HARD Series Box Set: Bad boys with powers

by Chloe Fischer

  “Good evening,” Quinn said calmly in Turkish. “How are you gentlemen?”

  They lowered the flashlight marginally and eyed the pair closely.

  “It is very nearly morning,” the smaller cop replied. “And hardly a time for a foreigner to be dragging along a body.”

  Quinn chuckled.

  “I feel the same,” he agreed. “But Asam called me, drunk as can be, from the Blue Moon and the women did not want to tuck him in for the night. As you can see, he is not an easy man to move.”

  There was a tense silence as the police officers assessed his story.

  “Where are you taking him?”

  “I will bring him back to my hotel. His wife has threatened unpleasant things if he should be caught again in the brothels and what can I say? I am a peaceful man.” Quinn grinned and shrugged, readjusting Morcan on his shoulder. “Of course, gentlemen, I would be grateful if you wanted to take over the task and bring him home. She has a vicious temper and is likely to shoot the messenger. I have been on the wrong side of several frying pans, I’m afraid.”

  He flashed them a charming smile and noted the uncertain looks they exchanged.

  “Oh, but don’t worry! I doubt that Fatima will harm you fine gentlemen; especially with the newborn there.”

  The police officers snorted and shook their heads in unison, envisioning the wrath of a new mother whose drunk husband had just arrived home from a cathouse at dawn.

  “I think not,” the tall one answered curtly. “Get him off the streets before you are met with trouble that is not his wife.”

  “Are you sure…?” Quinn asked, his eyes wide and pleading.

  “Get going!” they snapped in unison.

  “Yes, sirs,” he replied with a resigned sigh. “Have a good night.”

  The cops continued their beat toward the brothels and Quinn idly wondered if they were going to check with Alina and confirm his story.

  He did not have time to worry about it as he half-dragged the bulky man toward the center of town. He would be gone before they could find him if his story was proved false.

  It had taken much longer than he had expected for Morcan to show.

  They better not be sleeping when I arrive, he thought grimly, trying not to grunt as he continued to lug Morcan along. I will not wake them pleasantly.

  Suddenly, the man stirred and Quinn tensed.

  An elbow flew up inconspicuously, landing squarely on the Turk’s jaw and Morcan was still once more.

  Soon, they were at their destination, Quinn kicking in the door to the back entrance. All was unnaturally still but he could sense the others inside.

  Instinctively he stopped, his pupils growing accustomed to the inky darkness.

  A single wooden chair sat in the center of the room, a noose hanging overhead. When Quinn turned his head, he could see Stevens and Ochre standing, their arms firmly behind their backs but he could not make out their expressions.

  “It took you long enough,” Stevens growled. “We have been here for hours while you were getting your rocks off.”

  Quinn smiled tightly, throwing Morcan into the chair. Stevens stepped forward to secure the captive in his seat.

  “You’re sure this is the guy we want?” Ochre asked nervously.

  He was a recruit from the Navy, only twenty-four years old with a fresh face and jumpiness which bothered Quinn.

  The soldier felt his jaw tighten, irritated by the question, but then Stevens spoke, saving Quinn from throwing out a scathing reply.

  “Shut up, Rookie,” he snapped. “You don’t question those with more experience than you. And stop standing there. We have work to do.”

  Ochre jumped to attention, hurrying to help the situation. Quinn only watched as the others did their job, standing off to the side, watching their moves closely.

  “You did good,” Stevens told Quinn reluctantly. “You sticking around for this?”

  the senior officer cracked his knuckles as he waited for Quinn’s reply.

  Even though his part of the job was done and there was no need for him to remain, he leaned against the wall negligently.

  “Maybe just for a minute,” Quinn replied, smirking slightly. It was the third time he had been sent to pick up Morcan and yet the fat Turk never seemed to remember him. It wasn’t just because the man was stupid - more that the heavy dose of heroin in his blood blocked out his memories substantially. It was like shooting fish in a barrel except Morcan had a smaller brain than a mackerel.

  “Wake him up,” Stevens ordered Ochre.

  Quinn felt his jaw lock in satisfaction as the first punch smashed into Morcan’s wide nose. Quinn felt no sympathy for the man. Anyone who traded in the suffering of his fellow humans, deserved whatever kind of justice eventually found them.

  A scream of pain filled the air and the trafficker’s eyes flew open in shock. Blood spurted over his silk shirt, blending in almost perfectly with the red of the material.

  “What do you want?” he screamed, his face registering both consternation and understanding simultaneously.

  Quinn turned to leave.

  “Going already?” Ochre called out before he could help himself. Stevens scowled at the younger man but Quinn glanced over his shoulder.

  “Yes,” he replied shortly.

  “Hey,” Stevens called over Morcan’s labored breathing. “You did good again.”

  “I know,” Ryder replied.

  His career had started in the Army as soon as he had finished high school, much to the chagrin of his parents.

  “Ryder, you are so intelligent, so talented,” his mother Helen Quinn cried. “You can be a doctor or a pilot or a – “

  “I can do that in the Army also and they will pay for it,” Ryder interrupted.

