CHAPTER 14
SAN PAOLO, BRAZIL
MAURICE CURSON COULD not believe his luck. For four years, he’d been persona non grata in the secret world. The only suitable employment he could find for someone with his particular skill set was as a bodyguard for rich losers.
But the asshole clients weren’t the worst part. It was the other bodyguards who really annoyed him. While there were a few ex-military types who Curson could respect, he was convinced the majority had all come straight from gyms where they’d spent their time lifting weights, taking steroids, and mostly likely watching that stupid Kevin Costner-Whitney Houston movie over and over. Smoke blowers who acted like they’d come straight out of the Secret Service and knew best what to do in any situation. Only none of them had been in the Secret Service.
In Curson’s old career, he’d done jobs in over thirty different countries, had killed, been shot at, and successfully protected people a hell of a lot more important than the latest winner of American Dumbass. These other guys? They wore it as a badge of honor any time they knocked a member of the paparazzi to the ground.
Amateurs. A whole mess of idiotic amateurs.
That’s why when he’d been offered the gig—an actual, honest-to-God black ops situation—he had jumped at the chance. To hell with the fact it meant backing out of a previous commitment. And it didn’t even matter that it wasn’t a trigger-man position. He didn’t care. He was back in, and, hopefully, if he played his cards right, he’d never have to go back to that other crap work again.
The op was pretty straightforward. A snatch and grab. The target: a Brazilian economist who was stirring up trouble and needed to be convinced to adjust his thinking. While Curson would have preferred to be on the snatch team, he was content to be in charge of getting the package from the op site to the safe house—in effect, a glorified driver.
Two days of planning, a dry run, and he and the other team members were ready. Hell, he’d been ready for years. It was all he could do to keep the smile off his face as he sat in the appropriated ambulance, waiting for the target to be brought to him.
Four years in the cold—exiled for a mistake that could have happened to anyone—were finally behind him.
Goodbye, Mr. Stoned Movie Star. I’m really back in the game now.
“Sixty seconds.” The voice came over the comm in his ear.
This was it. The grab had been made and they were on their way.
Maurice climbed out of the ambulance and walked around to the back. He checked the street, confirmed it was as deserted as it had been before, and opened the rear doors.
“Thirty seconds.”
He climbed inside, ready to accept the package.
The three-member snatch team appeared at the back right on time, the target propped up under one of the men’s arms like a passed-out drunk. Working quickly, they transferred the Brazilian onto the gurney inside, and Curson buckled him down.
“Set?” the team leader asked.
“All set,” Curson told him.
“He’s all yours.”
The men disappeared down the street.
As Curson checked the buckles one last time, he realized his cargo didn’t appear to be breathing.
Oh, crap.
He checked the target’s pulse, or tried to, because there was none.
Oh, God, no.
The snatch team had delivered him a stiff.
He immediately began CPR.
“Come on, come on,” he implored the lifeless body.
No response.
He glanced at his watch. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be behind schedule.
Dammit!
He tried another go at CPR, but there was no bringing the man back.
Dammit, dammit, dammit!
He knew this would somehow become his fault. His grand reentry into the realm of secrets and spies thwarted before it could even get going.
He took a deep breath. Be a pro. Finish the job.
He climbed out of the back, circled around the vehicle, and got in behind the wheel. Sticking to his preplanned, less-trafficked route, he reached the turnoff for the safe house just inside the time range he’d been given.
During the whole drive, he’d been thinking about the dead man in back. He’d explain everything to his client. Tell him the target had arrived DOA, and that he’d even tried multiple times to resuscitate him. They’d have to believe him. They’d just have to.
He turned down the driveway, rehearsing in his head what he was going to say. But as he approached the isolated house, thoughts of his explanation vanished. Parked directly in his path were two sedans, their occupants standing outside, guns drawn and pointed at him.
He looked in his mirror, intending to back out of there as fast as possible, but a third car was pulling across the driveway, blocking his exit.
Oh.
Crap.
CHAPTER 15
CHICAGO
PULLMAN WAS RIGHT about the phone number he had for Mr. Brown. Disconnected.
“A burner,” Orlando said. “Probably already dumped in a landfill.”
Quinn nodded. “What about this Burke guy? Is he missing, too? Because if he isn’t, I would very much like to talk to him.”
They stopped at the next coffee shop they spotted, and took up residence at a table near the front door as early morning commuters lined up for their shot of espresso.
Orlando first made a pass through the documents on Pullman’s computer. It didn’t take her long to turn up the list of people who’d been hired for the Lopez project—each name accompanied by contact information. She turned the screen so Quinn could see. He recognized only one of the names from the ops team, but it wasn’t someone he’d worked directly with before. Below the team were two more names: QUINN and BURKE.
“I say we give Mr. Burke a call,” he said.
Orlando punched the number into Pullman’s phone. “Ringing.”
He watched her, hopeful, but it soon became clear no one was going to answer.
