The Enraged (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) (2 page)

We have not at this time been able to locate records of the operatives assigned to that mission, nor did Romero have any record of whom he’d locked up. It is possible the information was on the memory card that had been in a plastic bag attached to Romero’s shirt when he was found, but it was destroyed by one of the bullets he’d taken to the chest. Some of Romero’s surviving staff did claim to have heard several names used when those abducted were being led around. Because of the discrepancies between what each recalled, the accuracy of the list that follows is not guaranteed, nor is it known if it’s complete.

Layer

Berkeley

Cousin

Cohen

Helen sat back. As much as she would have liked to deny it, revenge was an emotion that helped drive her industry, taking so many unnecessary lives over the years.

You do this to me. I’ll do this to you.

And so on, and so on, and so on.

Now the cycle had taken Peter.

At least Romero was dead, too. If he weren’t, it would’ve been Helen’s turn to jump in, as she would not have hesitated to order him killed immediately.

She’d arranged through back channels for his body to be brought to the US, where it would be cremated, and she could then scatter his ashes somewhere serene. But that bit of info was not in the document in front of her.

What
was
left on the report was a place for her digital signature. She stared at the empty box for a moment before finally hitting the keys that would affix her name, and not only approve the report but officially confirm Peter’s death.

That’s it
, she thought as she closed the document.
Finished.

She ran the now signed report through the encryption program, scrambling what she had earlier unscrambled, attached it to a new e-mail, and sent it off for final distribution.

She then stared at her computer screen, feeling like she should say something, anything, to mark the event and honor her dead friend. But when no words came, she did the only thing she could, and focused on the next item that needed her attention.

__________

T
HE REPORT’S DISTRIBUTION
was not handled by a person. The address Director Cho had sent it to was an automated system that forwarded the report to three locations. The first was to the active archives where the report could be quickly accessed by those with clearance; the second was to Antarctica, the name for the remote backup system used by Helen’s burgeoning network of agencies; while the third was another automated distribution system, the one that handled human recipients. There, the report number would be run through a database looking for requests to receive the information. If there were no matches, the e-mail would be irretrievably erased.

In the case of report number
LKR-2867c91
, there was one request.

The automated software created a new e-mail, attached the report, and forwarded it. It didn’t matter that the receiver was someone on the outside, and not a member of Helen’s team. The software was following its programming.

Just before the original was about to be securely removed from the system, a subroutine kicked in, staying the command. The bit of code was not part of the official program. It had been added in the last two months, and was unknown to anyone within the organization. It had been created for a single purpose. As reports passed through the secondary distribution node, it would perform a rapid keyword search, something it was able to do whether the document was encrypted or not. In the sixty-odd days since it had been attached to the software, the sought-after keywords had not shown up.

This time, however, all relevant terms appeared in the appropriate order. Per design, the subroutine sent a message to a privately owned P.O. box store in Raleigh, North Carolina, telling the manager that a letter the store had been holding should now be mailed. Once this was accomplished, the original e-mail was erased, as had been the main program’s intent.

The subroutine’s final act was to destroy itself and any evidence of its existence. This, like its other task, was executed perfectly.

__________

WASHINGTON, DC

“Y
OU’RE SURE?”

Kyle Morten grabbed the side of his laptop as if he were going to turn it around. “I could show you the photo.”

Like he knew would happen, his client quickly turned her head away. “Absolutely not! I just want to know that you’re sure.”

Morten glanced at the picture of the body splayed across a patch of bloodstained ground. “Peter will no longer be a problem.”

“Finally,” she said, allowing herself the slightest of smiles.

Morten held back his displeasure at her implication. This had
not
been a protracted operation. As soon as he’d found out the problem existed, he’d moved into action, identified a creative solution, and—with Griffin’s assistance—implemented a plan to keep the truth from ever getting out. So in light of the careful steps needed to ensure the termination of the Office’s former leader, the operation had been quick and efficient.

The client rose from her chair and straightened her jacket. “And we’re positive no one else knows what he was looking into?”

“Positive.”

“His personal files? I assume those have been taken care of.”

“Do you want the details? Or…” Apparently the woman needed to be reminded that creating a wall of plausible deniability was part of the services Morten’s company, Darvot Consulting, provided.

She gave him a look he’d seen on clients’ faces a thousand times before, a blend of arrogance, annoyance, and reluctant admittance he was right.

“You’ll update me if there is anything else I need to know,” she said.

“There won’t be.”

“I’m counting on that.”

She picked up the leather portfolio she’d walked in with and headed for the exit. Griffin, who had been standing quietly at the back of the office, stepped over to the door and opened it. As she had when she entered, the client left without even acknowledging the man’s presence.

When they were alone, Morten said, “Are the teams in place?”

“Ready and waiting.”

“Give them the go.”

Griffin pulled out his phone and fired off a text that would activate the two teams of housebreakers, one positioned at the Georgetown apartment building where Peter had lived, and the other outside the nearby townhouse Peter had sometimes used as a satellite office. Both locations would be searched for anything that might pertain to the private investigation Peter had been conducting. So, the real answer to the client’s question would have been, No, the files hadn’t been secured yet, but they soon would be.

“When is O & O scheduled to begin?” Morten asked.

“This evening,” Griffin said. “Needed to give our people enough time to look around first.”