  “Son, the Army is a dangerous place to be. With the world state of affairs as it is right now…” Joe commented, sitting back. His wrinkled brow was doubly creased with concern.

  “I want to be there to serve our country,” Ryder replied flatly. He didn’t expect his parents to understand, why would he? They had always ignored his differences, dismissing his oddities as teenaged angst.

  They had nothing to compare it to, after all. He was their only child and although they tried to be supportive in their way, Joe and Helen Quinn were not about to admit that there was something wrong with their son.

  “You are unique” and “You are special” were constant refrains in the house, ones which made Ryder more frustrated with each passing year.

  He had considered a career in law enforcement, but something had driven him to the army recruitment center on his eighteenth birthday. It was as if the military was ingrained in his genetic make-up.

  “What makes you think you have what it takes, son?” the recruitment officer had asked. Ryder had stared at him with almost lifeless green eyes, his mouth in a stoic line.

  “What makes you think I don’t?” he had replied quietly. He did not add that he likely had more skills than the desk jockey grilling him. Ryder was sure his confidence would not serve him well. The recruitment officer would likely see Ryder as a cocky upstart who didn’t know the first thing about discipline. How wrong that assumption would be, Ryder thought to himself.

  Ryder handled training better than any of his peers, always finishing at the top of his class in every skill. It was uncanny how he excelled at every different challenge, whether it was physically demanding, mentally demanding, or both. After training, he did one tour in Afghanistan and then three in Iraq before he was brought into Special Ops training.

  He was a natural soldier, ready to act without hesitation or question. He followed orders and handled pressure unusually well.

  His superiors were impressed, but also slightly unnerved, by his ability to do his job without issue. There had been several reports that while working solo, as he always insisted on, Quinn was able to gather information from prisoners without much effort. But then there were the instances of unusual deaths which his super
iors had a hard time explaining, for the deaths had nothing to do with torture or abuse. It turned out though, that his extremely high success rate on his missions, had the military turning a blind eye to any unusual methods.

  “He is wasting his talents here,” one General commented. “He could do so much more on an international level.”

  For the General’s part, he was secretly nervous in Quinn’s company, something he would never admit.

  However, others agreed and soon Ryder Quinn was promoted to a clandestine subclass of special operations, one which worked through both international and transnational plots.

  On a moment’s notice, Ryder was always ready to be sent out. In fact, he was seldom stateside. The arrangement worked very well for two main reasons. Ryder was uncomfortable at home – he had always had the sense that his parents were keeping him at arms length, waiting for him to screw up horribly. Or watching him like a science experiment. It was like there was a sense of disappointment in their eyes when they looked at him. The other reason why he appreciated the nature of his job was that he was uncomfortable working with others if he could avoid it. No one knew much about him except that he was brilliant, dangerous, and always got the job done.

  He was both known and unknown, reporting only to Riverville, as it seemed he was the only one who understood how Quinn worked.

  As Ryder made his way back toward the city center, he thought of Morcan and shook his head. The man had been captured more times than Ryder could count and yet he refused to give up the secrets of his trafficking, both drug and human. He wondered when his superiors would finally give him the green light to interrogate Morcan. It seemed like it would save everyone time and effort.

  But Morcan had always been released, Ryder’s superior’s believing that he would be a useful contact to maintain, but this was the third time he had been caught with kidnapped American girls in his brothels. This time he would not go free. He would be lucky if he made it through the interrogation with the use of his legs.

  None of that was Ryder’s concern. He would be off to find another international threat in a few hours.

  He had not heard from Riverville, yet but he would soon.

  I should eat something and get some sleep before the call comes in, he thought, climbing the stairs to his second-floor apartment.

  It was a room he often kept when he stayed in Istanbul.

  No one trusted outsiders but if he was a foreigner which had established history, he was better received.

  There was a bed and breakfast in Paris, the S&M dungeon in Amsterdam, a hotel in Cape Town, the brothel in Istanbul. He was known in all these places, welcomed and recognized.

  It made collecting information much easier.

  “You should be more careful,” Major Riverville had warned him many times. “You are growing too familiar with the locals.”

  “I have not been questioned once,” Ryder replied flatly. “There is no cause for concern.”

  “I have been at this much longer than you have, Quinn,” he snapped. “You are becoming cocky. It will lead you into an early grave.”

  Ryder did not answer.

  He knew that he was almost impossible to kill.

  He just did not know why.

  In the hallway leading to his room, the pale light of dawn began to filter through the long windows at the end of the hall.

  It is almost pointless to rest now, Ryder thought, digging into his cargo pants for his keys. Suddenly, he stopped, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

  Something was wrong. Someone was in his apartment.

  Ryder slipped against the wall, his back flat as he listened.

  He heard nothing.

  Blinking, he tried the knob slowly and silently. It was still locked and Ryder felt his brow furrow in confusion.

  Someone had been there, he could feel it in his bones.

  Unlocking the door, he gritted his teeth, waiting for an attack but to his surprise, no one was there.

