“I’m happy to donate, too,” Nate said.
The doctor looked over at them. “I need some space. There’s a room down the hall where you can wait, but find my wife first and send her in here.”
“I’d rather stay,” Nate said.
“No. Out of the question. I must operate, and cannot have you here. You think I’m going to hurt your friend?”
“No, but—”
“Of course I’m not. Now, go, please. I need to get to work.”
Reluctantly, they left.
“I should move the car,” Daeng said.
“Good idea.”
While Daeng did that, Nate found the doctor’s wife—an unsmiling woman about the same age as her husband—behind a desk in a room near the front of the office. Once she was on her way, he went into the small waiting room, and made the call he’d been dreading.
“Nate?” Orlando said. Her momentary surprise switched instantly to concern. “What’s going on?”
“First off, he’s alive.”
“What happened?”
“He’s been shot, but it’s not life threatening,” he said, then described where the bullet hit. “I’ve already brought him to Dr. Pelligrini. He’s prepping him for surgery now.”
“How the hell did he get shot?”
“Ambush. I can give you the details later, but right now I’ve got to take care of a few things.”
“What are you talking about? You’re staying there!”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” It was more accusation than question.
“Mila,” he said. “Someone took her.”
“I don’t give a damn about Mila.”
“Do you think Quinn would want me to stay here? He came here because of her. If he wasn’t hurt, he’d be doing everything he could to find her. But since he can’t, I’m sure he’d want me to do it.”
“You can’t leave him alone.”
“What choice do I have?”
“What about the other guy?”
“Daeng? I’m going to need his help.”
“For God’s sake, you have to stay until he’s at least out of surgery! Mila Voss can wait that long.”
“I don’t know if that’s true.”
“I. Don’t. Care.”
He closed his eyes. “Okay, okay. We’ll stay until the doctor’s done, but the second he is, we’re leaving.”
“Fine. But you keep tabs on him even then. You understand me?”
“Yes.”
“And if anything changes, I want to hear about it.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll call you.”
__________
“MRS. VU! MRS. Vu!” Orlando called out as she rushed out of her office on the second floor of her home in San Francisco.
“Yes?” the Vietnamese woman called up from downstairs. She and her husband helped Orlando around the house, and took care of her son Garrett when Orlando was on one of her frequent business trips.
Orlando stopped in the doorway to her bedroom. “I have to go on a trip. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.”
“When will you be leaving?”
“As soon as I’m packed,” she said. It would take her only a few minutes since she always kept bags at the ready. “Please ask your husband if he could drive me to the airport.”
“He’ll be waiting.”
Orlando retrieved the bag she wanted, threw in a couple of extra items she thought she might need, grabbed her laptop out of her office, and headed downstairs. True to his wife’s word, Mr. Vu was waiting by the front door, keys in hand.
“Another trip,” he said as he helped carry her bags out to the car. “Will you be gone long?”
Whether it was really there or not, she sensed a quiet rebuke in his voice. She knew he thought she traveled too much, and was away from Garrett more than she should be. Or maybe that was something she was just putting on him, her own concerns reflected in his innocent questions.
She pushed the thought from her mind. There was no way she could stay home today. While Garrett was her everything, Quinn was her everything else. And Garrett was doing okay, school going fine, no particular attitude issues. Quinn, on the other hand, was lying on an operating table, a gunshot wound just inches from his heart and his head.
There was really no question where she needed to be.
__________
THE NEXT CALL came much sooner than Peter had expected, no more than six or seven minutes after the first.
“We got her,” Michaels said.
Peter could feel Olsen’s expectant gaze on him, but he kept his expression blank. “Yes,” he said into the phone. “Finding her is our top priority, so any reasonable expenditure is approved.”
Michaels got the message loud and clear. “I’ll call back in five.”
“Even twice that amount would be acceptable.”
“Ten, then,” the operative said and hung up.
“All right. I’ll expect an update soon,” Peter said into the dead air, then hung up.
“What was that about?” Olsen asked.
“I thought you were listening. Should have been pretty clear.”
Olsen stewed for a second. “They need to spend some cash.”
“You were listening.”
“What are they going to spend it on?”
“That wasn’t specified. They just needed to know what they were authorized to do.”
Olsen frowned as he looked back at his computer. “That kind of thing should have been set up ahead of time. You don’t really run the tightest of ships, do you?”
Peter rose from his chair. “I’m not running a ship at all. I’m running a real-world-adapt-when-necessary operation. If you don’t like it, you’re more than welcome to take over.”
He picked up his pack of cigarettes and headed for the door.
By the time Michaels called back, he was once again locked in the bathroom of the bar around the corner.
“You have her now?” he asked.
“Yes. I arranged for the use of a safe house south of the city.” He then told Peter what had happened. When he finished, he paused before saying, “The guy with her was definitely Quinn.”
“The one you shot?”
“Yes. My order was for a warning shot, but…”
“But what?”
