“Yes,” Moody said. “A pickup.”
“Where are the keys?”
“In the kitchen. On a hook by the door.” Moody motioned toward the back of the house.
“Come on,” Petra said.
“Take my truck. I don’t care,” he said. “But I’m staying here.”
“I already told you, they will kill you if you stay.”
“You’ll kill me if I go.”
“You misunderstand the situation, Mr. Moody. You’re more valuable to me alive than dead.”
* * *
The glass on one of the Maxima’s windows imploded.
“What was that?” Donovan shouted over the radio link.
In the moment of silence that followed, something smacked into the side of the house. A voice crackled over the walkie-talkie, one of Donovan’s men. “Someone’s shooting. They hit the car and just hit the house. I think that first shot might have got the driver.”
“Who the hell fired?”
“It looked like it came from the southeast.”
“Mercer,” Donovan said, “did you see anything?”
A slight pause. “Nothing.”
“That’s your area! Check it out! There must be someone else out there.”
“Copy that,” Mercer said.
“What about the two in front of the house?” Donovan asked.
“They’ve gone inside,” one of the men said.
“Son of a bitch,” Donovan said. “Someone take out the porch light.”
“Copy that.”
A second later the lamp above the door shattered, and the yard went dark.
“Light’s disabled.”
Donovan took a deep, audible breath. “All right. Everyone but Mercer, move in. But carefully. There’s a sniper out there somewhere. Mercer, you find that shooter.”
“Copy,” Mercer replied.
With Mercer hunting for the sniper and Dailey monitoring the thermal scanner, Donovan’s six-man team was down to four.
“Well, this is exciting,” Nate said.
“Exciting” was not a word any cleaner wanted associated with the job he was working on. Routine, dull, uneventful. Those were the descriptions most desired.
“You hear even the hint of a siren, that’s an automatic abort,” Quinn said.
“Good by me.”
So far there had been no signs that any of the neighbors had noticed anything wrong. The trees and the distance appeared to be working in their favor.
Just then two men slipped out of the cover of the woods. The first crept to the tree that was near the front door of the house. The other headed toward the Maxima.
“In position across from the door,” a voice said on the radio.
“We have a problem,” a second voice said.
“Like I hadn’t noticed that,” Donovan said.
“More of a problem. I’m at the Maxima. The driver is dead. Bullet caught him right below the ear. Doesn’t look like a random shot to me. He was definitely targeted.”
Quinn blew out a breath. A bad situation had just gotten worse.
“Fine,” Donovan said. “We are still on mission. Dailey, what do you see?”
“The heat signatures are all together, not far inside the house.”
“Is anyone looking out the window?”
“No one’s near any window.”
“Good. Abel, you and Cox move in close. See what you can hear.”
“Copy that,” Abel responded.
The man at the car and the one behind the tree began running in a crouch toward the front door.
“I think I jinxed us with that ‘exciting’ comment,” Nate said to Quinn.
“Yeah. I wasn’t going to point that out,” Quinn said.
“Thanks for your consideration.”
There was a sudden movement from the far side of the car. A third man was heading quickly across the front lawn toward the house.
“Donovan, is that you?” Abel said.
“What are you talking about?” Donovan said.
“There’s someone about thirty feet to my right. He looks like one—”
A muzzle flashed. It was followed almost immediately by the disintegration of one of the windows next to the front door. Another flash. Another window shattered. Quinn saw Abel and Cox dive for cover. When he looked back at the front yard, the third man was gone.
“Shooter! Shooter!” Abel yelled as he and Cox sprinted toward the Maxima.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is going bad fast,” Nate said to Quinn. “Someone’s got to be calling the cops by now, don’t you think?”
Quinn nodded. “We’ll hold our position so we can act as eyes for the others. But if there are any bodies, we’re leaving them.”
Abel and Cox circled the Maxima.
“He’s gone,” one of them said.
“Dailey, scan the yard,” Donovan said. “See if you can pick up something.”
“I can’t reposition that quickly,” Dailey said.
“Fine. Stay on the house. Mercer, anything?”
“No.” Mercer sounded winded. “Someone was just running through the trees, but I lost him.”
“Goddamn it. The rest of you, into the house. Now. I don’t care how you do it. They already know we’re coming.”
The phone in Quinn’s pocket buzzed again, reminding him he had a text waiting. The vibration was loud enough for Nate to hear. He looked at Quinn, eyebrows raised.
Quinn ignored both his apprentice and the phone.
Abel and Cox darted to the front door. Without pausing, Abel kicked out with his right, connecting with the door just below the knob.
Quinn could hear the sound of the wood cracking. More noise pollution. He had seldom seen a job go this bad this fast.
Abel kicked again. This time the door flew inward, then rebounded toward them. Cox took up position against the jamb, aiming his gun into the darkness. Abel nodded, then rushed forward, keeping low.
“We’re in,” Abel announced as Cox slipped inside as well.
