"That woman," Mr. Rose said, more to himself than to Tucker. "She could ruin everything. That . . . that bitch!"
Tucker tried to contain his surprise. He'd never seen Mr. Rose react like that before.
"I think I'll use the woman's brat as the trigger." As Mr. Rose said this, a smile grew on his face. "Yes, I think that will be an excellent idea."
The elevator door opened, and Mr. Rose stepped out. Tucker knew to stay where he was.
"Find out who those people in Montreal are," Mr. Rose said, looking back. "And make sure they won't be a problem."
"Yes, sir," Tucker said.
Mr. Rose turned and walked away.
Alone in the elevator on the ride back up, Tucker wondered if the people in Montreal had let Marion Dupuis run so she could act as bait. It was something he would do.
But even if they had, they wouldn't have been able to find her now. They would have lost her the minute Tucker's plane left Toronto. Had they kept looking? Or had they just given up?
That's what Tucker needed to find out.
CHAPTER
23
IT TOOK QUINN JUST OVER TEN MINUTES TO GET to the private hospital facility from the old Helms Bakery lot where he'd left Hardwick. It was in Westwood, only a few blocks from the UCLA campus and the famed UCLA Medical Center.
The building itself looked like any of half a dozen other typical medical office buildings in the area. Five stories and bland. Brick on the first floor and concrete the rest of the way up, the whole structure in need of a new coat of paint. There were silver letters across the front. THE LUNDGREN MEDICAL BUILDING.
Quinn circled the block and entered the parking garage behind the building. A sign with an arrow pointing toward a gate at the base of the up ramp read Public Parking, but Quinn bypassed it, instead heading for a different gate at the top of the down ramp. Unlike the public gate that was made of wood and pivoted upward when open, this one was a wire fence that closed off the entire entrance like a see-through curtain. The sign above it read Employees Only.
To the side was a box mounted on a pole at driver's eye level, which housed a keypad and a speaker. Quinn punched in an access code he kept stored in his phone.
"Yes?" a voice said. Male, businesslike.
"Dr. Paul to see Dr. Yamata," Quinn said, using the code phrase.
"What time is your appointment?"
"My patient's already here."
"Hold one moment, please."
The delay lasted fifteen seconds while they no doubt compared his security camera image to the one they had on file, then the gate began to open.
"Please park in spot number seventy-two," the voice said.
Spot 72 was on lower level three, the same level as the entrance to the facility. As Quinn got out of the stolen car, he saw his BMW parked nearby in spot number 67.
The door to the facility was not marked. Most who saw it wouldn't have given it a second glance. It was painted the same off-white as the rest of the garage.
As Quinn approached it, he felt his cell phone vibrate twice, then stop. A message. He then remembered the call that he had ignored when he'd been with Hardwick. He pulled out his phone and listened to his message.
"Jake, it's Liz. I thought you were going to visit Mom and Dad. I talked to Mom a few minutes ago, and she said you hadn't been there yet. I'm not sure what's keeping you so busy, but could you at least do me a favor and not tell Mom you'll be coming then don't show up?"
Quinn stood in the parking lot for a moment, his eyes closed and his hand rubbing his brow. He had never told his mother when he'd be coming, just that he would be coming soon. The events of the last couple of days had obviously delayed the trip. He should have called her. He made a promise to himself to do it as soon as he had a moment. Liz he wouldn't bother with. She'd never understand anyway.
As he neared the door, he heard a faint click. He turned the knob and stepped into a long hallway that stretched from the garage to the lower level of the Lundgren Building.
A similar door and a similar click greeted him at the other end. Again, he wasted no time passing through it.
Not a hallway this time. A twelve-foot-square room. The off-white was gone, too, replaced by light green walls. If there had been chairs, it would have looked like a waiting room.
A man stood in front of a second door across the room. Broad shouldered, but about Quinn's height. He was wearing a gray suit, jacket unbuttoned. Medical facility or not, the bulge under the man's jacket was not a stethoscope.
"Mr. Quinn," the man said.
"Yes."
"You're here about your team member."
"Yes."
The man turned and opened the door behind him. "This way please."