“My guy’s adrenaline was running a little high. He pulled it, and the bullet hit Quinn somewhere near his throat.”
Peter was stunned. “Is he dead?”
“We didn’t stay to find out.”
“Well, find out now!”
“I’ll get right on it. What do you want us to do with the girl?”
What, indeed? That question had been swirling around Peter’s head since Michaels first called. Knowing now that Quinn was definitely involved didn’t make coming up with an answer any easier.
The problem was that what he owed clients like Mygatt and Green was nothing compared to what he owed people like Quinn.
He swore to himself. What he needed was more time and information so he could figure this mess out and decide how to handle things.
“Keep her wrapped up there for now,” he told Michaels. “And contact me as soon as you know more about Quinn.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have to call in some extra help, though. I want to make sure we can cover this place around the clock.”
“Fine. I’ll call you back when I have more instructions.”
Peter disconnected the call, but didn’t put the phone away just yet. There was one person who might know where Quinn was, and if he was still alive.
After five rings, a prerecorded generic voice kicked in. “Please leave your message after the tone.”
He thought about hanging up, but instead waited for the beep to end, and said, “Orlando, it’s Peter. If he’s in any condition to talk, I need him to call me right away. Can you help?”
__________
THE ONLY LIGHT entering the room came through the dime-thin space between the bottom of
the door and the floor. Not daylight, though—weak incandescence from the other side.
Mila had no idea what was out there. A corridor? Another room? There was no way to know. She’d been instructed to leave her blindfold on until after they’d locked her in her cell.
Her room was equipped with a mattress on the floor and a plastic bucket in the corner, nothing else. When she walked it off, she determined it was eight feet square. There were no windows, boarded up or otherwise, and the walls were made of stone so there was no chance she could find her way through them.
It was becoming harder and harder to keep from admitting she’d failed. She wanted to believe an opportunity would present itself, and she’d be able to get away so she could finish what she’d started, but there was a growing part of her that was convinced she was done, that there was no way she would ever breathe free air again.
She knew how this was going to go. They would come in. They would question her. And, eventually, she would tell everything. She’d have no choice. Torture in the twenty-first century was a science. There were specialized methods now that always produce results.
Once she’d been wrung dry, they’d kill her like they’d meant to years before.
I can still get away, she thought, her defiant voice growing less convincing every hour. I have to. I have to destroy him.
If I don’t, no one will.
CHAPTER 21
“HERE WE GO,” Nate whispered into his comm as he crossed the street. What had happened outside Julien’s place, the others showing up when they did, had not been a coincidence. There was no question in Nate’s mind that there was some other reason for it, and the more he thought about it, the more he became convinced of what it had to be.
“Copy,” Daeng said. He was gazing through the front window of the butcher shop as if contemplating what he might buy for dinner.
Nate knew by now their images had already been picked up by Giacona’s security system. While the gun dealer had hopefully dismissed Daeng, Nate would be instantly recognized. Suppliers such as Giacona were always happy to see clients, but were not as keen on unscheduled visits.
Nate walked straight up to the door next to the butcher shop, made his presence known through the intercom, and pulled the door open as soon as the lock buzzed. As he passed over the threshold, he applied the piece of duct tape he was holding in the palm of his hand over the lock, then let the door close behind him. His other hand was already in his pocket, curled around the grip of his gun.
As he knew it would, the door at the far end of the hallway opened, and a smiling but somewhat bewildered Giacona stepped out. With him was another man, larger, no smile, and carrying a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard 380 pistol in plain sight.
“Quinn,” Giacona said. “This is unexpected.”
Before Nate could even answer, he heard one of the hallway doors behind him open, and the sound of someone moving into a position that cut off any potential retreat.
Without moving his lips, he said as quietly as he could, “Set.” Then he raised his voice. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
Giacona shrugged. “Of course. I’m always happy to answer questions from good customers, but maybe you can come back when it’s a little more convenient.”
“It needs to be now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Giacona said, his smile unwavering, “but now is not good for me. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Let me make sure I’m clear. You’re saying you don’t want to help me?”
“When did I say that? I’m saying I cannot help you at this time. Perhaps you can come back in the morning? Say, nine thirty?”
“Now would be better.”
At the street end of the hall, the door flew open. Unable to help themselves, both Giacona and the man with him looked past Nate to see who had come through their supposedly locked door. That was all Nate needed. He pulled out his gun and took two steps forward before they refocused on him.
The large man started to raise his pistol, so Nate shot him in the wrist. The Smith & Wesson clattered to the ground. The guy tried to pick it up with his uninjured hand, so Nate sent a second bullet into his foot. The man yelled and staggered back against the wall.
“Daeng?” he called without taking his eyes off Giacona.
“All good here.”
While there had been no shots in the front end of the hallway, there had been plenty of grunts and groans and the sound of flesh hitting flesh.