After disconnecting, she handed the phone to Quinn and moved Pullman’s computer to the side, aiming the screen at him. “Maybe one of the others will answer,” she said. She pulled her own laptop out of her bag.
Quinn went straight to the last name on the ops team list. Kelvin Moore was the team leader, so, theoretically, he’d be the one with the most information.
The line rang three times, then, “What the hell is it now, Pullman?”
“Mr. Moore?”
A long pause. “Who is this?”
“My name’s Jonathan Quinn.”
“Quinn? The cleaner? Bullshit. You don’t sound like him at all.”
“The man you worked with in Mexico is a colleague of mine who also goes by the name of Quinn.”
“What kind of crap is this?”
“My friend hasn’t checked in yet, and I’m trying to figure out—”
“Brother, you have called the wrong number.”
Moore hung up.
Quinn called back. The line was answered and immediately disconnected. A third try received a message telling him the subscriber was out of calling range.
He tried the other names on the list. Two of the numbers played back the same out-of-range message, but the last was answered.
“Pullman?” A woman’s voice.
“I’m looking for Bob Rooney,” Quinn said.
“This is Bobbie.”
Bobbie? Wait. “Bobbie Harbin?” he said.
Silence.
“Don’t hang up. It’s Jonathan Quinn.”
“That name’s been thrown around a bit lately.”
“I know, I know. The guy who was in Mexico with you. He’s my partner. Uses the same name.”
“That’s…weird.”
“Long story.”
“How do I know you’re you?”
“Baton Rouge. Crawfish dinner. Cajun karaoke.”
Orlando looked over for a second, one eyebrow raised.
Bobbie g
runted a half laugh. “Okay, okay. Just don’t go into any details. I barely remember that night, which I think is probably for the best.”
“What’s with the Rooney?”
“A little trouble under the old name. Thought it best to change it up. What the hell are you calling me for? And why are you on Pullman’s phone?”
Ignoring the second question, he said, “I’m hoping you might have some information.”
He could sense her hesitation. “What kind of information?”
“I’m sure you heard things didn’t end up going so well on the job you just finished.”
“I might have run across something about that.”
“Then you know the body was found.”
“Yeah. I guess your partner isn’t quite as good at his job as you are.”
“My partner is excellent at his job,” Quinn said quickly.
“Currently, there seems to be some evidence to the contrary.”
Bobbie had always been one to see the world in terms of black and white, while Quinn operated in the grays. He said, “He’s missing, Bobbie. He hasn’t been heard from since he last talked to you all. I want to know if there was anything unusual you might have noticed.”
The line was silent for a few seconds. “Nothing that comes to mind. I’m sorry your friend is missing, but—”
“What about Burke? The guy who was working with him?”
Another pause. “I only saw him twice, and neither time for very long. I did get kind of an odd vibe from him, though, like he wasn’t the kind of guy I’d want to hang out with.”
“Did he say anything unusual? Anything that stands out?”
“I did see him on his phone behind the motel where we were having our planning meeting once. He didn’t see me at first, but when he did, he wrapped up his call pretty quickly. As he walked past, he shook his head and said, ‘Family drama. What are you going to do?’”
“Was he lying?”
“Sure he was,” she said. “But we all do that. I just figured he was lining up another gig, and didn’t want to share the information.”
“Anything else?”
“No. That’s it,” she said.
“Okay, thanks, Bobbie.”
“Quinn.”
“Yeah?”
“I am really sorry your partner’s missing. If you want my guess, either the police have him and aren’t talking, or he died trying to get away. Watch your step. It’s probably something you don’t want to get pulled into.”
“Call me if something comes to mind,” he said, then hung up.
“Bobbie?” Orlando asked.
“Bobbie Harbin. You remember her?”
“Hard to forget a five-foot-ten skinny blonde. What’s this about crawfish and karaoke?”
“A bad night.”
She gave him a skeptical half smile. “Define bad for me.”
He laughed. “Not as bad as you’re thinking.”
With a roll of her eyes, she returned her attention to her computer. “I’ve located Burke’s phone.”
Quinn pushed out of his seat and came around so he could look over her shoulder.
She had her cell-phone-tracking software up. In one window was a map pushed in close on two intersecting roads. In the middle, a small blue circle pulsated, indicating the phone’s location.
“Mexico?” Quinn asked.
“Yeah, but not Monterrey. Imuris.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s in Sonora. South of Arizona. I was able to pull a twenty-four-hour history. The phone hasn’t moved.”
“Dumped?”
“It’s an empty lot, so either that or he likes camping out.”
Quinn frowned, disappointed. “He could be anywhere now.”
“Or,” Orlando said, “he could have gone someplace he knows well.”
“And where would that be?”
“While the program was running down the phone’s location, and you were still chatting with your ex-girlfriend—”
“Never was my girlfriend.”
“Ex-lover, then.”
“Not that, either.”
“We’ll just call it a one night stand.”
“No we wo—”
“While you were still on the phone,” she said, “I did a little digging on Burke. The guy’s still new to the business. Takes whatever comes his way. It’s obvious no one’s taught him how to effectively cover up his information.”
