Johnson had been assigned to the van, and was more than overjoyed when he saw Quinn and Guthries approaching with a suspect in custody.
“Throw him in here,” Johnson invited. “I'll keep an eye on him while Guthries drives.”
Guthries consented by shoving their captive into the back of the van and slamming the door closed.
Quinn wanted to punch something, specifically wanted to punch someone. The man in the backseat said nothing, offered no bribes or information. That only made Quinn more furious.
Quinn silently prayed that the man would answer all their questions. And that God would help him to show mercy.
FOURTEEN
Quinn sat across a metal table from the man who had run from them in the mall. They had been sitting there for a good ten minutes thus far, just staring at each other. Quinn hadn't tried to say anything. Neither had the mall man. Just a silent duel.
As much as Quinn wished he could keep this up all day, he was on a limited time schedule. Without taking his eyes from the man, Quinn flipped open a brown folder marked: classified.
“So,” Quinn said loudly, and the noise echoed through the still, dim room, “Gareth O...how do you say that? O-Shog-nessy? O-Shoff-nessy?”
“O'Shaughnessy,” Gareth corrected quietly, pronouncing it “O-Shaw-nessy”.
“Yeah,” Quinn drew the word out, gave a sarcastic smile and looked back down at the file in front of him. “Born and raised in Galway, Ireland, overall a good kid. After the age of seventeen, you don't seem to exist.” He looked up at Gareth. “Why is that?”
Gareth stared angrily at Quinn, but remained silent.
Quinn raised an eyebrow. This guy was one tough cookie. “Alright-y, then. Let's move on. I have these,” Quinn pulled some photos out of the folder and laid them on the table. Each one depicted Gareth in some mundane task or another, always in Irish military uniform. “Can you guess where these came from?”
Gareth glanced at them and then looked up at Quinn. He shrugged a shoulder uninterestedly.
“No? Okay, then, I'll tell you. These are surveillance photos from an IRA training camp. And, hey, look at there! That's you! So, I'm guessing that you are an IRA agent.” Quinn waited for Gareth's reaction, anticipating a major denial.
Gareth smirked and held Quinn's gaze. “I'm not IRA.”
Quinn leaned forward on the table. “Can't say I'm disappointed. Who are you, if you aren't IRA?”
Gareth chuckled. “Why don't you come out and say what you're really wanting to know.” He gave a sarcastic nod. One look in his eyes could tell any amateur operative that he knew much more than he was telling.
Quinn dropped his smile, scooped up the photos and sat back in his chair. “I want to know why you kidnapped Rosie Callahan. I want to know where you're keeping her. And I want to know why you've been tormenting her.”
“I'll never tell you,” Gareth vowed. His smile remained, glued to his disgusting face.
Quinn was fed up with this man's games. He flipped the folder shut and reached beneath the table. He produced a blow torch and slammed it on the table. He allowed the noise to echo for a moment and then die down. “Do you know what this is?”
Gareth's smile fell a little, and he nodded.
“Do you know what I'm going to do with it?”
Quinn watched as Gareth's Adam's apple bobbed. “You can't torture me,” he insisted. “It's against the law in your country.”
Quinn shrugged. “We're the CIA. We do what we want.” He stood from the table and circled behind Gareth. He knew what he was about to do was wrong, but it seemed to be the only way to get this man to talk. Quinn silently begged God to forgive him for what he was about to do. “You see, Gareth O'Shaughnessy, if you don't talk, I am going to turn this on and hold it to your back. Do you know what multiple thousand degrees of heat feels like?”
Gareth looked up at Quinn out of the corners of his eyes. “No.”
Quinn let out a deep breath, allowing himself to sound impressed. “It's so hot that it's cold. As the heat shrivels your flesh into nothing, all you feel is severe cold. It's not pretty when it's all said and done.”
“I don't be caring what you do to me. I won't talk.” Gareth's resolve sounded like it was wavering, but not enough to get any information out of him.
Quinn grinned. Torture wasn't his forte, but he wasn't bad at it. “Then let's begin.”
