The Enraged (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) (8 page)

Quinn crept quietly over to the nearest parked car, crouched behind it on the street side, and peered through the sedan’s window. He had a perfect view of the watcher as the man leaned back from the glass door. A few seconds later, the watcher walked back down the stairs and started retracing his steps to his car.

Keeping in a crouch on the other side of the vehicles, Quinn followed him nearly all the way back to the Audi, stopping one car shy and slipping around the front end so he’d stay out of view. The man stepped around the front of his car and walked to the driver’s door, his back now to Quinn.

That was the moment Quinn had been waiting for. He closed in quietly, and as the watcher reached for the door handle, Quinn stuck the muzzle of the Beretta into the small of the man’s back.

“If I pull the trigger, your spine will be gone,” Quinn whispered. “You’ll die, but you’ll bleed out first, and I guarantee it won’t be pleasant. Do you understand?”

“You don’t have a chance,” the man told him. “Put it down and maybe—”

Quinn shoved the gun forward, knocking the man against the car. “One-word answer. Yes or no. Do you
understand
?”

“Yes.”

With his free hand, Quinn took possession of the man’s gun, a Smith & Wesson complete with suppressor. Since it would make less noise, he switched it with the Beretta, putting his own gun in his pocket. “Who do you work for?”

The man kept his mouth shut.

“I said, who do you work for?”

No answer.

Quinn searched the man for ID, but the only thing the guy was carrying was a hundred and fifteen dollars in cash.

“We’re going for a walk,” he said.

“Like hell we are.”

The words were barely out of the watcher’s mouth when Quinn smacked the suppressor against the side of the man’s head. The watcher groaned in pain, and started to reach a hand up to where he’d been hit, but Quinn used the gun again to slap the arm down.

“We’re going for a walk.”

“Fine,” the man said, his teeth clenched, blood trickling down the side of his head.

Quinn grabbed the back of the man’s jacket and pulled him away from the car. Keeping the gun pressed against the watcher’s back, Quinn guided him to the sidewalk, and over into the passageway beside Peter’s building.

When they reached the back end, Quinn said, “Left.”

Two buildings down, he found an enclosed area built to house a couple Dumpsters. A solid metal door was pulled across most of the opening. It wasn’t the greatest solution, but it was better than standing out in the alley. After Quinn pushed the watcher inside, he shoved him against the grimy back wall.

“Sit,” Quinn said.

The man took a moment before doing as ordered. Once he was on the ground, Quinn closed the metal door the rest of the way.

“Now,” Quinn said, “who the hell are you?”

The man scoffed. “I didn’t tell you before. You think I’m going to tell you now?”

“I know you are.”

A mocking grin. “You don’t scare me.”

“Then apparently you don’t know who I am.”

“I’m not paid to know who you are. I’m just paid to deal with you, and I will. Don’t worry.”

Quinn pointed the gun directly at the man’s head. “Who are you?”

“You’re not going to shoot me. I know your kind. All talk and luck and no real—”

Quinn repositioned the gun and pulled the trigger.

The suppressor kept the noise to a muffled
thup
, but there was no masking the scream of pain that exploded out of the watcher’s mouth when the ring finger and pinkie on his left hand were blown off.

“God
dammit
! Shit, man!”

The watcher squeezed his palm, trying to stanch the flow of blood, his face scrunched in agony.

“Who are you working for?” Quinn asked.

“Fuck you!”

“Your foot’s next, and I won’t just be going for your toes.”

The man rocked against the wall, blood soaking his shirt and jacket.

Out in the alley a voice called out, “Hey, what’s going on? Is someone hurt?”

“Don’t answer,” Quinn whispered.

“I heard a yell,” the voice said, getting nearer. “Is someone in there?”

Quinn leaned down near the watcher. “If you want help, tell me who you are and who sent you.”

Panting, the man glared at him, his eyes a mix of pain and anger. “Go to hell.”

Someone grabbed the outside handle of the metal door and started to pull it open. Quinn knew he wouldn’t get anything from the watcher, so he rose to his feet, and reached the door just as a bald guy with a protruding gut opened it wide enough to see inside.