“He’s done something to his windows so we’re having a problem getting in at the back,” Donovan said. “Looking for an alternative. Dailey, what’s going on with the targets?”
Targets now, Quinn registered. What a mess.
“They’re at the back of the house, west side.”
Over the radio, Quinn could hear the spit of bullets passing through suppressors.
“We’re receiving fire,” Abel grunted.
“We’re coming around to your side,” Donovan said.
“They’re moving again,” Dailey broke in.
Three more muffled gunshots.
“Into the garage,” Dailey continued.
Several seconds of nothing, then the roar of an engine ripped through the night.
Quinn keyed his mic. “They’ve got a car in the garage. Engine just started.”
“Everyone out front. Now!” Donovan said.
Again, Quinn and Nate held their position. This wasn’t their fight.
Tires screeched, then a tremendous crash filled the air as a large pickup truck exploded through the garage door. Quinn looked at the truck’s crew cab, but couldn’t see anyone. They all must have been hunkered down below the dash.
As the vehicle weaved through the debris, Abel and Cox ran out the front door. A second later Donovan and Beech appeared around the corner of the house.
All four opened fire on the truck. The Ford sped up. As it reached the parked sedan, it swerved to the right, scraping against the Maxima but not slowing down.
“Abort! Abort!” Donovan shouted as the truck raced down the driveway toward Main Street.
“What about the dead man in the car? Shouldn’t we check for ID?” Cox asked.
Good idea, Quinn thought.
“Abort now,” Donovan repeated. “No time. Team four, you’re released.”
“Copy that,” Quinn said. But he held his position as the others disappeared into the woods.
So did Na
te.
After ten seconds, Quinn’s apprentice said, “You want the ID, don’t you?”
“The woman was the same woman who watched us in L.A. Wills is going to want to know who these people are.”
“Not our job to get an ID,” Nate observed. It wasn’t an admonishment, just information.
“I want to know who these people are, too.”
Nate rose out of his crouch and tossed the binoculars to Quinn. “Be right back.”
“My idea. I’ll get it,” Quinn said.
“I’m already on my way,” Nate said, but before he could take a step, something moved near the bushes in front of Moody’s house. Nate knelt back down. “The shooter?”
Quinn raised the binoculars. A man skulked around the yard, holding a gun that glowed bright with the heat of a recent discharge. As he took a few steps forward, Quinn was able to focus in on his face.
“It’s Mercer,” Quinn whispered. He must have come back for the attack on the truck.
Mercer snuck his way toward the car, his gun ready at his side. Then, very faint in the distance, Quinn heard a siren. Mercer’s head shot up. After a second, he glanced at the car, hesitated, then he whipped around and ran east toward the woods at the edge of the property. A moment later he was gone. Nate stood again.
“Where are you going?”
“The ID, remember?”
“Police are coming.”
“So I guess I’d better be fast, huh?”
Nate stepped out of the trees, then sprinted to the sedan. Quinn watched as his apprentice opened the driver’s door and leaned in over the corpse. Fifteen seconds later he was up again and running back.
“Find anything?” Quinn asked once Nate had rejoined him.
Nate held up a thin wallet. “This was it.”
The sirens were getting closer now.
“Time to go,” Quinn said, then let Nate lead them through the woods back to their car.
Chapter 11
“Stay down!” Petra yelled at Moody as the truck raced over the remains of the garage door.
Mikhail was behind the wheel, keeping his own head low, aiming the truck toward the street.
Before they’d gone ten feet, a staccato whap-whap-whap of bullets hit the side of the pickup.
“Faster,” Petra said.
“What about Kolya?” Mikhail yelled.
“He’ll have to take care of himself,” she said.
Mikhail lifted his head enough to peek out the window as they passed the Maxima. When he crouched back down, his face was white.
“What is it?” Petra asked.
His only answer was to shake his head and press down on the accelerator. Kolya had to be dead.
The truck tossed them around as they sped across the front lawn. After a moment, Mikhail looked up again.
“Hold on,” he said, then whipped the wheel to the right.
The tires squealed as the truck fought against inertia. Petra braced herself, expecting to flip over. But a moment later the rocky ride ended, and they were racing away along the main road. She glanced into the crew seat behind them. Moody was still tucked in the space between the seats.
“Who were they?” Mikhail asked.
“The same people we’ve been up against since we started,” Petra said.
All of a sudden the truck began to slow.
“What are you doing?” Petra asked.
“Police.”
She sat up and saw the lights in the distance coming toward them fast. “We can’t let them see us,” she said. The truck was riddled with bullet holes. “There.” She pointed at a gravel road several yards ahead on the left.
Mikhail eased off the accelerator and turned. Once they were on the side road, he doused the lights, took the engine out of gear, and let the truck roll to a stop on its own.
They both looked over their shoulders out the back window. To the left a halo of flashing lights began to dominate the night as a siren grew louder. Then a single police cruiser rushed by, its lights quickly fading into the black.
Mikhail started to put the truck back into gear, but Petra stopped him. “Wait,” she said.