Quinn turned to a cabinet behind him and opened a drawer. Perfect. Guthries had supplied everything he had asked for. Quinn pulled a raw steak from its already open packaging and set it on a plate atop the cabinet. Silently, effortlessly. Then, he opened a small cooler of ice and pulled out a single cube. He turned on the blow torch and aimed it at the steak. The sizzling began. Next, he took the ice cube and set it gently on Gareth's upper back, so it ran down his spine.
Gareth let out a yell and hunched forward, away from Quinn. He gritted his teeth and squinted his eyes shut, all the signs of a man in pain. Still, nothing.
Quinn flipped the steak to the other side and let it cook, then set another ice cube on Gareth's back. By the time it had melted, the man slammed a hand on the table.
“I won't give in!” he swore.
Quinn turned off the blow torch and leaned down next to Gareth's ear. It was time to pull out his trump card. “I know that. You know what else? I also know that you have a mother by the name of Brenda who still lives in Galway and a sister by the name of Fiona who is currently attending the University of Illinois. I can make it very hard for her to continue her studies here in the states. Do you want that?”
Gareth turned his head slightly to look up at Quinn. “No. Fiona deserves the education she's getting. I'll explain.”
Quinn moved aside, but only slightly. The more pressure Gareth felt, the better. The man deserved this after what he and his buddies had put Rosie through.
“Start explaining,” demanded Quinn.
Rosie curled her knees tighter to her chest and avoided eye contact with Sean. She had never seen anyone so angry.
Sean punched a wall and shook his hand to calm the pain. “How did you let them nab Gareth, you idiots? You're always making such a Haymes out of everything!”
Jack took a few heated steps toward Sean. “You're the leader of this here mission. If anything went wrong, it's 'cause of your direction.”
“Hold it, both of you,” Harry spoke up. “We don't be wanting a brawl. Cool it.”
“I'll cool it when he sees not everything's always me fault!” Sean yelled.
Jack took a single step closer. “I'll never see it that way, and you know that.”
Sean turned his head to look at Rosie. “What do you think of all this?”
Rosie tucked some hair behind her ear nervously. “I think I'm starting to like Ryan best.” She nodded her head toward the fourth man in the room. He hadn't said a single word since she had met him. She was beginning to understand why.
Harry's face broke into a broad smile and a laugh escaped his lips.
Jack shook his head slowly, closing his eyes and taking a moment to compose himself.
Sean rolled his eyes, but seemed to calm down.
Ryan nodded his head at Rosie and gave her a thumbs-up. His smile nearly reached both of his ears. She couldn't tell if he was happy he was her favorite or happy the fight had ended before it began.
Sean turned toward Rosie and folded his arms. “Alright, Roisin, let's have it. What's in those files your fella gave you?”
Rosie felt her breath catch in her throat, but quickly swallowed and spoke over her fear. “What files?” She hadn't thought back to those files. Hadn't needed to. Something told her she didn't want to.
“You know what he's saying,” Jack threw out menacingly. “There weren't no files in your fella's house after we went through it. What do they say?”
The realization that these men had more than likely killed Martin flitted through Rosie's brain. She froze. That was the only thing she could think about. They ha
d killed Martin. Had shot him outright, all for a couple of lousy confidential files. What was in those files that they needed them so desperately?
Sean was suddenly kneeling in front of her. He stared straight into her eyes, through them into her soul. “He didn't give you no files, did he? He burnt them. The ashes in his fireplace, those were the files?”
Rosie nodded unenthusiastically.
“He wouldn't have given you the files that way, hmm? Nah, all he had to do was show you them. Close your eyes, Roisin. Tell us what was in the file.”
Rosie mildly panicked. She didn't know how he knew about her ability, but he did. She shut her eyes and thought back to that day.
Pages of files scrolled in front of her eyes, and words from those pages jumped out at her.
Ireland.
Irish Republican Army.
Observation.
Shots fired.
Quinn Wesley.
Rosie's eyelids flew open and she locked gazes with Sean. “What did you mean when you said my mother was the best of you all?”