“And?”
“Seems our Mr. Burke is from Tucson, Arizona. Which is only about one hundred and ten miles due north of Imuris.”
Quinn frowned. “He wouldn’t.”
“No. You wouldn’t. I wouldn’t. This guy, I’m not so sure.”
“Who do we know in the area?” he asked.
Orlando thought for a moment. “Doesn’t Kim Lakey work out of Tempe?”
__________
QUINN AND ORLANDO flew to Phoenix, where they waited for their connection to Tucson.
As they sat near the gate, Quinn kept expecting to see someone he knew. Of course, that was ridiculous. If he had seen anyone, he probably wouldn’t have even recognized the person. It had been a long time since he’d called this city home. He’d been a rookie cop then, thinking his career path was set. It wasn’t, though, thanks to Durrie, his mentor. Phoenix was where their paths first crossed, Durrie both saving his life and changing its path forever.
In an attempt to distract himself, Quinn pulled out his phone and called Liz. She didn’t answer. He left a message saying he and Orlando would probably be back in L.A. that evening, then he started scanning the other passengers again.
It wasn’t until they were finally back in the air that he was able to relax a little. There were just too many ghosts in Phoenix, of things and events and the actual dead. Sitting there for the short layover had been more than enough to reconfirm that it was a place he needed to avoid as much as possible.
They met Kim Lakey on the west side of Tucson, in the parking lot of the Waffle House off Star Pass Boulevard.
“Good to see you guys,” she said as she climbed into the back of their car, setting the gray canvas backpack she’d been carrying on the seat beside her.
They exchanged handshakes. Though Kim looked large compared to Orlando, she was only five foot three and a hundred and ten pounds. In their world, she was a jack—someone who was good at a whole range of things, and easy to slot into pretty much any support position that might be needed.
From the backpack, she pulled out the weapons they’d requested, handed them up front, then said, “Shall we go for a drive?”
Kim had been able to get to Tucson and do some hunting around before their flight had arrived in Phoenix. She confirmed that Burke had a townhome in the area, and that someone was inside.
The guy’s place was located among a sea of tan, pueblo-style townhomes in a complex west of the city. If it weren’t for the numbers next to the doors, it would have been nearly impossible to tell one unit from the next.
“Park there,” Kim said, pointing at an open spot with the word VISITOR painted over the asphalt.
Once out of the car, she led them along a wide path through several of the buildings, slowing when they reached the point where the pathway ended at another road.
“On the right,” she said. “Four down on the other side.”
Quinn glanced over. Like all the other places, there was nothing remarkable about Burke’s townhome. The only thing slightly different was that curtains had been pulled across all the windows.
“How did you establish someone was inside?” he asked.
“Saw them peeking around the curtains a couple times. Couldn’t see the face, though.”
They walked across the street to where the path continued, taking them out of sight of Burke’s place, and stopped again.
“Well?” Orlando asked.
“He knows things didn’t go as planned in Monterrey,” Quinn said, “so he’ll obviously be running scared. If it is him ins
ide, I doubt he’ll just open the door if we knock.”
“How many ways in and out?” Orlando asked Kim.
“Two doors, the front and a sliding glass one in back. Since he’s between two other places, he only has windows on the front and back on both floors. Unless he barricades himself inside, it’d be an easy flush.”
Quinn thought about it for a moment, then nodded. The simplest plans were often the best. “You play instigator,” he told Kim. “We’ll play rear guard.”
__________
IT WOULD HAVE been better if Quinn and Orlando could have climbed over Burke’s fence and hidden on his porch, but, with the sun still out and the person inside undoubtedly on edge—and potentially armed—they thought it best to play it safe.
What they did instead was position themselves on the pathway that ran along the back wall enclosing Burke’s small patio area. Once they were set, Quinn called Kim. “We’re ready. Give him something to think about.”
There was a delay of several seconds, and then they heard the distant pounding as Kim knocked, hard and decisive, on the front door. She paused for five seconds before pounding again. When she knocked a third time, Quinn heard the sliding glass door on the other side of the wall ease open.
He tensed, ready to act.
A footstep on concrete, then a thud, like something had been bumped into. And breathing, rapid, almost panting.
Whoever was on Burke’s patio was scared out of their mind.
This time, instead of knocking, Kim rang the doorbell twice in a row.
Quinn heard a quick intake of breath, and then the person on the other side ran from the house to the fence. Hands wrapped around the top, and there was a whack against the other side as a foot or a knee slammed into it. A loud grunt of exertion, and the person’s head and shoulders popped over the top.
Not Burke.
Not a man at all.
A young woman with long sandy blonde hair and a desert tan.
She worked her way up until she could bend over the edge at the waist. That was when she saw Orlando.
With a yell of surprise, she dropped back down onto the patio.
Orlando beat Quinn over the top by half a second, and grabbed the girl’s arm just before she ran back into the house. The girl tried to break free, then started to yell.
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