The facility occupied the three basement levels of the Lundgren Building. It billed itself as a high-end plastic surgery operation. Very private, very discreet. All of which was true. They made plenty of money that way, for sure. But there was another side of the business, a secret side that very few of their employees knew about.
The facility was a medical sanctuary for those whose injuries were best not reported to the local authorities. No unnecessary questions asked, no damaging information given. There were only two conditions for using the facility: one, patients had to come with a recommendation from someone the facility had previously cleared, and two, because their services were anything but cheap, they had to have the ability to pay.
Quinn had long ago been cleared after a recommendation from Peter. In turn, he had later secured access for both Orlando and Nate just in case.
Quinn's guide led him to an open elevator, then pressed the button marked B2.
"How is she?" Quinn asked.
"You'll have to ask the doctor," the man said.
The car stopped one level up, but the doors didn't open.
The man looked up at a security camera mounted in the corner of the car. Quinn did the same. A second later there was a ding followed by the door sliding open.
"Welcome to Lundgren," the man said as he let Quinn pass through first.
He led Quinn down several more corridors before stopping in front of a door marked 403.
"She's inside," the man said, then walked away.
What Quinn found beyond the door was better than he hoped.
Nate was sitting in a chair near the bed, his eyes glued to the TV mounted on the opposite wall. On the screen was an overhead image of LACMA and the La Brea Tar Pits.
"We made it on TV again," Nate said when he noticed Quinn. "And by 'us,' I mean you."
"You really know how to keep a low profile," Orlando said. She was propped up in the bed. A large bandage covered her neck and shoulder, but she was smiling, so that was a good sign. "This isn't going to do us much good at getting future work."
"Well, maybe if you hadn't let yourself get shot, things would have gone smoother," Quinn said as he stepped over to the bed.
"Now it's my fault?"
Quinn shrugged. "You set the tone."
They stared at each other for a moment. Then Orlando started to laugh, but stopped suddenly, wincing in pain.
"So humor's not exactly a good idea?" Quinn asked.
"Not at the moment," she said, her voice tight with pain. "Are you okay?"
"Me?" he asked. "I'm fine. You're the one in the bed."
"I mean the meeting, with Primus. Nate said you were with him when he called."
"Yeah," Quinn said.
He glanced at the TV. Orlando followed his gaze.
"What are they saying happened?" Quinn asked Nate.
"Some lunatic with a gun," Nate said. "Two people injured."
"Two?"
"A woman on the street, and a guard inside one of the buildings."
Quinn nodded. The security officer probably got in the way of the assassin's route to the roof.
"The woman's doing okay, but the guard's in critical."
"They catch the gunman?" Quinn asked.
"Nope, unless they're no
t saying."
Quinn turned back to Orlando. "How you doing?"
"I'm fine."
Quinn raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"I'm fine," she said.
Quinn turned to Nate. "What did the doctor say?"
Nate tore his gaze from the TV. "That she was lucky it didn't shatter her spine."
"So what got hit?" Quinn asked.
"Muscle mainly."
"You said the doctor wants to keep her overnight?"
"Hold on," Orlando said. "I'm not staying. You're taking me to your place."
"She said the same thing to the doctor," Nate said.
"I mean it. I'm not staying."
"I think it might be better," Quinn said.
"I know how to take care of myself," she said. "I've gotten hurt a lot worse and not seen anyone. Get me some pain pills and antibiotics and I'll be fine."
Quinn looked down at the floor. Sleeping here or sleeping at his place wasn't going to make that much difference. If there were any problems, he could get her back here fast enough.
He was about to say as much, when she said, "Quinn, goddammit, I'm not staying here."
"Okay," he said.
"I'm serious."
"I know you are. I said okay."
She narrowed her eyes. "Okay you're going to get me out? Or okay you're listening but you're not going to do anything?"
"Okay I'll take you home."
She stared at him a moment longer like she wasn't sure she should believe him or not. After several seconds she said, "Tell us about the meeting."
Quinn hesitated. It was possible there was no bug in the room; in fact, Quinn thought that very likely. The facility was supposed to be neutral ground, a safe house where no one asked what your business was. If word ever got out that that trust was compromised, then business would disappear. Worse, really. Someone would eventually show up to deal with the double-cross. Still, Quinn wasn't interested in taking the chance.