Giacona stared at Nate for a moment, then took a quick look at the gun on the floor.
“You really going to try for that?” Nate asked. “I am pointing my gun right at you. But if you want to give it a go, be my guest.”
Giacona licked his lips as if his whole mouth had suddenly gone dry. “I…I don’t want.” To emphasize the point, he kicked the gun across the floor toward Nate.
“Good.” Nate smiled. “Now why don’t you wrap up your friend’s wounds, then we’ll have our little talk.”
__________
THEY ADJOURNED TO the workshop, Giacona helping his injured bodyguard in, while Daeng encouraged the other one along with his SIG.
“Dottore,” the one who’d been shot pleaded as Nate motioned for him to sit against the wall.
“That depends on how helpful your friend is,” Nate said in English. “Now sit.”
The large man seemed to understand that much, and did as he was told.
Nate turned his attention to Giacona. “You got any coffee? Maybe some tea? Anything like that?”
Giacona looked truly scared. He opened his mouth but all that came out were a few stuttering syllables.
“Never mind,” Nate said. “We can make this quick.” He moved to within just a few feet of the small-time arms dealer. “True or false: You talked to someone after my other friend and I were here.”
Giacona shook his head. “I…I…talk to no one.”
“You want to think about that answer? Because I find it hard to believe.”
“Well, no one about you. Understand? Is this not what you mean?”
“It’s exactly what I mean, and thanks for getting straight to the point.” Nate reached out and patted the side of Giacona’s face. “See, that makes things easier, and that’s something I appreciate.”
“Yeah, but then there’s the lying,” Daeng said from where he stood guard over the other two.
Nate nodded. “Very true.” He tried to lock eyes with Giacona, but the man kept looking away. “Who did you talk to about us?”
“I told you,” Giacona whispered.
“You lied.”
“I…I can’t.”
Nate leaned back. “Good. We’re getting somewhere. At least now you admit to talking to someone.”
“But I didn’t ad—” Giacona stopped himself, no doubt realizing he’d gone too far.
Nate let him stew for a moment, then put a hand under Giacona’s chin and lifted his face a couple inches. “Tell me who they were.”
An internal struggle played out on the man’s face. Finally, he said, “Americans.”
“You’re going to have to narrow that down a little bit.”
“Government.”
Nate frowned. “Government? The US government?”
Giacona nodded. “The request for the meeting came through a channel they have used in the past.”
“Who did the request come from?”
“I only know a code name.”
Nate remained silent, waiting.
“Clear Fox.”
Clear Fox. Nate played the name through his memory, but it didn’t match up to anything.
“What about the people you met. Who were they?”
“Four men came, but only one talked. He…he asked if I deal with anyone in the last few days. He was specifically looking for a woman, I think.”
“But you told them about us.”
“Yes,” he said reluctantly, then in a rush, “but I had to tell them about everyone I’d worked with recently.
And…and I didn’t tell them your name. I didn’t. I don’t do that.”
“You’re going to tell me theirs, so you could be lying.”
“They didn’t put a gun to my head.”
“Fair point,” Nate said. “So why did you even tell them about us?”
“They are with the US. I have to answer. Maybe no gun to my head, but I didn’t want to wake up the next day in prison in Cuba.”
“What did you tell them about us?”
While Giacona was describing why he talked, some of his confidence had come back, but as soon as Nate asked for details on what, his nervousness returned in force. “I had to tell, understand?”
“Yeah, we’ve gone over that. I want to know what.”
“I tell them…I tell them what you buy from me. I tell them about…about…”
“About what?”
Again, Giacona’s tongue moved across his lips. “The tracking chip.”
“The tracking chips we bought?”
Giacona looked at the ground and shook his head.
Nate froze, staring at the Italian. “What tracking chip, then?”
“I, um, put them in the equipment bags. Small, hidden in the lining. Sometimes if I hear a job has gone bad, I can have someone collect the bag before the police can find it.” Looking almost guilty, he added, “No sense letting good hardware go to waste.”
“So you could track us the entire time.”
“I could, but I don’t. Why would I? I don’t need to.”
Nate didn’t believe a word of it, but that wasn’t the important thing at the moment. “You gave them the frequency.”
Giacona answered by saying nothing.
For a panicked moment, Nate wondered where the bag was now. Had they left it in the car? At the hospital? Then he remembered. In Julien’s apartment.
They had led the men right to Julien’s place, and then when they saw Mila arrive?
Bam.
Instead of saving her from whatever trouble she was in, they had brought the trouble directly to her. Nate had brought the trouble to her since he was the one who’d set up the meeting with Giacona.
Tracking chip in the bag? They could have checked for that, but why would they? Because for us, distrust is a way of life, Nate told himself. He’d fallen into the trap of believing in someone he’d worked with only once before. Giacona hadn’t earned that trust yet, but Nate had given it to him, and now had paid the price. It was a lesson, he knew, he should never have had to learn.
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