O & O was a for-hire, quasi-government security agency that had proved extremely useful to Darvot over the years. Because it had a poorly defined management structure, Morten had been able to use O & O to obtain sensitive, top-secret information without the organization even realizing what they’d handed over.

O & O was also useful when it came to assignments Morten and Griffin would rather not use their own men for. In this case, Griffin had engaged the agency to watch the apartment and townhouse once the search was complete, and deal with anyone who might show up in the next few weeks. To support the latter point, a thick file of false documentation had been provided to O & O, indicating anyone who entered either place during that specified time frame was likely connected to a particularly violent Islamic terrorist organization, and should be considered an imminent threat to the country.

The reason for the stakeout was that, contrary to what Morten had told his client, he was far from positive no one else knew what Peter had learned. While he felt confident that prior to being kidnapped, Peter had kept his investigation to himself—especially given the personal nature of what he was looking into—the concern was about
after
the old intelligence officer had been taken to Duran Island. Morten thought there was at least an even chance Peter had guessed how Romero had come to possess his and the other men’s names, and had shared his suspicions with his fellow prisoners. This wouldn’t have been a problem if that jackass Romero had pulled off his plan to kill them all. Unfortunately, it appeared that everyone but Peter had escaped. Which meant there were four men out there somewhere who might be a problem.

That’s why the apartment and townhouse needed to be watched. It was also why Griffin had hired some freelance trackers to hunt down the four men. To this point, none of the fugitives had resurfaced.

As Morten mentally went through everything again to make sure he hadn’t missed any angles, the desk phone rang. Griffin walked over and picked it up.

“Yes?” He listened for a moment. “Okay, thank you.” He hung up and looked over at Morten. “Your car’s here.”

Morten pulled himself from his thoughts, satisfied they’d covered their bases, and walked over to where his shoulder bag was waiting. The rest of his luggage for his flight to Europe was with the doorman downstairs, and undoubtedly being loaded into the car at that very moment. “Anything comes up,
anything
,” he said, “contact me immediately.”

“Of course,” Griffin said, opening the door.

“I’ll be back the evening of the third. Let’s have it wrapped up by then, shall we?”

“Yes, sir.”

CHAPTER
3

FIFTY-ONE HOURS EARLIER

AUGUST 24
^th

DURAN ISLAND

“N
O, NO, NO,
no, no!” Jonathan Quinn dropped to the ground beside Orlando.

Blood covered most of her shirt. More saturated her left pant leg, the wounds courtesy of the now-dead Janus. She wasn’t the only victim. Before Quinn and Daeng had taken Janus out, the man had also shot Peter, who was dead before he hit the ground.

“Orlando. Orlando, can you hear me?”

A flicker in her eyes.

“Orlando? Come on, baby, stay with me!”

Quinn grabbed her hand, hoping she would grip back, but her fingers lay motionless across his.

“Do you hear me? Baby, please stay with me!”

A slow, long blink.

“You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine. Just stay with me. Please. Orlando, come on. Stay with me!”

When her lids slid closed again, they stayed that way.

“Orlando!”

Someone grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back.

“No!” he yelled.

“You need to move out of the way,” Daeng said calmly.

Quinn snapped his head around, ready to shove his friend away, but stopped when he saw Liz and Nate running up with the first-aid gear from the plane that had come to take them off the island. Nate skidded to a halt and fell to his knees, then ripped open the Velcro seam of the bag he was carrying.

Quinn’s sister, on the other hand, froze when she caught sight of Orlando. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Give me that,” Daeng said to Liz, grabbing her bag. He motioned at Quinn. “Get him out of the way.”

Liz tore her eyes away from Orlando and put an arm around her brother. “We need to give them some room.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Quinn said, twisting away from her.

“Don’t be stupid. You’ll only make things harder.”

He glared at her, then looked down at Orlando.

“Come on. Please,” Liz said.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay,” he whispered.

Liz guided him off to the side.

Working at skill levels equal to that of seasoned EMTs, Nate and Daeng ripped away the clothes covering Orlando’s wounds, and set to work stopping the bleeding. Once they’d done what they could, Daeng pulled a transfusion kit out of the bag.

“What’s her blood type?” he asked.

Before Quinn could think of the answer, Nate said, “B positive.”

“I’m B negative,” Daeng said. “She can take from me.”

As he set up the transfusion line, two of the men they had just rescued—Lanier and Berkeley—jogged up with a stretcher from the plane. Once blood was flowing out of Daeng’s veins and into hers, they moved Orlando onto the stretcher, lifted her, and, with Daeng jogging alongside, headed quickly toward the aircraft.

Quinn started to follow, but caught sight of Peter’s crumpled form and slowed, unsure what to do.

Nate came up behind him, carrying the first-aid kit. “I know,” he said. “But we don’t have time.”

Leaving Peter’s body seemed wrong. He deserved more than just being part of the carnage they were leaving behind on the island, but Nate was right. Orlando was in critical shape, and if she didn’t get medical attention soon, she would also die.

Liz put a hand on Quinn’s arm and pulled. “Let’s go.”

He took one last look at Peter before running with Nate and his sister toward the small jet.

The moment the last person had climbed aboard, Nate yelled toward the cockpit, “Go!”

In the back of the plane, Quinn knelt beside Orlando, took her hand in his, and gently squeezed it.

“I’m right here,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He searched her face for some sign that she’d heard him, but saw nothing.