Becoming Quinn (2 page)

“Are you kidding me?” Owens said. “Your
job
is to
kill
me. Like hell I won’t blame you!”

“If you’ve got a weapon, toss it in my direction now,” Larson ordered. “Then step out where I can see you.”

“No way. I’ll take my chances. You against me.”

“You really think I’m here alone?” Larson asked.

“No. But my friend took care of your backup.”

“Really? How many did he get? One? Two? You don’t really know, do you? Because he didn’t get a chance to tell you. How do you think I know one of my bullets killed him? I still have people out there.”

In response to this, two clicks came over the radio, and both Durrie and Larson knew the two other men who’d been stationed by the road were on their way back. Unfortunately, Durrie also knew it would take them at least two minutes to get to the barn—an eternity in situations like this.

“Even if I believed you, it wouldn’t matter,” Owens said. “I’m not going to just let you kill me.”

“You’re making a fool of yourself,” Larson said. “Take it with some dignity.”

Just go get him,
Durrie thought but didn’t say over the radio. It was doubtful Owens was armed. He would have played it safe, just in case the others had planned on patting him down when he first arrived. His buddy was probably carrying two weapons, one of which he was undoubtedly supposed to have given to Owens when they reconnected.

But Larson was playing with him, almost like he was teasing his prey.

The angle of the camera in the barn was such that Owens was mostly hidden from view in the stall. Durrie could only see the top of the guy’s head and one of his shoulders. He could tell he was moving around, but couldn’t see what he was doing.

“Enough, Owens,” Larson yelled, but while he was giving the impression his patience was starting to run out, his body language was calm and controlled. “Enough screwing around. Get rid of your weapons and step out now.”

“Go to hell!”

Owens shuffled back a couple of feet from the stall divider, instantly giving Durrie a better view. The guy was looking at something in his lap.  No, not his lap, his hand.

Durrie pressed the transmit button. “He’s is calling someone!”

As Owens lifted a mobile phone to his ear, Larson sprinted out from behind the barrels. Durrie could see Owens start to talk, but he couldn’t hear what the man was saying. Whatever it was, he didn’t get much out before Larson came around the end of the stall and fired twice.

Owens fell backwards, his phone clattering to the ground beside him. Larson checked his pulse, but Durrie had yet to see anyone survive a shot through the forehead. Satisfied the target was dead, Larson picked up the discarded phone and looked at the display.

A second later, his head snapped to the side, his eyes looking directly into the lens of Durrie’s camera. “He called 911.”

2

Jake Oliver waited in the passenger seat of the patrol car while his partner, Tony Haywood, went into Di’s Diner.

It was part of their routine—get the brief at the station, drive around for a few hours, then stop at the diner. The main reason wasn’t Di’s mediocre coffee or a sudden need to use their restrooms. It was Maria, one of the waitresses who worked the swing shift.

More and more Jake had taken to staying outside while his partner went in, sure Haywood liked it better that way. Jake’s training officer had made it clear that they were not friends now nor would they ever be.

Jake could see the veteran cop leaning against the counter, two to-go cups of coffee in front of him, and Maria on the other side, smiling.

Suddenly a dispatcher’s voice broke over the radio. “All units in vicinity of Goodman Ranch Road and Tyler Way, report of shots fired with possible injuries.”

Jake brought up a mental map of the city in his mind. He’d only been in Phoenix for a little over nine months, but he’d made it a priority to know it as well as he could. That included memorizing as much of the layout as possible. In just seconds, he narrowed in on the location. It was in a nearly deserted part of town, about three and a half miles away from their current location.

He was just about to hop out and get Haywood when he saw his partner exit the diner with the two cups in his hand, undoubtedly hearing the call on his radio. He handed the cups to Jake through the open window, climbed in, then grabbed the radio mic. “9-82 Adam, in route Goodman Ranch Road.”

“Copy, 9-82 Adam,” the dispatcher said.

The moment they hit the street, Haywood flipped on the emergency lights and the siren.

“Coffee,” he said, holding out his hand.

