The Silenced (20 page)

WHERE WAS THE BACKUP?
QUINN WONDERED.
Had Wills thought the meet was safe enough to bring only the man he’d left out by the entrance?

Quinn brought up Wills’s number on his phone and called his client. He could hear the line ringing, but Wills continued undisturbed down the path.

Could he not have his phone?

But then Wills paused and reached into his jacket. When his hand reappeared, it was holding his cell.

He looked at the display.

Just a few more seconds
, Petra told herself.

Wills had just passed her position. A couple more feet and she could get behind him before he’d even realize it. From that position she’d be in control.

She tensed her legs, ready to push herself up.

Then abruptly Wills stopped.

Petra remained on the bench, waiting for him to start walking again. But instead he pulled a phone out of his pocket, checked the screen, then raised it to his ear.

“Quinn? Are you—”

•   •   •

As soon as Wills lifted the phone to his ear, Quinn could see the woman start to rise off her bench.

“Quinn? Are you—”

“Watch out,” Quinn said, cutting Wills off. “Behind you.”

Petra sensed movement to her left.

She turned and saw the woman who had been sitting on the other bench jump up and start running toward Wills.

No!
she thought.

Quinn watched as Wills ducked to the right and moved off the path through a gap between two of the benches.

The woman raced after him, in her hand a suppressor-enhanced pistol.

Wills had turned toward her and, from under his jacket, was pulling out his own weapon, bringing it to bear on the woman.

But then Quinn saw him hesitate.

The cause was a second woman right in the fire zone.

And she seemed … familiar.

Son of a bitch
, he thought.
It’s the Russian
.

He glanced back to where he’d last seen Wills, but the Englishman had slipped down behind the row of benches, out of view.

His attacker moved quickly toward the gap Wills had passed through, then pulled the trigger on her gun.

Thup
.

One of the benches exploded in a spray of wood chunks and splinters.

The attacker rushed through the gap, seeking a clear shot at her target. But as she did the Russian threw something at her. A bag.

It hit the attacker’s hands just as she was pulling the trigger, ripping the gun from her grip, sending it flying. Before she could even react, the Russian rammed into her, shoulder first, carrying her through the gap and down onto the grass.

Where’s Wills?
Quinn thought.
And where the hell is his backup?

The Englishman had yet to reappear from behind the bench. Now would be the perfect opportunity to make a move, but Wills didn’t seem to be taking it.

Screw it
.

Quinn pushed himself out from his hiding spot and sprinted into the park. As he neared the benches, he could see the attacker trying to pull herself from the Russian’s grasp, her eyes searching for her gun. The Russian hit her in the face, then twice hard in the gut.

Quinn jagged to his left through the gap in the benches, then pulled to a quick stop. Now he knew why Wills hadn’t made his move.

Quinn’s client was lying on the grass, blood all over his neck and shirt. His gun lay several feet away.

Quinn knelt beside him. The bullet had entered Wills’s neck just left of his windpipe. By the angle of entry, Quinn was willing to bet it had also hit Wills’s spinal cord. He wasn’t dead, but he soon would be.

Quinn picked up the gun, then leaned down next to Wills’s face. The Englishman’s eyes were half closed and unfocused, but he seemed to realize someone was there.

“Just relax,” Quinn said.

“Quinn?” Wills’s voice raspy.

“Everything’s all right.”

Quinn heard footsteps walking toward him. Without looking up, he raised Wills’s gun.

“Close enough,” he said.

The footsteps halted.

Quinn glanced over and wasn’t surprised to see it was the Russian. He also wasn’t surprised to see the other woman’s gun in her hand, pointed at him.

“Are you here to take his body away, too?” she asked.

Wills coughed. Blood was coming out of his mouth, but his gaze was still on Quinn. He tried to say something. Quinn couldn’t make it out, so he leaned closer.

“Care … ful,” Wills said.

“David, do you know who’s responsible for this?” Wills coughed again.

“It’s okay. Don’t force it.”

Wills coughed again, then looked at Quinn as if he was begging for help.

Another wet breath.

Then … nothing.

David Wills was dead. And if he knew the woman who’d killed him or who she worked for, he’d taken that information with him.

Quinn stood up, his gun still pointed at the Russian. Behind her he could see the other woman, the attacker, sprawled out on the grass, her dead eyes staring up at the sky.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Who are
you?
” she countered.

In the distance, he could hear sirens heading in their direction.

The Russian lowered her gun and motioned behind her. “You were with her, weren’t you? She is probably one of Palavin’s dogs, and you work for Palavin, too.”

Palavin?
That was the name Orlando had mentioned. He hesitated before he spoke. “I don’t work for anyone by that name. But if he’s responsible for David’s death, then maybe you’re the one who works for him.”

The look on her face was utter shock. “What? Of course not. I’m trying to find him. But you know him, don’t you? You must know where he is. Tell me! You have to tell me!”

