“What are you going to do?”
“Find out who our new friends are.”
__________
“SON OF A bitch,” Roberts mumbled to himself.
His team had searched the area around the apartment building, but the brown-haired man and his two companions had eluded them.
He walked back over to where his men were waiting for him by the team’s vehicles, and said, “Moss, Cruz, you’re with me. We’ll take one of the cars and widen the search area. Girardi, we’ll leave you the other. Stay here and keep an eye on the building in case any of them shows back up. Questions?”
There were none.
__________
IT TOOK QUINN ten minutes to discreetly work his way back to Peter’s street. The encroaching evening was finally playing in his favor. Though the sun was still above the horizon, the shadows had grown dark and wide.
Somehow the men in the suits had found out Quinn, Daeng, and Misty were there. A watcher perhaps, but unlikely, given the time lag in their response. What seemed more realistic was an alarm somewhere in Peter’s place had been tripped.
Whatever the case, he knew it was highly probable that most of the men were long gone now, and he hoped at least one had been left behind to keep an eye on the building in case Quinn and the others returned. It’s how he would have handled it.
Where, was the question. A watcher could be almost anywhere—in a car, a building across the street, one of a half dozen rooftops. He could be in Peter’s building, maybe even in Peter’s apartment, looking down on the street. If Quinn had to bet, he’d have put his money on either a car or a roof. Those were the quickest to set up.
The shadows were deeper on the opposite side of the street from Peter’s place, so Quinn entered the block there, and stepped into the recessed doorway of the first building he passed. From the slightly elevated position, he could see almost the entire street without fear of being spotted.
One by one, he examined each parked car he could see into, first on his side, then the other. His gaze stopped on an Audi A4 parked along the opposite curb, approximately halfway between his position and Peter’s building. A man was sitting in the driver’s seat. Given the deteriorating light, he wasn’t much more than a shadow.
It could have just been someone listening to the radio, or maybe a guy who’d arrived early for a date and was waiting for time to pass.
Or it could have been one of the suits.
Quinn mentally marked the car before scanning the rest of the vehicles. As far as he could tell, the others were all empty. Next he searched the rooflines of the buildings on Peter’s side. The sky was still bright enough that any silhouette would stand out, but he didn’t spot so much as a suspicious bump rising above a retaining wall.
The only things left were the rooflines on his side. He’d have to cross the street to check them.
He looked back at the Audi. The driver’s arm was up, his hand either on the side of his head, or in front of his face. It was impossible to tell from Quinn’s angle. A few seconds passed, then the hand lowered. Quinn could see it was holding a box or…
…binoculars.
There was no way to know for sure, but his instincts told him he was right.
He slipped back down the short set of steps, and snuck along the sidewalk in a crouch so that the watcher couldn’t spot him over the other parked cars. When he was across the street from Peter’s building, he cut between a sedan and SUV, and walked deliberately out into the road. Keeping his pace slow, he looked up and down the street as if checking to make sure he was alone. After several seconds, he jogged the rest of the way to Peter’s building. Misty still had the key, but his picks worked quickly enough.
Once inside, he raced down the hallway that ran along the side of the elevators. As he’d hoped, it went all the way to a rear exit on the alley side. He slammed through the metal security door, and ran back up the same passageway where the fire escape had deposited him earlier, not stopping until he was only a few feet from the front corner. Pressing himself against the stone wall, he ease forward until he could peek around the edge.
What he saw didn’t surprise him in the least. The driver’s seat of the Audi was now empty, because the man—the suited man—who’d been sitting in it was walking cautiously down the sidewalk toward Peter’s place. His eyes were trained on the entrance, and while he wasn’t holding a gun, he did have a hand hovering near the buttons of his coat.
You radioed your friends the second you saw me, didn’t you? Quinn thought. What did they tell you to do? Can’t imagine it was to try to take me yourself. Keep an eye on me? Wait for them to get here?
The man’s pace continued to slow as he neared the steps up to the building. When he reached them, he stopped and craned his neck, attempting to get a look through the glass door into the lobby.
One step up. Another look. But it still wasn’t enough, and he kept going until he was standing right in front of the door. He leaned in, moving his eyes as close to the window as possible, his attention fully focused on the lobby.
Quinn crept quietly over to the nearest parked car, crouched behind it on the street side, and peered through the sedan’s window. He had a perfect view of the watcher as the man leaned back from the glass door. A few seconds later, the watcher walked back down the stairs and started retracing his steps to his car.
Keeping in a crouch on the other side of the vehicles, Quinn followed him nearly all the way back to the Audi, stopping one car shy and slipping around the front end so he’d stay out of view. The man stepped around the front of his car and walked to the driver’s door, his back now to Quinn.
That was the moment Quinn had been waiting for. He closed in quietly, and as the watcher reached for the door handle, Quinn stuck the muzzle of the Beretta into the small of the man’s back.
“If I pull the trigger, your spine will be gone,” Quinn whispered. “You’ll die, but you’ll bleed out first, and I guarantee it won’t be pleasant. Do you understand?”