Pushing past him, Quinn said, “Excuse me.”

“Hey, was that you?” the man asked. “Were you the one who yelled? Are you okay?”

Quinn silently walked on for another few feet.

Behind him, the man must have looked back into the garbage area, because it was only a few seconds before he said, “Oh, my God. What happened? Did that guy do this to you?”

Quinn picked up his pace.

CHAPTER
8

Q
UINN REACHED M
Street moments before the eastbound number-thirty-two bus pulled up to the stop. He hopped on board and paid the fare. The bus was about a third full, most of the passengers concentrated in the front few rows, while a huddle of teenagers claimed the back. Quinn grabbed a seat in a relatively empty section near the middle, pulled out his phone, and called Steve Howard.

“Hello?” Howard said.

“Steve, it’s Quinn. I know you’re still on your job, but do you have a moment?”

“Sure. Just sitting around, waiting. You know how it is. What’s up?”

“I have a location problem.”

“How can I help?”

Howard made his home in Virginia right outside DC, so if anyone had an intimate knowledge of the area, he would.

Once Quinn had filled him in on what had happened and what he was looking for, Howard said, “I’m sure I can come up with something. Let me check and call you back.”

“Thanks, Steve.”

After he hung up, Quinn checked in with Daeng.

“Everything’s okay?”

“We’ve repositioned,” Daeng said.

Quinn leaned forward. “Was there a problem?”

“Hold on.” Something moved over the phone, a hand probably. Quinn could hear Daeng’s muffled voice, indistinct as he talked to Misty. Some movement, and finally Daeng again, now in a whisper. “Misty was getting a little anxious being so close to Peter’s place. We were careful. Nobody saw us.”

“Where are you now?”

“Outside the Dupont Circle Metro station.”

“Don’t go in,” Quinn said. There would be security cameras everywhere. Whoever sent the watchers might’ve also had access to the video feeds.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Just melt into the background for a little bit. I’m arranging for someplace we can meet up. Once it’s set I’ll call you back.”

“Will do.”

The bus was on H Street, passing the White House, when Quinn’s phone rang again.

“I have an address for you,” Howard said.

__________

“I
TAKE IT
you read the e-mail,” Griffin said.

“I would have rather not,” Morten replied. From the sound of his voice, Griffin knew his boss was using his speakerphone. “This is bullshit.”

Griffin had sent Morten the message five minutes earlier. Attached to it was a preliminary report from O & O concerning a break-in that afternoon at Peter’s apartment. Most disturbing was that the trio who’d been there had escaped.

“How did this get screwed up?” Morten went on. “It should have been simple. Or am I not reading this right?”

“You’re reading this right,” Griffin said. It
should
have been simple. If he had been there with Darvot’s team, the intruders would either be in a detention cell or dead.

“So they’ve just disappeared?” Morten said. “That’s it? That is unacceptable.”

“I haven’t lost faith that they’ll be found.”

Morten snorted. “You think O & O is going to find them?”

“I’m also putting some other feelers out.”

“Not our people,” Morten said quickly. “The less this can be tied to us, the better.”

“No, not our people,” Griffin said, though if the results of the search continued to be unsatisfactory, that would have to change.

The line went quiet for a moment.

“Okay. Good,” Morten said. “Find out who these intruders are.”

“We will.”

“Keep me updated,” his boss said, then clicked off.

__________

T
HE HOUSE HOWARD
arranged for Quinn and the others to use was
on the Virginia side of the Potomac, in an area known as Arlington Ridge. It was one of over a hundred single-family, brick homes in the area. Being an old neighborhood, the trees and bushes were tall and wide, all but obscuring the house.

The home’s interior could be best described as spartan. The large living room was furnished with four folding chairs, a table, a single couch, and an undersized TV. The kitchen was stocked with enough dishes, glasses, and silverware for four people to eat one meal, and just enough pots and pans to make it. Food-wise, there were some dry stores in the pantry, but that was about it.

