The Silenced jqt-4

by Brett Battles

  “Just try it.”

  “No.”

  She moved the spoon to his lips. “Come on.”

  “I said I’m not hu—”

  She slipped the spoon into his mouth.

  Having no choice, he started chewing the food. “I wouldn’t even let my mother do that.”

  She filled the spoon again and held it back up.

  “I can feed myself,” he said.

  “Yeah, but will you?”

  He scowled at her for a moment, then picked up the fork and stabbed a piece of chicken.

  Smiling, Orlando redirected the spoon into her own mouth. “Could use a little spice. But this is a hospital, so I guess bland makes sense.”

  They both chewed in silence for a moment.

  Finally Nate said, “Where’s Quinn?”

  “Back at the hotel.”

  Probably either sleeping or having a beer in the bar, Nate thought. Moving on, no doubt. Maybe even thinking about getting a new apprentice.

  “He’s trying to arrange appointments for you back in California,” Orlando said, like she was reading his mind.

  “Appointments?”

  She helped herself to another spoonful. “Doctors. Physical therapy. Prosthesis fittings.”

  “Oh. Great,” Nate said with no enthusiasm.

  “Are you going to take another forkful, or am I going to have to feed you again?”

  Reluctantly, he got some more food and put it in his mouth.

  Orlando watched him eat for a moment. “Look. You can just take this, go home, and live out your life thinking what could have been, or—”

  “Or?” Nate said. “Seems to me there’s no ‘or.’ ”

  “You’re still in shock. Your system is full of drugs.” She paused. “You lost your leg, for God’s sake. Of course that’s all you can see.” She worked a piece of broccoli away from everything else, then picked it up and popped it between her teeth. “But it’s not the only choice.”

  “What then? I’m done being a cleaner.”

  “Why? Because you don’t want it anymore?”

  “No! I want it. I want it more than anything.”

  “So what’s the problem?” she asked.

  “I lost part of my leg. Or hadn’t you noticed?” he said. “Being a cleaner is a physical job. How the hell am I going to be able to keep up?”

  “You’re good, Nate. You have the skills. You know that. Quinn knows that, too.”

  “Quinn thinks I’m done. I could see it in his face when you guys were here earlier. He could barely look at me. He was like one of those people in the movies standing around the bed of someone dying. Great knowing you, good luck on the other side.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “He does think you’re done. But he’s not feeling sorry for you.”

  “What then? He’s already written me off?”

  “Guilt,” she said. “He’s the one who had to make the decision to amputate your leg. And don’t forget, he’s the reason we’re here in Singapore in the first place. This wasn’t a job. This was a personal mission for him. And now he feels responsible.”

  Nate looked away. “Well, you can tell him I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t have been here if I hadn’t wanted to be. That should get rid of his guilt.”

  Orlando scooped up some more food and held it in the air between them. “You or me?”

  Nate picked up his fork again. As he shoved it under the vegetables, he knocked a piece of chicken off the plate and onto the tray.

  Orlando smiled. “It’s good that you’re angry.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I mean it. You can use that.”

  He put the food in his mouth, chewed it, then said, “Use it for what?”

  “For your rehab. So that when you come back to work, you’ll be even better than before.”

  “As a cleaner? I already told you I physically couldn’t do it anymore.”

  “There’s no way you can know that. Prosthetic devices are pretty amazing these days.”

  “So the doctors have told me,” Nate said.

  “I was reading on the Internet today about a guy from South Africa who’s missing parts of both of his legs. But because of the prostheses he has, a couple years ago he almost made the Olympic team.”

  “As what? A mascot?”

  “Track and field. He’s a runner.”

  That made him pause. “A runner?”

  She nodded. “How much do you want this?”

  “It’s all I want.”

  “Then make it happen,” she said. “Work your ass off. Use the time to study and learn everything you can. Throw yourself into your rehab and your training.”

  He wanted to believe her, but then he thought about his mentor. “Quinn won’t go for it.”

  “He might think you won’t be able to do it, but he’ll give you the chance to prove him wrong.” She smiled. “And I might have a little influence over him.”

  She stood up. “Are you going to finish eating everything?”

  He smiled a little.

  “Oh, progress,” she said.

  “Have I told you to go to hell yet?”

  “So are you going to finish?”

  “I’m going to finish.”

  She took a step toward the door, then turned back. “I’m not just talking about the food.”

  “I know.”

  A whole year had passed since his injury, and he had used the time well. He had done exactly as Orlando had suggested. He’d studied the subjects he was going to need for the job: learning how to fly a plane, perfecting the French he’d taken in high school, expanding his knowledge of chemistry, memorizing the makes and particulars of over a hundred types of trucks and cars, getting a start on Spanish and dozens of other topics large and small. He’d also pushed himself hard in his rehab, surprising his physical therapist and even himself.

  Quinn had paid for everything, even purchasing a whole set of prosthetics that could be used under various conditions. First Nate relearned to walk, then to run. By the time Orlando had talked Quinn into taking him out on a job again, Nate was running several miles a day and hiking a couple of times a week in the hills that ran through the middle of Los Angeles.

