum batshit. The same son of a bitch who’d kidnapped Quinn had kidnapped Drum’s half brother. Drum had been useless freeing him, but I’d succeeded—with a little help from Pete and other Division operatives. Afterward, Drum tried again to talk Aleksandrov into returning to the States, but he’d refused and was now in Chechnya with his company.
“I feel sorry for Drum, Mark.” Quinn sighed. “Family is important, and to learn he had a brother only to lose him would have to be devastating.”
“Yeah, and that’s what I’ll have my contact insinuate.” Although Drum had known about his half brother’s existence for a few years rather than a few days. “She’ll let Kirkpatrick know it might be a good idea to get his fair-haired boy some therapy.”
Quinn stared at me, his lips parted. I didn’t know if it was in surprise or awe at my brilliant plan, but it didn’t matter. I ducked my head and kissed his mouth. He tasted of sleep and of something that was simply him.
His lips clung, and then he drew back, laughed, and shook his head. “All right, Mark. I’ll leave it to you.”
“Good boy.” I patted his ass.
“You’re so full of shit.” He reached down and pinched my ass.
“Hey!”
“Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“Good thing I kept dinner warm.”
“You did?”
“Of course. In the warming drawer. I have to take care of you, don’t I?” He studied my eyes. “Bad night?”
“I’ve had worse.”
“I have the feeling this might rank right up there with them.” He rested his fingers against my cheek.
“I have to go in later this morning. Just for an hour or so. Paperwork. You know how it is.”
“Of course, Mark.” He ran his thumb over my cheekbone.
I turned my face into his palm and kissed it, and he shivered. I loved when he touched my face, and I loved his reaction to my lips on his palm. But then I pulled him into my arms and held him, leaning my forehead against his. I never thought I’d have anyone like Quinn in my life; as long as he wanted to be there, I knew I’d do anything to make sure no one took him away from me.
My stomach rumbled, and I felt my cheeks heat up. “What are we having for dinner?”
“I stopped by Raphael’s and picked up dinner for two. Of course that was when I thought we’d be eating at a reasonable hour. I’m afraid at this point it might be too heavy.”
“That’s okay. We can burn off the calories later.”
“The man with the plan. That’s what I like.”
“I do my best.”
“And everyone knows just how excellent your best is.” He slipped his hand past the waistband of my trousers and squeezed my ass. “Do you want a salad?”
“Mmm.”
“Caesar or vinaigrette?”
“Whichever you’re not having.”
“I ordered two of each.”
“In that case, Caesar.”
“Good choice.”
“Do I have time for a quick shower?”
He studied my eyes for a moment. “Of course. When you’re done, I’ll meet you in the dining room.” He took his hand out of my pants
“Not in the breakfast nook?”
“Not tonight, babe.”
“Okay.” I linked my fingers with his and pulled him to me for another kiss. It was supposed to be a quick brush of our lips, but somehow it lingered, drew out, and we wound up pressed together from chest to groin. “What do you say we skip dinner?” I asked against his lips.
“I’d like nothing better.” He pulled back, looked into my eyes again, and then shook his head. “But I have a feeling you need to eat.” He grinned. “I have plans for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Always.” Once again, he cradled my cheek in his palm. “You’ve got a pretty heavy five o’clock shadow.”
“I’ll shave.”
“Don’t.”
“Oh?”
He gave me a slow, sensuous smile, ran his fingertips o
ver my fly, and made a satisfied sound. “Get going, tough guy.”
I leaned in for one last kiss, and then made my way into the bedroom.
After I showered, I decided there was no need to wear anything fancy, since we’d be going to bed after dinner, so I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and an undershirt, and turned on the gas fireplace. Then I sauntered barefoot through the rooms to the arch that led to the dining room.
And I got that punch to my chest. For some reason, Quinn was making this a special occasion.
The table was set with a couple of cream placemats, one at the head and the other to my right. Wine glasses and water goblets were on each corner of the placemats. Forks and knives framed the Mikasa dinnerware Portia had given me for my birthday. I had stoneware for everyday use, but I was touched Quinn put out the good stuff.
And in the center of the table was a vase with a bouquet of irises and daffodils, flowers that I knew his mother grew in her gardens at Great Falls.
“Quinn?”
“I’ll be there in a second.”
“Okay.” A Caesar salad was beside each plate and a serving platter was between us. “What’s for dinner?” I asked as I studied the contents.
“It’s pork with gnocchi and fennel. Take this, please?” He reached through the pass-through to hand me a basket of breadsticks. “Cesare recommended it.”
Cesare was the waiter who usually took care of us. I put the basket on the table.
“Beer? Wine? I brought a nice merlot from home.” Quinn had an amazing wine cellar.
“Wine works for me.” Did I have enough room in this condo to hold his collection? There was plenty of room in the pantry, and if that didn’t work out... I didn’t have to have the breakfast nook. What would it take to convert it into a wine cellar? I could get Matheson to wall it off and run lines for refrigeration, or whatever was needed.
As for breakfast, stools for the island would work in a pinch. I’d give it some thought.
Meanwhile, Quinn was saying, “And no, Mark, he didn’t recommend anything else. He’s straight.”
