Clank.
Clank.
Clank.
Marion almost cried. The other person had heard her.
For the next five minutes they tried to communicate with each other, tapping back and forth but with no more meaning than an acknowledgment that they knew the other was there, confirming that they were not alone, but little more.
The other prisoner's responses began to lag, then finally stopped altogether. Marion continued tapping for several minutes, trying to get him to return her signal, but he had either lost interest, or worse, lost consciousness.
As a last resort, she found the crack between the door and the frame with her finger, then moved her mouth over.
"Can you hear me?" she yelled.
But she knew it was useless. Where the door had transmitted and amplified the tapping of her shoe, it also acted as an effective buffer, bouncing her voice back into the room and letting very little of it pass through.
She slumped to the floor, knowing that nothing had changed for her. In thirty minutes, in an hour, in a day—at some point they would come for her. She stared at the floor, almost numb to the possibility now.
When the hallway door opened again sometime later, she thought this time was it. Her turn to die. Only once again it was the door at the other end of the hallway that opened, not hers.
She could hear raised voices, but could not make out the words. She figured they were giving the new prisoner the same treatment they had given her.
Then a loud crack reverberated down the hall, and a few seconds later, another.
Gunshots. She had heard them in Africa, only more at a distance. Here the source of the sound was only a couple dozen feet away at most, and the metal hallway didn't help, enhancing the noise instead of dampening it.
Marion scrambled into the corner, pulling her knees to her chest and pressing her hands against her ears. She didn't want to hear the screams of pain, but they seeped through her fingers anyway.
When she thought it was over, a third gunshot rang out.
This time she was the one who screamed.
Quinn almost blew it at the last turn. Tucker had stopped just ten feet away, in front of a door. Two others were standing there with him. Quinn pulled back before any of them could see him.
If they exchanged any words, Quinn couldn't hear them. What he did hear, though, was the door opening, and the men passing through. Once the door closed, he peeked around again.
The corridor was empty. He waited a moment to see if they were coming right back out, then stepped around the corner and approached the door. Like the others he had passed, it appeared solid. There was a small, faded metal sign attached to the wall next to the door. Etched in it were the words: HOLDING CELLS.
Looked like he'd found where they'd taken Furuta.
Quinn glanced around. There were several other doors along this stretch of corridor. He approached the one that was directly opposite and placed his ear against it. He could hear nothing. As he started to open the door, he heard a muffled gunshot behind him. Then another.
Son of a bitch, Quinn thought. Had they just shot Furuta? If so, the agent was either dead, or close to it. And there was nothing Quinn could have done about it.
He yanked the door in front of him open, hoping he'd find an empty room. It was a small space. Big enough only for the built-in desk and metal bunk missing a mattress at the other end. A guard's room that didn't look like it had been used since the base had been decommissioned.
Quinn ducked inside and closed the door, sealing himself in darkness. He was there less than a minute when he heard another shot.
"Nate, can you read me?" he said.
Dead air.
"Nate?"
"I can hear you," Nate said. The signal was weak.
"Okay. Stand by. I might need your help."
"Copy that."
The sound of a door opening into the corridor kept Quinn from saying anything else. He leaned forward, listening.
"You two go help Mr. Rose." It was Tucker again. "Tell him I'll be there in a few minutes. Want to check in with the gate first."
There was a grunt of assent, then the clacking of feet on the metal floor walking away. By the sound of it, they were heading back in the direction Quinn and the man had come.
"Unfriendlies heading your way," Quinn said. "Keep your head down."
"Copy that," Nate said.
Quinn knew every second counted. If Furuta was injured, he would need immediate attention. Still, Quinn waited a full minute before he opened the door and stepped back into the hallway.
He hesitated at the door to the holding cells, knowing there was a possibility someone was stationed inside. He tightened his grip on his gun, then pressed down on the lever and opened the door.
Inside was a short hallway with three doors down the left side, but no sentry. Quinn stepped through and closed the door behind him.
There were numbers painted on each of the doors: 1, 2, and 3. Cells, Quinn knew. There were no locks, because none were needed. The way the doors latched would keep anyone inside from being able to get out.
He unlatched door number one and pulled it open.
Right on the first try.
Furuta lay in the middle of the floor, a bloody mess. His knees had both been blown out. He had another injury, too, but Quinn couldn't see where it was at first. Somewhere on his torso or arms. His shirt was soaked with blood.
His elbow, Quinn realized. He kneeled down next to the man and felt for a pulse. It was there, but faint, and disappearing fast. The man was bleeding out.
Quinn yanked the laces from Furuta's shoes. He used one for each leg, tying them tightly around the thighs just above the damaged knees. He knew it was futile, but he had to try. As he searched for something he could use on the man's arm, Furuta's eyes opened.
"Hold on, buddy," Quinn said.
He pulled off one of Furuta's socks, but before he could wrap it around Furuta's bicep, the man stopped him.
"Who are . . . you?" Furuta whispered.
"Peter sent me. I'm here to get you out."
"No . . . your name."
"Quinn."
Furuta actually smiled.
"Just be quiet and let me get you patched up."
"Too tired," Furuta said. "Won't . . . work."
The man's eyes drifted shut as Quinn tightened the sock around Furuta's arm. He then stood up and moved back into the small hallway.
"Nate, I'm going to need your help."
"Where are you?"
Quinn gave him directions. "Have the others passed your position?"
"Two minutes ago. No noise in the hallway now."
"Okay. Be careful. I don't think there's very many of them, but there's enough."
"Copy that."
Quinn pulled out his phone. Full signal strength. There was definitely some sort of antenna set up throughout the facility.
He didn't want to make this call, but he had no choice now.
The call rang only once before it was picked up.