  Quinn’s skepticism had soon disappeared. And Nate’s own belief that he would one day become a full-fledged cleaner had returned.

  “I told you you could do it,” Orlando said to him a few months earlier.

  “Did you?” he said. “I don’t remember that.”

  She eyed him critically. “You know, you’re still Quinn’s apprentice. I could make sure you get some pretty lousy assignments.”

  “You really think you have that much influence over him?”

  She huffed. “Excuse me?”

  Nate smiled.

  “Excuse me. Sir, excuse me.” The voice was female, both distant and close at the same time.

  Nate pushed the eyeshades up. The flight attendant was leaning down next to him, haloed by sunlight seeping in through the windows.

  Morning, he thought. He’d fallen asleep after all.

  He pulled the earplugs from his ears. “Yes?”

  “Your friend thought you might like to have some breakfast before we land,” she said. “But you’ll have to eat fast. We’ll be on the ground in forty minutes.”

  Nate glanced over to where Quinn had been sleeping. His mentor was now sitting upright, a plate of food on a table in front of him, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “I’ll have a cup of that. Black.” Nate paused. “Better make it two.”

  Chapter 8

  There was a blue Toyota Camry waiting for them at the airport. Quinn climbed behind the wheel and popped the trunk so Nate could throw their bags in back, then he reached under the seat. There he found a thin manila envelope.

  Inside were three sheets of paper and a hotel keycard. He glanced through the papers. Two of the sheets were maps. The first covered an area that included Portland, Maine, in the east and a small town called Go
rham about ten miles to the west. Someone had marked the map with one blue X in the vicinity of Gorham, and a smaller black X closer to Portland, just north of the airport. The second map was a detailed close-up of Gorham showing a couple of dozen streets — a single blue X on this one corresponding to the blue one on the wider map.

  The third page was an info sheet.

  BLACK — Holiday Inn Timothy Garner, Room 211

  BLUE—23 Main Street, Gorham 1:30 p.m.

  The passenger door opened, and Nate climbed in.

  “What do we got?” he asked.

  Quinn handed him the papers, then started the engine.

  The black X indicated the location of the hotel they would use as their base. They had already been checked in to room 211 under the name Timothy Garner. The key card would allow them to avoid contact with the hotel office. The blue X was the meeting site. Where the actual job was to take place had not been indicated.

  “Not giving us a lot of time to relax and see the sights,” Nate said.

  Per the info sheet, they would need to be at 23 Main Street in a little less than five hours to meet with a man named Donovan.

  “We’re not here on vacation,” Quinn said.

  “Speak for yourself. First time I’ve ever been to Maine. Isn’t this where they’re supposed to have the good lobster?”

  Quinn rolled his eyes, then pulled out his phone and tossed it to Nate.

  “Check in with Orlando.”

  It was always smart to have a point person who knew what they were up to, especially when the location was an unfamiliar one. Quinn’s go-to in these situations was always Orlando. It was more at her insistence than his request, but he wasn’t complaining.

  “No, it’s Nate,” Nate said into the phone. “We’re here.” He listened for a moment. “No. All smooth.” A pause, then he looked at the papers Quinn had given him. “The Holiday Inn on … um … Riverside Street. West side of Portland.” Again he listened, then looked back at the papers. “The rendezvous is in the town of Gorham. Twenty-three Main Street. We’re expected to arrive by one-thirty.… Yeah, this afternoon … He’s driving.… Okay, I will.”

  He hung up.

  “I’m supposed to give you a kiss,” Nate said.

  “You come near me and I’ll cut off your other leg.”

  A moment of stunned silence, then Nate laughed. “Look at you making a joke about my leg. I think that’s a first.”

  “Shut up and look at the map.” Quinn gave his apprentice a rare smile.

  * * *

  Quinn took a shower, then checked the kit that had been waiting for them in the room.

  It was a dark blue backpack containing two 9mm guns — a Glock for Nate and the preferred SIG for Quinn — a box of fifty rounds and suppressors and two extra mags for each weapon. There was also a box of disposable rubber gloves and a small first aid kit that included sutures, gauze, and antibiotics. Tucked into a compartment at the back of the bag were copies of the papers that had been waiting for them in the car, and an additional map that showed a more detailed layout of the pertinent part of Main Street in Gorham.

  Quinn spent twenty minutes memorizing the map before allowing himself to relax on one of the beds. Nate had turned on the TV and found an old movie on TCM. The Bad and the Beautiful with Kirk Douglas.

  “A classic,” Nate said. “One of the best movies about Hollywood ever.”

  Quinn had grunted noncommittally. Movies were Nate’s thing.

  He had to admit, though, Nate wasn’t wrong about the movie. It was definitely absorbing and helped to pass the time. Once the film was over, they left the Holiday Inn and headed to Gorham.

  Back home in Los Angeles it still felt like summer, but here in Maine, not so much.

  The state had fully embraced the two-week-old fall with cooler temperatures, browning ground cover, and leaves that had turned beautiful shades of yellow and orange and red.

  They came at Gorham from the east on State Route 25. At some arbitrary point Route 25 became Main Street, and before long they were entering the outer regions of Gorham. Homes here were separated by acres, not feet. Most were set back from the road, many down long driveways and hidden by trees and brush.