“You don’t have a chance,” the man told him. “Put it down and maybe—”
Quinn shoved the gun forward, knocking the man against the car. “One-word answer. Yes or no. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
With his free hand, Quinn took possession of the man’s gun, a Smith & Wesson complete with suppressor. Since it would make less noise, he switched it with the Beretta, putting his own gun in his pocket. “Who do you work for?”
The man kept his mouth shut.
“I said, who do you work for?”
No answer.
Quinn searched the man for ID, but the only thing the guy was carrying was a hundred and fifteen dollars in cash.
“We’re going for a walk,” he said.
“Like hell we are.”
The words were barely out of the watcher’s mouth when Quinn smacked the suppressor against the side of the man’s head. The watcher groaned in pain, and started to reach a hand up to where he’d been hit, but Quinn used the gun again to slap the arm down.
“We’re going for a walk.”
“Fine,” the man said, his teeth clenched, blood trickling down the side of his head.
Quinn grabbed the back of the man’s jacket and pulled him away from the car. Keeping the gun pressed against the watcher’s back, Quinn guided him to the sidewalk, and over into the passageway beside Peter’s building.
When they reached the back end, Quinn said, “Left.”
Two buildings down, he found an enclosed area built to house a couple Dumpsters. A solid metal door was pulled across most of the opening. It wasn’t the greatest solution, but it was better than standing out in the alley. After Quinn pushed the watcher inside, he shoved him against the grimy back wall.
“Sit,” Quinn said.
The man took a moment before doing as ordered. Once he was on the ground, Quinn closed the metal door the rest of the way.
“Now,” Quinn said, “who the hell are you?”
The
man scoffed. “I didn’t tell you before. You think I’m going to tell you now?”
“I know you are.”
A mocking grin. “You don’t scare me.”
“Then apparently you don’t know who I am.”
“I’m not paid to know who you are. I’m just paid to deal with you, and I will. Don’t worry.”
Quinn pointed the gun directly at the man’s head. “Who are you?”
“You’re not going to shoot me. I know your kind. All talk and luck and no real—”
Quinn repositioned the gun and pulled the trigger.
The suppressor kept the noise to a muffled thup, but there was no masking the scream of pain that exploded out of the watcher’s mouth when the ring finger and pinkie on his left hand were blown off.
“Goddammit! Shit, man!”
The watcher squeezed his palm, trying to stanch the flow of blood, his face scrunched in agony.
“Who are you working for?” Quinn asked.
“Fuck you!”
“Your foot’s next, and I won’t just be going for your toes.”
The man rocked against the wall, blood soaking his shirt and jacket.
Out in the alley a voice called out, “Hey, what’s going on? Is someone hurt?”
“Don’t answer,” Quinn whispered.
“I heard a yell,” the voice said, getting nearer. “Is someone in there?”
Quinn leaned down near the watcher. “If you want help, tell me who you are and who sent you.”
Panting, the man glared at him, his eyes a mix of pain and anger. “Go to hell.”
Someone grabbed the outside handle of the metal door and started to pull it open. Quinn knew he wouldn’t get anything from the watcher, so he rose to his feet, and reached the door just as a bald guy with a protruding gut opened it wide enough to see inside.
Pushing past him, Quinn said, “Excuse me.”
“Hey, was that you?” the man asked. “Were you the one who yelled? Are you okay?”
Quinn silently walked on for another few feet.
Behind him, the man must have looked back into the garbage area, because it was only a few seconds before he said, “Oh, my God. What happened? Did that guy do this to you?”
Quinn picked up his pace.
CHAPTER 8
QUINN REACHED M Street moments before the eastbound number-thirty-two bus pulled up to the stop. He hopped on board and paid the fare. The bus was about a third full, most of the passengers concentrated in the front few rows, while a huddle of teenagers claimed the back. Quinn grabbed a seat in a relatively empty section near the middle, pulled out his phone, and called Steve Howard.
“Hello?” Howard said.
“Steve, it’s Quinn. I know you’re still on your job, but do you have a moment?”
“Sure. Just sitting around, waiting. You know how it is. What’s up?”
“I have a location problem.”
“How can I help?”
Howard made his home in Virginia right outside DC, so if anyone had an intimate knowledge of the area, he would.
Once Quinn had filled him in on what had happened and what he was looking for, Howard said, “I’m sure I can come up with something. Let me check and call you back.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
After he hung up, Quinn checked in with Daeng.
“Everything’s okay?”
“We’ve repositioned,” Daeng said.
Quinn leaned forward. “Was there a problem?”
“Hold on.” Something moved over the phone, a hand probably. Quinn could hear Daeng’s muffled voice, indistinct as he talked to Misty. Some movement, and finally Daeng again, now in a whisper. “Misty was getting a little anxious being so close to Peter’s place. We were careful. Nobody saw us.”
“Where are you now?”
“Outside the Dupont Circle Metro station.”
“Don’t go in,” Quinn said. There would be security cameras everywhere. Whoever sent the watchers might’ve also had access to the video feeds.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Just melt into the background for a little bit. I’m arranging for someplace we can meet up. Once it’s set I’ll call you back.”