  He turned on the lights and stared at the tiny space suspiciously.

  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, no items moved. There was certainly no indication of a break in but Ryder trusted his gut instinct. It had never steered him wrong.

  And yet it appeared to be doing just that.

  Ryder locked the door at his back and wandered toward the window, peering out into the streets below. The vendors were just beginning to sell their wares, calling out to one another as the sun struggled to poke its way through the hazy horizon.

  He's out there, Ryder thought. Someone is out there watching me right now.

  Again, Ryder could see nothing suspicious, no one out of the ordinary, and yet…

  His cell phone rang and he reluctantly turned to answer it.

  “Quinn.”

  “You’re going home. 0900 local, Ataturk Airport. Turkish Airlines, flight 867.”

  The line went dead in his ear and Ryder sat on the lumpy futon which served as a sofa and bed.

  Home.

  The word was almost foreign to his ears.

  He had barely seen his parents six times in the past three years. And he was fine with it, he realized.

  I shouldn’t feel that way about seeing my mom and dad, he thought, but it did not matter how he chided himself. He had no interest in going to Washington.

  However, it didn’t matter what he wanted; Ryder had long since accepted that about his chosen career.

  What’s worse, is I have no idea how long I will be stuck there, he thought, gritting his teeth.

  He loved his parents, he did but Ryder had nothing in common with them. He had often wondered how they had managed to create him.

  Joe and Helen were salt of the earth people, genuine and kind with strong moral values and a sense for hard work and simple living.

  They had deep ties to the community and a kinship to God which Ryder could not fully comprehend.

  Ryder had a knack for danger and adventure, a dark smouldering contrast to their fair blondness and pale skin.

  When Ryder was small, he remembered closing his eyes and he could envision a different set of parents, a redheaded woman and dark-haired man, parents with three other boys. His own perfect, imaginary family, he would tell himself.

  He imagined they would be sitting at a supper table or playing in a vast backyard somewhere where snow fell in huge piles, somewhere that didn’t look anything like Seattle.

  The images were always fleeting and never made sense to Ryder but they struck a melancholic chord in his heart for some reason he never understood.

  As he grew older, the clear pictures in his mind of his perfect imaginary family seemed to fade but the feeling was always there.

  I think all kids who don’t have anything in common with their parents, or feel like they don’t belong, believe they’re adopted, Ryder mused as he began to pack up his things.

  One of the worst things about going home was having nothing to discuss with his mom and dad. They always asked about his work and of course he could not disclose anything.

  Even if he could tell them, what would he say?

  Yeah, I spent two weeks tracking down a drug and human trafficker who kidnaps underage girls and pimps them out. It was the third time he’s been caught, so this time they are going to torture him until his tongue falls out and then make him eat it. Can you pass the potatoes?

  When Ryder had been in his twenties, he had felt a passing guilt that he was not what his parents had wanted him to be but as he got older, he knew that even if he got that medical degree and became a neurosurgeon, he would still not have a connection with Joe and Helen. He simply did not have a bond with his parents and never had.

  It was just another one of the great mysteries of his life.

  His single duffle bag packed, Ryder did one last sweep of the room to ensure he had not forgotten anything before turning to leave.

  Key in hand, he made his way to the ground floor, dropping it in the mail slot of the superintendent.


  “Mr. Quinn!” Ali cried, throwing open the door. “You were just to leaving without saying goodbye?”

  He seemed offended and Quinn chuckled.

  “It is very early and I didn’t want to wake you, Ali. Thank you for your hospitality. I will be back again soon, I am sure.”

  “Oh, surely you know it is always a pleasure! Always!”

  “Ali, was anyone here looking for me?” Ryder asked, remembering the sense he had upstairs. The landlord’s eyes narrowed.

  “No, I don’t think so. Were you expecting company?”

  “Not exactly. One of my business associates said he might come by. I just wanted to see if he had.”

  Ali nodded understandingly.

  “Mr. Quinn, I never asked you,” Ali called as Ryder turned to leave. “What do you do for living?”

  Ryder smiled.

  “I am a head hunter,” he replied. Ali bobbed his head but Ryder knew he had no idea what the term meant.

  It didn’t matter; Ryder was not about to explain it to him. He was already out the door before Ali could respond.

  It was just after six o’clock. Ryder still had time before getting to the airport.

  He thought again about the feeling of someone being in his apartment.

  Had someone been there or am I simply imagining things?

  “Need a taxi, dost?”

  The car pulled up alongside him and Ryder stared at the driver for a long minute.

  His sea green eyes looked up and he peered into the growing crowd on the streets.

  Is someone watching me right now?

  “My friend? Would you like a ride?” the cabbie asked again.

  Ryder nodded quickly and slipped into the car, a strange sense of unease filling his stomach.

  “Where are you going?”

  Ryder glanced into the throng of people outside his window once more.

  Who could be following him and why?

  “The airport,” Ryder said quickly.

  It was the safest place he could think of to be.

  He found it unsettling that he felt unsafe, probably for the first time in his life.

  Chapter Four