"Not here," he said.
"Then get me the hell out."
Before leaving the medical center, they made arrangements with the head of security to dump the stolen car someplace it wouldn't be found for a few days. By the time they headed back to Quinn's place in his BMW, the sun was starting to set.
On the drive, Quinn told Orlando and Nate about his meeting with Hardwick. There was one thing he did leave out, though. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, his thinking that given Orlando's current condition, she didn't need any more stress. She could learn about Leo Tucker's involvement later.
"Yellowhammer?" Orlando said. Her voice was low and sleepy.
"That's what he said."
"He didn't tell you where it was?"
"Here in California somewhere. Said we should be able to find it easy enough."
"Does the name mean anything to you?"
Quinn shook his head. "You?"
"No." She paused.
There was a momentary lull.
"I'll check it out when we get to your place," Orlando said.
Quinn gave her a quick sideways glance. She was leaning against the passenger door, her eyes half-closed.
"Nate can do it," Quinn said. "You're going to bed."
"That's sweet, Quinn. But I don't think I'm going to be in the mood." Even in her near-semiconscious state, she was able to crack a smile.
"Oh, God," Nate said. "My ears. I didn't really need to hear that."
Quinn's house was built against one of the many slopes of the Hollywood Hills. The top floor was at street level and contained the living room, dining room, and kitchen in an open format that made it feel almost like one room. The floor below, following the incline of the hill, contained the bedrooms and a gym.
As soon as he got Orlando settled in the master bedroom, he returned upstairs. Nate sat at the kitchen table using Quinn's laptop to try and get a line on Yellowhammer. Quinn didn't want to disturb his progress, so he grabbed his phone and walked to the other end of the living room.
He stood in front of the plate glass window that made up the whole rear wall of this level, and looked out on the city. The L.A. basin glowed white with millions of individual lights, some moving, some stationary, but all adding to the visual mix of the city.
He took a deep breath, then looked down at his phone and called Peter.
"I expected to hear from you hours ago," Peter said, irritated.
"I had a man down."
"Jesus," Peter said. "I saw the news. The shooting at the museum. Who?"
"Orlando."
Silence. "Is . . . is she okay?"
"She'll be sore for a while, but she'll live."
"What happened?"
Quinn gave him the rundown of the fun at the museum. "I'm willing to bet it was the same people who hired the assassin in Ireland."
"I think you're right," Peter said. "Tell me about the meeting."
"You mean the meeting with the guy from the LP?" Quinn said with no attempt to hide his anger. "The goddamn LP, Peter. I thought you were working against them, not using them as an information asset."
More dead air.
"How long have you known?" Quinn asked.
Still no response.
"Peter, how the hell long have you known?"
A chair in the kitchen screeched against the floor. Quinn glanced over and caught Nate looking at him before his apprentice could look away. Nate grabbed an apple off the counter and returned to the laptop.
"Not long," Peter said.
"That's a bullshit answer."
"After Ireland, all right?"
Quinn stared out into the night. "The assassin," he said.
"Yes," Peter said. "Once we ID'd him we realized he was on an LP watch list. We didn't know if he worked for them for sure, but we knew it was a possibility."
"What happened? He break when you questioned him?"
"He didn't break."
"Losing your touch?"
"He didn't break because someone got to him before he gave anything up."
"Someone got to him?" Quinn couldn't believe it.
"He wasn't under our control. We handed him over to the DDNI as soon as the plane landed. One of my men worked up the ID kit on the plane. Fingerprints, hair and saliva samples, photos. But by the time we were able to figure out who he was, he was already dead. The Agency stuck him in a supposedly secure safe house, but he didn't even last that first night. A suicide pill slipped to him by one of the agents in the facility. The agent left before anyone knew what happened and hasn't been seen since. The DDNI was furious, but there was nothing he could do. When I confronted him with what I'd found out, he was reluctant at first, but I think he realized he had to close ranks and use only his most trusted assets. Apparently I was one of those."
The Unwanted Page 28