“Tell me what's in the file and I'll think about answering that.”
Rosie shook her head. “I'm not doing anything else for you until you explain what you meant and who you are.”
“Go on,” encouraged Ryan. “Tell the girl what she wants to hear.”
Sean stood up and rubbed the back of his neck. It was obviously a hard decision to make, or so Sean seemed to think. He paced for a moment before drawing up a chair and straddling it. His usual conversational stance. “I don't think you'll be liking what I have to say.”
Rosie shrugged as noncommittally as she could. “Try me.”
“Your mum, she was one of us, like I said. A long time ago.” Sean smiled wistfully, as if remembering a happy time in the past. “You'll be wanting to know who we are, so I'll give it to you straight. We're An Seisear. Spies, you'd call us.”
“On Shay-shar?” Rosie tried the name out, then reflected on the information for a brief moment. Spies. It made sense. Spies were the CIA's area of expertise. They always had been. What didn't make sense was why they wanted those files so desperately, or why they kept telling her that her mother had been one of them. Rosie tried denial. “My mom wasn't a spy.”
Harry guffawed and the smile didn't leave his face afterward. “Sure she were,” Harry insisted. “Just out of IRA training. Still pretty, and full of spunk.”
“She lead us,” Sean continued. “For a solid five years before she found your da. Soon as she knew you was on the way, she left us. Said she never wanted to hear another word from us. So we left her alone. But we was always watching.”
“That's how you knew me, then?” Rosie asked. “Because you've kept eyes on me my whole life?”
“Not just you,” Jack interrupted. “On your mum and da, as well. Tried to get your mum back in the game, we did. Once. Used your da as leverage. Took him hostage. Should have known the stubborn woman wouldn't give in.”
Rosie uncurled her legs and stared disbelievingly at Jack. Too many coincidences now seemed uncoincidental. Too many different tragedies suddenly seemed connected. First Martin, and now her dad. Did these men have no shame? Where did they draw the line?
“W-what happened to him? To my dad?” Rosie queried hesitantly. She didn't think she really wanted to know, but she had to know. Had needed to know for years now.
She had always searched, and no leads had ever brought her any closer. Could these men be why the last several years of her life had been a living hell, trying to figure out what had happened?
William Mason's cryptic words now made so much sense. You're in over your head.
Sean sighed and scratched his head just behind his ear. “This is the part you won't be wanting to hear, Roisin. I'm not particularly proud of it, and it weren't likely the best thing to do.”
“Tell me,” Rosie begged. It couldn't be worse than what she had imagined, or so she told herself. It couldn't be worse than the sleepless nights and the leads gone cold. It couldn't be worse than torturing herself with memories of when she used to be part of a happy family.
“It were all Gareth's idea,” Ryan said briefly.
Jack folded his arms. “We kept your da around, for a time. Lugged him around the States, Canada, Ireland. Always switching his location. After a few years, we seemed to lose track of you, and we come across a mission we thought we might need you for.”
“At the time, it seemed the most logical thing do,” Sean continued. “Gareth suggested we get any information from your da that we could. He told us what you did for a living, the people you befriended. We found you with your fella, Martin, and we knew you had what we needed.”
“But what happened to my dad?” Rosie was beginning to get seriously desperate. “Where is he?”
“Gareth tortured the man so bad,” Sean seemed almost choked up. “It were only humane.”
Rosie lowered her voice to a whisper, the only kind of voice she could use without crying. “What did you do?”
“Your da, he were practically begging to die. After all Gareth's tricks and tortures, the man was barely recognizable. He'd seen our faces, so we couldn't have taken him to a hospital. We had to...to...well, we had no choice but to put the man out of his misery.”
“You killed him?” Rosie shrieked. All four men physically retracted.
Harry stepped forward and knelt in front of her. He place a hand on her knee, which Rosie quickly jerked away and tucked to her chest. “Now, Roisin,” Harry started, “Don't be getting yourself too worked up. We don't want a repeat of last time.”