Jake gave him the cup with the X on the top. That was the one topped off with cream and sugar. Jake liked his black.

Haywood took a sip, then smiled. “When we get there, slow and cautious. Understand?”

“Yes,” Jake said.

Neither man spoke again until they turned onto Goodman Ranch Road.

Haywood nodded at the radio. “Call in and see if they’ve narrowed down the location.”

Jake did.

“Caller disconnected,” dispatch reported. “Reported on Goodman near Tyler Way. Nothing further.”

A minute later, they pulled to a stop at the corner of the two streets.

“Would have been nice if he had at least told us which side of Goodman he was on.” Haywood stared out the windshield for a moment, then opened his door.

“What are you doing?” Jake asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Haywood said as he climbed out.

Jake hesitated a moment, then did the same.

Haywood stood next to the car, his head swiveling slowly as he surveyed the surrounding area. Jake turned his gaze outward, but there really wasn’t much to see. Only a few lights pierced the darkness, revealing a handful of small ranches, but that was it. Mostly it was just open desert.

“I see three places over there,” Haywood said, pointing across Tyler Way. “And two more behind us. You?”

“I counted three behind us,” Jake said.

“Three?”

Jake pointed each of them out. There were two homes across the street from each other, and one large building on another piece of property, set far back from the road.

Haywood frowned. “Yeah. Three.”

Jake opened his mouth, hesitated, then decided he should say it anyway. “Do you think maybe it was a prank?”

His partner studied the desert some more. “Won’t know until we check. We’ll start with the houses on the other side of Tyler, and work our way back.”

3

Durrie resisted the urge to close his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the groan that escaped his lips. What a disaster.

“Don’t anyone go anywhere,” he said into the radio. “I’m going to need everyone’s help.”

“Hey,” Larson said. “Cleanup’s your job.”

“Yeah, and killing the target without bringing the police was
yours
. Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”

Durrie unhooked the monitor from the cable, then folded up the mirror, and shoved both into one of the bags. That done, he picked everything up and moved his foot around in the dirt, doing a quick cover-up of the impressions that had been made on the ground.

As he headed back to the barn, he coiled up the cable, and kicked dirt over the imprint it left behind in the sand. But circumstances meant he had to rush, so he knew he wasn’t doing the best job he could.

When he stepped inside the barn, he saw that not only was Larson still there, but the other two men—Morgan and Fry—had arrived also.

“You,” Durrie said, pointing at Morgan. “Get the camera. And you.” He pointed at Fry. “The rifle.”

“You’re not in charge here,” Larson said.

“Bullshit. I am now.”

Larson narrowed his eyes.

“What?” Durrie asked. “You want to sit here and argue about whose dick is bigger while the cops try to figure out where that 911 call came from? Are you
that
stupid? Go find out what happened to Timmons and Mills.”

He stared at Larson, knowing they were wasting precious seconds. In Durrie’s estimation, they had no more than five minutes tops, and with potentially four bodies to deal with, it would require everyone to pull this off.

Larson finally let out a less-than-pleased grunt, then headed for the door.

“You’ve got forty-five seconds,” Durrie yelled after him as he moved over to Owens’s body.

The man’s dead eyes looked upward at nothing. Durrie didn’t bother closing them. He wasn’t worried about things like that. Bodies were his job. They were things, nothing more.

Right off, he saw several problems—the blood pooling on the ground, the bits of Owens’s head that had adhered to the back of the stall. With the proper amount of time, none of that would be an issue. But that was something Larson’s sloppy work had denied him.

Body first
, he told himself.
Worry about the rest after.

From one of his bags he pulled out a packet of plastic sheeting. He laid it on the ground near the body, avoiding the blood, then rolled Owens onto it. With a deftness that came from years of experience, he enclosed the body and sealed it with duct tape in less than half a minute.

Just about the time he was finishing, the door opened. As Larson reentered, Durrie caught sight of the body of Owens’s friend lying just outside, and a plan came to him.

“Mills is dead,” Larson said. “Throat slashed. Timmons is alive, but out cold. No wounds I can see, though.”