"Where are you?" Orlando said.
Quinn hesitated. "Inside Yellowhammer."
"Inside?"
He could tell she wanted to say more, but was holding back.
"I need your help."
"Tell me."
The shift was amazing. From pissed to all business in a split second. She was a pro, after all, though Quinn knew at some point in the near future pissed would make a harsh return.
He told her where he'd left the car, then gave her a quick overview of the outside area surrounding Yellowhammer.
"I'll be there in thirty," she said, then hung up.
Quinn stepped back into the room and checked Furuta's pulse again. Still weak.
"Hey," he said as he moved Furuta's chin back and forth. "I think maybe you should try to stay awake."
The man's eyes remained closed.
Quinn slapped him, not too hard, but enough to sting. "Wake up."
This time Furuta
's eyelids peeled open.
"Stay awake, okay?" Quinn said.
"Losing . . . it," Furuta said. His eyes closed, but then opened again. "Other one."
"What?"
"Other one . . . tapped." His hand twitched on the floor. "Tapped . . . other one."
He tried to move his head, his eyes turning upward like he was looking at something beyond him.
"Other one," he repeated.
This time when his eyes closed, they didn't reopen. Quinn felt for a pulse, but there was none. Too much blood on the floor, and not enough still in the veins. Kevin Furuta was dead.
"Goddammit," Quinn said.
He'd known this was going to happen. He'd known the moment he'd seen Furuta's shattered body. But that didn't make it any easier.
He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. Maybe it would be best to get the hell out of there. The main reason they'd entered the facility was lying dead at Quinn's feet. They'd learned enough already for Peter to mobilize a full-on assault. There was little more Quinn could do without increasing the chance of discovery. Maybe it was time to—
The latch to the main corridor door groaned. Quinn ducked into the corner of cell number one. He could hear someone step into the hallway, then close the door behind them.
"Quinn?" The voice was a whisper.
Quinn stepped around the opening to the cell and found Nate standing a few feet away.
Nate gave him a nod, but showed no other reaction.
"Any problems?" Quinn asked.
"No one. Very quiet."
Quinn was beginning to think all of Tucker's people were helping this Mr. Rose he'd heard the Australian talk about and were somewhere else in the facility.
Nate looked past Quinn into the cell. "That him?"
Quinn nodded.
"They really messed him up, didn't they?"
"He's dead."
"He's . . . son of bitch. Do we still take him with us?"
Quinn looked back through the door at the body. "No. We can't ri—"
He stopped himself.
The other.
Glancing to his right, he could see the two other cell doors. Numbers two and three.
The other.
He approached the door to cell number two.
"What are you doing?" Nate asked.
Quinn held up a hand to silence him, then pulled out his gun again. Carefully he released the door's latch and pushed it open. The only light inside was that which spilled in from the hallway, but it was enough for him to see the room was empty.
He moved over to cell three.
"Pull out your flashlight," he said to Nate.
He waited until his apprentice had the light on, then he repeated what he had done with the previous door.
Only, unlike cell number two, there was someone there.
CHAPTER
32
MARION BARELY REGISTERED THE HALLWAY DOOR opening for the third time. She'd moved into the corner farthest from the door, and had curled against herself. If anyone was talking, she didn't hear. She just rocked back and forth, her mind searching for someplace happy, something to help her forget.
Ice skating with her family as a girl. The school trip she'd taken to New York when she was in high school. Kissing Reynard Moreau in an empty math classroom. He had been more nervous than she. She could remember feeling him shake even as his lips touched hers.
But she couldn't hold on to any of the memories for long before they slipped into an image of Iris, eyes filling with water, lower lip quavering, her whole body emanating fear and confusion.
Marion rocked harder, trying to force her mind away from any thoughts of the child. But when they did, what replaced them were the faces of her mother and father and her sister, all staring at her with lifeless eyes.
She was jerked into the present by the sound of the latch to her door moving.
They'd come for her. Finally, they'd come.
It was her turn now.
Let the first bullet kill me, she prayed. Dear God, please.
She stared at the door as it swung open. She saw the shadow of a man, a gun at his side.
When the beam of a flashlight moved across her face, she started to scream.
"Hey, hey," a male voice said. "It's all right. Don't yell. It's okay."
But she knew it wasn't okay. She'd seen the gun in his hand. And though her eyes were now shut tight, she could feel him approach her.
Her scream turned into a sob, and tears began pouring down her cheeks.
"It's all right," he repeated, much closer now.
Why did he keep saying that?
"Nate, move the light out of her eyes."
The glow on her lids lessened, but didn't go completely away.
"It's okay," the man said. "We're here to help you. Take a breath. Relax."
Despite herself, she did what he said. After a moment, she allowed her eyelids to part.
The man was in front of her, a warm smile on his face. She almost smiled, too, then she realized who he was.
It was the man who chased her in Montreal.
The man who had tried to stop her in front of her parents' house.
He wasn't here to help her.
He was here to kill her.
She started screaming again.
"It's okay. It's okay," he said.
"You tried to catch me," she said. "At my parents'. You killed my parents!"
"I never even met your parents," the man said. "I'm sorry they're dead, but I had nothing to do with it. I was there to help you. Like I'm here now."
Easy words. "You killed them. You killed my sister. Now you're going to kill me, too!"
"Listen to me. I am not here to hurt you. I'm here to get you out."
She stared at him, unable to believe it.
"Your name is Marion Dupuis. You smuggled a child into the States. A little girl from Africa. You were trying to save her."
"You killed that man in New York," she said. "I saw your picture on TV."
The man almost laughed. "The same people who brought you here set things up to look like I murdered someone. We're the same, in a way. These people aren't friends to either of us."
The Unwanted Page 36