Rosie kicked at him, and he backed away. “I don't care what you think!” Rosie yelled at him. “You killed my father! You tore my family apart. Why would you ever think that I would work with you on this when you've spent my entire life taking away anyone I've ever loved?”
Sean stood up and flipped the chair against the wall. A loud clattering sound echoed through the room. “Look, if it'll make you feel better, don't tell us all your country's secrets from that file. Just confirm the one we've been chasing for a year. Who shot that IRA commander in Dublin?”
Rosie didn't answer. There was no way they could make her give up Quinn. Never, in a million lifetimes, no matter what they did to her. She had been unable to save Martin, but she had the power in her hands to save Quinn. She wouldn't let another man down.
“Let me phrase it this way,” Sean tried again, “We're ninety-nine percent positive your new fella, Special Agent Quinn Wesley, be the man we're looking for. And we're bang on, aren't we?”
Rosie set her jaw and leaned forward on the chair, not rising but not remaining relaxed either. “You think you're so clever, but in the end it's all a guessing game. You can't read my mind, and I'll never tell you who it was. Shoot whoever you like, but you'll never know if you shot the right man.”
Sean turned to Jack and folded his arms. “Is she bluffing, do you think?”
Jack nodded solemnly. “We're bang on. Wesley's our man.”
“You're not Irish Republican Army,” Rosie desperately tried to buy time and information, “so why are you dishing out revenge on their behalf?”
Harry retrieved a gun from his waistband and proceeded to check the magazine. “We usually pick our own missions, but we also do what our government orders. No exceptions.”
Rosie deftly removed the GPS earrings from her pocket and slid them into her ears. To them, she hoped it seemed like she was processing information. Maybe buying some time. She weighed the backs in her hand, then looked up at the Irishmen around her. It was time. Time to be rid of these men. Time to take her life back. Time to finally be free.
She slid the backs past the second niche on each earring and lifted her head. “I'll never do what you ask ever again.”
“The reason I don't exist,” Gareth finished explaining, after two hours' worth of information, “is because, technically, none of us exist. The Irish government wiped us from existence in order to create a group of
perfect spies. No names. No identities. We become who they're wanting us to be.”
Quinn nodded and tapped a finger on the table. “Is that all?”
Gareth raised an eyebrow. “You was expecting something else?”
Quinn leaned forward and put his head in his hands. He didn't know anyone who could talk for so long without giving a shred of information he actually wanted. “You never mentioned where you guys – An Seisear, wasn't it? – are keeping Rosie Callahan. Or why you're in the states. Or why you need her so badly.” He hadn't answered any of the really important questions, Quinn realized ruefully.
Gareth scoffed and locked eyes with Quinn. “Not even Fiona could make me tell you that.”
Quinn weighed his options and decided the odds of finding Rosie were better if he cut this interview short. He stood from the table and headed for the door.
“Wait!” Gareth called after him.
Quinn paused in his step and turned to face the man whose face still spoke of pain.
“You have to take me to a hospital. You can't be leaving me like this.”
Without a word, Quinn marched back to where he had left the now-cooked steak and took the plate in his hand. He set it in front of Gareth and leaned close to the man's face. “Enjoy your lunch.”
Quinn exited the room, not bothering to watch the look of realization that inevitably passed over Gareth's face. Gareth would spend the rest of his life in a dark, dank prison cell. As it should be.
It didn't take long to ride the elevator up seven floors from the sub-basement interrogation room.
As Quinn had suspected, Mr. Lorrander hadn't budged from his office. Neither, it seemed, had Johnson or Guthries. As Quinn entered the office, he spotted both men standing off to the side. Both looked like they were in combat mode. That was never a good sign.
Quinn decided to take it all with a stiff upper lip. Whatever his boss was about to tell him, he would abide by it.
Mr. Lorrander didn't even stand as he uttered his orders. “We won't be helping Rosie Callahan any longer.”
Quinn took all his preconceived notions and all his personal advice and threw it out the window. That was the one and only thing he would never abide by. He would quit his job if it meant saving Rosie Callahan.
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