The second-floor bedrooms were equally underwhelming, each of the three smaller bedrooms boasting dual sets of adult-sized bunk beds, while the master was outfitted with a fourth pair. Sheets and blankets were in the bedroom closets, while towels were stacked on the bathroom counter.

The place was a way station, a safe house. Who owned it? Quinn didn’t know, nor did he want to. Howard had vouched for the place. That’s all that mattered.

Quinn arrived twenty minutes before Daeng and Misty. From an upstairs window, he saw their taxi drop them off half a block away and across the street. He headed back to the first floor, and waited until they reached the front steps before he opened the door.

Misty looked shell-shocked and exhausted, her nervous eyes rimmed with red, while Daeng looked like he always did, relaxed and slightly amused.

They let Misty have a few minutes to freshen up as best she could, and then gathered around the living-room table. It was story time first—Quinn recounting his escape and subsequent attempt to question one of the watchers, followed by Daeng describing his and Misty’s efforts to avoid detection.

“So if the townhouse is out, what now?” Daeng asked.

“Maybe we’ve been looking at this wrong,” Quinn said. “Perhaps Peter’s message isn’t a password at all.”

“Then what?” Misty asked. “If it’s some kind of secret message, how do we decode it?”

“Do you have it with you?”

“It’s in the bag with the files.” She looked around, apparently not remembering where she left it.

“I’ll get it,” Daeng said, standing.

He made a quick trip to the couch, and returned with a cloth shopping bag that he and Misty must have picked up somewhere.

“Thanks,” she said as he handed it to her.

She rooted around inside, then started pulling the files out and setting them on the table until she finally found the envelope. Removing the card, she placed it between her and Quinn.

He read the first line again.

Y7(29g)85KL/24

“It doesn’t look like any code I’m familiar with,” Misty said after studying the note for a moment.

Most codes were not easy to identify, but there were ones that employed unique character usages or patterns that could tip off someone in the know. Unfortunately, nothing was clicking for Quinn, either. Who he really needed to give this to was Orlando. She’d know how to figure it out. But she was not an option, so he pushed the idea out of his mind before thoughts of her could consume him again.

As he looked away from the note, his gaze fell on the stack of folders. He picked one up and asked, “Any chance there might be something useful in these that he might have wanted us to find?”

Misty took the folder from him. “These numbers on the side.” She turned it so both Quinn and Daeng could see what she was talking about. There was a nine-digit, alpha-numeric sequence running vertically up the edge. “It’s a project number. It’s how we tracked everything.” She ran a finger quickly down the other files. “They all have them, which means these are all old mission files.”

She opened the file she was holding and scanned the top document. Looking like she’d read something unexpected, she put the file down, and grabbed the next one off the stack. Another quick scan, and another new file. She kept up the routine and worked her way through the entire group.

“I know these files,” she said as she laid the last one down.

“You put them together, didn’t you?” Quinn said.

“Three of them, yes. The others are before my time, but that’s not what I mean.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“Peter always kept these files close. They’re all jobs where something went wrong. Someone died or was severely injured, compromising the mission. He said they were to remind him of his failures so that he wouldn’t repeat them.”

“How far back do they go?”

“Seventeen years.”

“Seventeen? That’s a long time. I know the Office had a pretty good track record, but there must’ve been more than just seven failures.”

“A lot more. But these were the ones he said stuck with him the most.” She looked at the files. “There used to be eight, though.”

“One’s missing?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what it is?”

Misty hesitated, obviously not wanting to answer.

“Misty. If it’s important, we need to know.”

“It’s not important. It was…personal. Not a job like these.” She fell silent for a second. “It was letters from his wife, and a few pictures. That’s all.” Each word seemed to cause her pain, like she was divulging a secret she had no right to share. “I’m sure after he brought everything home from the Office, he just kept it someplace else. There would have been no reason to store it with the job files at that point. I was used to seeing them all together, that’s all.”

Quinn felt embarrassed for forcing her to share a glimpse into Peter’s personal life, but he had to ask, “Why would that be among his failure files?”