Durrie stood up. “Help me carry this outside.”

Together they maneuvered Owens across the barn and through the door. There was no time to go get the van Durrie had parked half a mile away, so they were going to have to use the car Owens had arrived in. Thankfully, Durrie had thought ahead and had snatched the keys from Owens before he bundled him up.

“Back of the car,” he said.

Once there, he balanced his half of the body on his chest while he unlocked the trunk. Fifteen seconds later, the interior light of the trunk was permanently disabled, and Owens was tucked inside.

As Durrie ran back into the barn, he yelled at the other two men, “Hey! Aren’t you guys done yet?”

“I got the camera,” Morgan said. “I’m just helping with the rifle.”

“It’s stuck,” Fry explained.

“You’ve got twenty seconds, and you can’t leave it there,” Durrie told them.

He grabbed his bags from where he’d left them and rushed back outside. He placed both in the back seat of the sedan, then withdrew two more packets of sheeting from one of them. Before he shut the door, he flicked the switch killing the dome light.

Just then Morgan and Fry came outside carrying the camera and gun.

“Put them in the trunk, out of the way,” Durrie instructed. He opened one of the sheeting packets, tossed the plastic from inside to Larson, then pointed at Owens’s dead friend. “Lay it on the ground next to him.”

Morgan appeared from around the back of the car, his hands now empty. Durrie tossed him the unopened pack. “You two go wrap up Mills.”

“Where is he?” Morgan asked.

Durrie looked at Larson.

“Around the other side,” Larson said. “There’s a small shed extension. He’s in there.”

“You’ve got less than a minute to wrap him up and bring him back here,” Durrie informed them.

The two men took off running around the barn.

Durrie knelt down by Larson’s first kill. “Help me get him on the sheet.”

Together they transferred Owens’s partner onto the plastic. As they were folding the sides over the top of the corpse, Durrie noticed something odd under the car. He knew he didn’t have time for distractions, but he couldn’t help lowering his head to the ground and taking a better look.

Son of a bitch
, he thought.

The engine compartment had been modified so that there was a space just big enough for someone to crouch in. It even had a gate across the bottom to keep any arms or legs from accidentally dragging on the ground. The gate was what had caught Durrie’s eye. It was on a hinge and had been opened so the occupant—the dead guy next to him—could get out. No wonder the watchers near the road hadn’t spotted him in the car. His heat signature would have blended right in with the engine. Durrie reached under the car, and closed the gate.

His attention back on the body, he said, “Grab him by the shoulders.”

Larson looked confused. “Aren’t you going to tape him closed first?”

“No.” Durrie scooted his hands under the plastic, grabbing the body by the legs. “He’s not staying in this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t have time to go over the finer points of my job,” Durrie snapped. “Just do what I say.”

With Durrie leading the way, they carried the body into the barn, and placed it roughly in the same place Owens had been.

“I don’t understand,” Larson said.

“I don’t care. Here.” Durrie gathered up the plastic and handed it to the agent. “Put this in the trunk, then go get Timmons.”

Larson all but ripped the plastic from Durrie’s hands, then stormed out. Durrie rolled his eyes. He had no idea how a guy like Larson had lasted even a few months in this business. There was little doubt a bullet with the assassin’s name on it was waiting somewhere in the not too distant future.

Durrie searched the body. As he’d suspected, the man was carrying two pistols. He removed both of them, and a knife in a sheath strapped around his ankle. The only other things the man had been carrying were two hundred dollars in cash. That, Durrie left.

Standing, he took a quick look around, making sure there was nothing that would destroy the impression he was trying to create. It all looked good. He glanced once more at the body.

“Tough luck for you,” he said.

He could have used Owens for what he had planned. But Owens was the job, and the job was to make him disappear. This guy was collateral damage, and therefore Durrie could use him in whatever way he saw fit.

He stepped back outside just in time to see the others dump Mills’s body in the trunk. A few seconds later, Larson showed up with Timmons propped against his side. The team leader was no longer unconscious, but he didn’t look like he had a complete handle on what was going on, either.