Three minutes later, more lights appeared on the horizon. Two more police cars and an ambulance.
As soon as they passed, Petra said, “Okay, go.”
Mikhail turned the truck around and got them back onto the highway.
“We can’t stay in this,” Petra said. “It’ll draw too much attention. We need to find something else.”
Mikhail nodded, then glanced toward the back. “How’s our passenger?”
Petra peered over the seat. “He’s still hiding on the floor.” She reached back and tapped Moody on the shoulder. “You can get up,” she said in English. “We’re safe now.”
He didn’t move.
“Mr. Moody. It’s okay. It’s over.”
Again nothing. She exchanged a look with Mikhail.
“You want me to pull over?” he asked.
“No. Keep going.”
She climbed into the back and leaned down next to Moody.
“Are you all right?”
There was no movement at all.
As she reached underneath to pull him up, she touched something sticky and wet.
“He’s been hit.” She manhandled him onto the seat, then reached up and flipped on the dome light. The front of Moody’s shirt was dark with blood.
“No,” she whispered.
She put her fingers against the man’s neck. There was a pulse, though faint. “He’s still alive,” she said.
She unbuttoned Moody’s shirt and peeled it back. More blood, but no entry wound.
She moved her hand over his torso, slipping it around the man’s side, then stopped.
“Bullet hole,” she said. “Right side. Near his kidney.”
She ripped off part of his shirt and pressed it against the wound. But even as she applied pressure, she realized it was too late. Moody’s chest barely moved as he took a breath. It rose once more. The third time was even fainter.
There was no fourth.
“Should I find a hospital?” Mikhail asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
“Is he …?”
She locked eyes with Mikhail in the rearview mirror. He took a deep breath, then nodded.
“What now?”
“Find us another car. We’ll leave the body here.”
Mikhail turned at the next street, then said, “I meant, what are we going to do now?”
“I know what you meant.”
She only wished she knew the answer.
* * *
“I assume we’re going to avoid Portland,” Nate said once they were back in the car.
Quinn nodded. “Head south.”
Nate pulled out into the street. “Boston?”
“New York.”
It would take a few hours longer, but as a place to disappear, New York couldn’t be beat.
Quinn stayed tense as they worked their way through southern Maine. He wasn’t worried about getting caught. He was disturbed by the presence of the Russian woman. Unlike in L.A., here she had actually blown the operation. How could she have known? Was Wills’s organization compromised? If so, that was a huge problem. The Englishman had paid for three weeks of Quinn’s time, which meant that potentially there were still over two to go. That was a lot of time for something even worse to happen.
Quinn looked out the window and stared at the sky, trying not to think about the job anymore.
The Milky Way punched millions of holes in the dark night, the stars twinkling their ancient brilliance. In the distance, a single light moved to the west, a plane flying from one unknown point to another. Along the road, trees that were no more than dark shadows rushed by solo and in groups with no discernible pattern.
A memory hit him, unexpected and hard.
He was in the back seat of his family’s car. Beside him, his sister.
Liz was probably six at the time, which woul
d have made him fourteen. In the front his mother sat in the passenger seat and, as usual, his father was behind the wheel. Outside, it was night, and the trees of Minnesota, much like the trees of Maine, flew by the window like a dark, silent army.
Liz yawned, then leaned over and laid her head in his lap. Automatically, his hand went to the side of her head, stroking her long hair so that she’d fall asleep.
“Good night, Jake,” she said groggily.
“Good night, sweet pea,” he replied.
Quinn’s phone buzzed in his pocket again, jerking him out of the past.
It was a text from Orlando, sent when they were in position outside Moody’s house. He had forgotten about it.
Call Me
This was no simple request to touch base. Orlando wasn’t like that. If she’d been thinking about him, and wanted him to know, that’s what she would have said. If she had something to talk about, but could wait, she would have said that, too. A simple CALL ME meant do it now. Urgency in her simplicity.
The phone began to vibrate in his hand. He looked down. A call this time, not a text. On his screen was a single word: WILLS.
“David,” Quinn said.
“I just got off the phone with Donovan,” Wills said. “What a disaster!”
“Yeah,” Quinn said. “Pretty much.”
“He told me you recognized the people who showed up.”
“Just one of them. Not the whole group. It was the woman from L.A. The Russian.”
“Are you sure?”
“No question.”
Silence.
“And the target?” Wills asked. “Donovan thinks he left with the others.”
“That would be my guess, but we don’t know for sure. They could have killed him and left him in the house.”
“Didn’t anyone check?”
“There wasn’t time,” Quinn pointed out. “Donovan gave the order to abort, and we all scattered. Good thing he did — the police arrived just as I was leaving.”
“Donovan didn’t say anything about the police.”
“We delayed our departure for a few minutes.” Quinn explained about the wallet Nate had taken from the victim.
“That was good thinking,” Wills said.
“We weren’t the only ones with the idea. One of Donovan’s men hung back to grab it, but got scared off by the police.”
“Really? Which one?”
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