  As they drew nearer to the center of the small town, the homes began to cozy up to one another and draw closer to the road. Still, compared with a big city, the lot sizes were huge. The predominant house color was white, and the common theme seemed to be colonial clapboard. But these weren’t emulating a popular style. These were actual colonial homes, many a couple hundred years old.

  As they passed a Burger King on their right, Nate began reading off the addresses, then nodded ahead. “Should be right up there.”

  Twenty-three Main Street turned out to be an empty store in one half of a two-story-tall brick building on the south side of the street. The windows were covered on the inside by white butcher paper on which someone had written in large letters:

  ALISON’S BOUTIQUE COMING SOON!

  The other half was occupied by a café.

  Quinn turned right on Cross Street and parked behind a small office building.

  “Security cameras?” Quinn asked.

  Nate took a quick look around. “None.”

  Quinn nodded, then opened his door. Chances were they could leave the Toyota there all day and no one would question it.

  “What about the gear?” Nate asked once he joined him outside.

  “We’ll come back for it once we know what’s up,” Quinn said.

  They walked to Main Street, waited for traffic to clear, then crossed to the other side.

  “They can’t want us coming in through the front,” Nate said. “Gotta be a rear entrance.”

  “Check it out,” Quinn said.

  While Quinn examined the menu posted in the window of the café, Nate walked around to the back of the building.

  When he returned, he nodded. “Three doors. Two for the café and one for the empty shop.”

  Quinn looked at his watch. They were ten minutes early.

  “Let’s get a coffee first,” he said.

  “And a sandwich?”

  Quinn frowned. “Fine. But to go.”

  “It would probably draw less attention if you order something, too.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” But the untimely growl from his stomach belied his tone.

  * * *

  The man who greeted them at the back door of Alison’s Boutique was small only in height. Quinn guessed he wasn’t more than five foot five. He wasn’t fat, though. Muscles bulged, large and menacing and almost, but not quite, obscene. Steroids for sure, and about a million hours in the gym. If his muscle mass had been toned down even ten percent, he would have been more intimidating. Small guys could be wiry and unpredictable. But with this guy’s bulk, speed and agility were no longer options.

  “You’re late,” he said as he moved out of the way to let them in.

  Quinn and Nate crossed inside.

  “You Donovan?” Quinn asked, once he and Nate were inside.

  The man shook his head. “He’ll be back in a bit.” He nodded toward a rectangular table in the center of the room surrounded by folding chairs. There was no one else present. “You can make yourself comfortable there.”

  “So who are you?”

  “I’m Mr. Edgar.”

  Quinn cocked his head. “We’ve worked together before, haven’t we?” He stared at the man for a moment. “Not Edgar. It’s …” He thought for a moment. “It’s Mercer, isn’t it?”

  “Not bad,” Mercer said. “And you’re Quinn.”

  Mercer had been a background player on a job three years earlier. A gig for the Office.

  “You were a courier, weren’t you?” Quinn asked.

  “Was. But haven’t been for a long time.”

  Without another word, Mercer turned and walked out of the room, leaving Quinn and Nate alone.

  Nate, who was already sitting down, sandwich in hand, said, “Friend of yours?”r />
  “Barely know him,” Quinn said as he took a seat across the table from his apprentice.

  “Friendly type.”

  Quinn shrugged. You met all kinds in this business.

  * * *

  At five minutes after two, the back door to the shop opened again, and four men walked in. They were all somewhere between thirty and forty years old and were casually dressed: jeans, button-down shirts, light jackets.

  “Quinn?” the one with thinning hair asked.

  Quinn stood up and held out his hand. “Are you Donovan?”

  “Yep,” Donovan said. “Shall we get down to it?”

  A moment later everyone was seated around the table looking at a map. It showed property lines and accurate footprints of each structure in the area. There were also circles of various sizes indicating the locations of trees and other vegetation. At the street end of each property was the corresponding address. Donovan pointed to a block of Main Street not in the town center area, but further out in the direction of Mosher Corner.

  “Here’s the target house,” Donovan said.

  He circled an upside-down, reversed L in the center of a parcel on the north side of the street. The home was set back a couple of hundred feet from the road.

  “We’re doing it in the target’s home?” Quinn asked.

  Donovan nodded. “Not ideal, I know. But he lives alone, and seldom goes out. The report I have says the only visitors he gets are the mailman and a weekly delivery of groceries.”

  “Bedridden?” Nate asked.

  “No. Just private,” Donovan replied. “We arrived yesterday morning. Since then I’ve had one of my men keeping an eye on the place using thermal-scanning gear. We’re sure someone is inside, but whoever it is hasn’t stepped through the front door yet.”

  Quinn thought for a moment, then said, “How positive are you that you’ll need me?”

  Donovan paused, then said, “Let’s you and I take a walk.”

  * * *

  They headed up Main Street, then south along Elm. As soon as it was apparent no one was interested in them, Donovan removed an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Quinn. A file listed Kenneth Moody’s name, his address, and the letter T.

  Terminate.