“Will do.”
The bus was on H Street, passing the White House, when Quinn’s phone rang again.
“I have an address for you,” Howard said.
__________
“I TAKE IT you read the e-mail,” Griffin said.
“I would have rather not,” Morten replied. From the sound of his voice, Griffin knew his boss was using his speakerphone. “This is bullshit.”
Griffin had sent Morten the message five minutes earlier. Attached to it was a preliminary report from O & O concerning a break-in that afternoon at Peter’s apartment. Most disturbing was that the trio who’d been there had escaped.
“How did this get screwed up?” Morten went on. “It should have been simple. Or am I not reading this right?”
“You’re reading this right,” Griffin said. It should have been simple. If he had been there with Darvot’s team, the intruders would either be in a detention cell or dead.
“So they’ve just disappeared?” Morten said. “That’s it? That is unacceptable.”
“I haven’t lost faith that they’ll be found.”
Morten snorted. “You think O & O is going to find them?”
“I’m also putting some other feelers out.”
“Not our people,” Morten said quickly. “The less this can be tied to us, the better.”
“No, not our people,” Griffin said, though if the results of the search continued to be unsatisfactory, that would have to change.
The line went quiet for a moment.
“Okay. Good,” Morten said. “Find out who these intruders are.”
“We will.”
“Keep me updated,” his boss said, then clicked off.
__________
THE HOUSE HOWARD arranged for Quinn and the others to use was on the Virginia side of the Potomac, in an area known as Arlington Ridge. It was one of over a hundred single-family, brick homes in the area. Being an old neighborhood, the trees and bushes were tall and wide, all but obscuring the house.
The home’s interior could be best described as spartan. The large living room was furnished with four folding chairs, a table, a single couch, and an undersized TV. The kitchen was stocked with enough dishes, glasses, and silverware for four people to eat one meal, and just enough pots and pans to make it. Food-wise, there were some dry stores in the pantry, but that was about it.
The second-floor bedrooms were equally underwhelming, each of the three smaller bedrooms boasting dual sets of adult-sized bunk beds, while the master was outfitted with a fourth pair. Sheets and blankets were in the bedroom closets, while towels were stacked on the bathroom counter.
The place was a way station, a safe house. Who owned it? Quinn didn’t know, nor did he want to. Howard had vouched for the place. That’s all that mattered.
Quinn arrived twenty minutes before Daeng and Misty. From an upstairs window, he saw their taxi drop them off half a block away and across the street. He headed back to the first floor, and waited until they reached the front steps before he opened the door.
Misty looked shell-shocked and exhausted, her nervous eyes rimmed with red, while Daeng looked like he always did, relaxed and slightly amused.
They let Misty have a few minutes to freshen up as best she could, and then gathered around the living-room table. It was story time first—Quinn recounting his escape and subsequent attempt to question one of the watchers, followed by Daeng describing his and Misty’s efforts to avoid detection.
“So if the townhouse is out, what now?” Daeng asked.
“Maybe we’ve been looking at this wrong,” Quinn said. “Perhaps Peter’s message isn’t a password at all.”
“Then what?” Misty asked. “If it’s some kind of secret message, how do we decode it?”
“Do you ha
ve it with you?”
“It’s in the bag with the files.” She looked around, apparently not remembering where she left it.
“I’ll get it,” Daeng said, standing.
He made a quick trip to the couch, and returned with a cloth shopping bag that he and Misty must have picked up somewhere.
“Thanks,” she said as he handed it to her.
She rooted around inside, then started pulling the files out and setting them on the table until she finally found the envelope. Removing the card, she placed it between her and Quinn.
He read the first line again.
Y7(29g)85KL/24
“It doesn’t look like any code I’m familiar with,” Misty said after studying the note for a moment.
Most codes were not easy to identify, but there were ones that employed unique character usages or patterns that could tip off someone in the know. Unfortunately, nothing was clicking for Quinn, either. Who he really needed to give this to was Orlando. She’d know how to figure it out. But she was not an option, so he pushed the idea out of his mind before thoughts of her could consume him again.
As he looked away from the note, his gaze fell on the stack of folders. He picked one up and asked, “Any chance there might be something useful in these that he might have wanted us to find?”
Misty took the folder from him. “These numbers on the side.” She turned it so both Quinn and Daeng could see what she was talking about. There was a nine-digit, alpha-numeric sequence running vertically up the edge. “It’s a project number. It’s how we tracked everything.” She ran a finger quickly down the other files. “They all have them, which means these are all old mission files.”
She opened the file she was holding and scanned the top document. Looking like she’d read something unexpected, she put the file down, and grabbed the next one off the stack. Another quick scan, and another new file. She kept up the routine and worked her way through the entire group.
“I know these files,” she said as she laid the last one down.
“You put them together, didn’t you?” Quinn said.
“Three of them, yes. The others are before my time, but that’s not what I mean.”
The Enraged (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) Page 6