He could hear the sirens getting louder. As much as he would have liked to place his gun against this woman’s head and find out what she knew, there was no time to pursue it now. He tucked Wills’s gun under his jacket and turned to leave.

“Wait. If you know where he is, please tell me,” the woman pleaded. “I need to know.”

He kept walking, but the woman didn’t give up.

“Leave me alone,” he said.

“Your name’s Quinn, right?” she asked. She glanced back over her shoulder to where Wills’s body lay. “I heard him call you that. I need your help, Quinn. I need to find Palavin.”

“I can’t help you.”

She started to point her gun at him. But he reached out and yanked it from her hand before she even knew what was happening, then shoved her to the ground.

“Get the hell away from me,” he told her.

“I can’t,” she said, pushing herself up and rushing to catch him. “You’re the only lead I have left.” They reached the section of bushes and trees that separated the park from the street. “I’m not leaving until you help me.”

Quinn stopped and turned to her. “I’m not your lead. I’m not anyone’s lead. I can’t help you. You need to get away from me right now, or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll kill me?” she asked, cutting him off. “Then go ahead and kill me.”

Who the hell is this woman?

He stared at her for a moment, then walked down the path toward the street.

The sirens were very near now, and all instincts told Quinn to run the other way. But he knew that the easiest escape route was often toward the police, not away. At least initially. If he could get past them before they’d set up a perimeter, then he’d be in the clear. Most of their focus would be in the direction Quinn had come from, not behind them.

But his biggest problem wasn’t the police. It was the Russian woman. She was still shadowing him, matching him step for step. Then, as he stepped out of the park and onto the street outside Embankment Station, he momentarily forgot about the police and the woman.

What had been a typical busy morning had turned into a madhouse. Instead of several dozen people, there were now several hundred. They were gathered in groups, some small and some large. The biggest of which was near the entrance to the station. At the other end of the street, two police cars and an ambulance were trying to make their way through the crowd, but traveling slowly to avoid hitting anyone. Policemen tried to direct a pathway for an ambulance to drive, pushing people out of its way.

Quinn headed toward the group at the station, tried to blend in. Without even looking, he knew the Russian had pulled in tight behind him.

The crowd had formed a large circle with an open area in the center. A couple of police officers on foot were running toward the gathering.

“Get back!” one of officers shouted, trying to clear a path.

“A little late, if you ask me,” a man near Quinn muttered.

“What happened?” Quinn asked.

“Someone got shot,” he said, nodding toward the clear area in the center of the crowd.

Quinn thanked the man, then worked his way to the front of the crowd.

There was a body on the ground, blood pooling around his torso. Quinn couldn’t see the man’s face, but he didn’t have to. He recognized the hair and the clothes.

It was the man who had been watching the station exit, the man who had been in the lobby of the Grand Hyatt in New York.

Wills’s man.

Quinn looked over his shoulder. The crowd had begun to separate him from the Russian woman. He stepped forward into the clear area and jumped over the dead man’s body.

“Hey!” an officer yelled as he emerged into the center of the circle. “You can’t do that.”

“Sorry,” Quinn said.

Behind him, he could hear the Russian woman fighting through the throng of gawkers. “Excuse me.… Please let me pass.”

Quinn was only feet from the entrance to Embankment Station.

The woman, having guessed his intent, had given up trying to follow him directly, and was heading back out of the crowd. The second she took her eyes off him, Quinn crouched down next to a rubbish can, out of sight. Using the receptacle as cover, he angled himself so that he could see the entrance to the Underground station.

A few seconds later, he watched the Russian rush inside. The moment she disappeared, he stood up and started moving clockwise around the crowd. As he did, he spotted a man getting into a cab just under the train bridge.

It was Mercer. No mistake.

Wills had said Mercer was working for him.
So was he Wills’s second watcher?
Quinn wondered. Perhaps he had been on the outer perimeter, then had come back to check on his colleague and found him dead in front of the station. If Quinn were in Mercer’s shoes, he would have gotten the hell out of there, too. In fact, he did need to get the hell out of there, right now.

As soon as he cleared the crowd, he headed up the cobbled street back toward Charing Cross. At the end of the block, he tucked himself in between two souvenir kiosks and checked to see if the Russian had followed him. She hadn’t.

Instead of using the Underground, he walked toward Piccadilly Circus. No matter what the weather or the time of day, there was always a crowd there. He could blend in and take the tube to anywhere from there. A few blocks away, his phone vibrated. He checked the caller ID, then pressed Accept.

“I’m in London,” Orlando said. “You got my email, right?”

“I got it.”

She paused. “Is something wrong?”

“Where’s the flat you rented?”

“Quinn, what’s wrong?”

“I’d rather tell you in person.”

“You’re here?”

“Yeah.”

She rattled off an address on Charlotte Street in Soho. “You know where that is?”

“I know the area,” he said. He was only a ten-minute walk away.