The Silenced (7 page)

“Will do,” Quinn said.

“When we’re ready for you, you’ll get a ‘Team four go.’ But if I say ‘Abort,’ get the hell out of there.”

“Vehicle?” Quinn asked. His rental car was not body-removal-friendly.

“Parked two blocks away. A black Lincoln MKZ.” He gave Quinn the plate number.

“Gear?” Quinn asked.

“Everything on the list we got is in the trunk, less what was waiting for you at the motel.”

“Okay,” Quinn said. “Then we’re set on my end.”

It was a straightforward op, the kind that should go off flawlessly. Only the job in L.A. was supposed to have been the same kind of thing.

Quinn couldn’t help wondering how this one was going to get screwed up, too.

“IF WE’RE TOO LATE …” PETRA LET THE SENTENCE
hang, not wanting to give voice to her biggest fear.

So much time wasted.

Bangkok. Hong Kong. New Jersey. And yesterday Los Angeles.

All a waste of time.

In each case they’d been too late. The only positive Petra could take from any of it was that they seemed to be getting closer. While McKitrick, Chang, and Thomas had been dead or missing before she had arrived, Winters had at least still been alive. For a while, anyway.

That left Moody. If they didn’t find him, then the promise she and the others had made to those who had died would go unfulfilled, the justice they sought rendered permanently unfinished.

But Moody had proved frustrating in his own way. Mikhail’s search for him had led from Philadelphia to Manhattan to Boston.

Only Boston wasn’t the end, either. It was just another stop on Moody’s trail. He
had
been there, but had again moved. It took until early evening before Mikhail was able to pinpoint Portland, Maine, as Moody’s next destination.

It was a 112-mile drive north to Portland, but traffic made it seem twice as far. They were already past the two-hour mark, but only halfway there. If it was possible, the traffic here was even worse than it had been in Los Angeles.

“We’ll get him,” Mikhail reassured her.

Petra glanced at him, surprised that he could read her so well. They were in the back seat of a Nissan Maxima, Mikhail with his laptop propped on his lap and a cell phone in his hand, and Petra holding nothing but her fear that they would fail again. Kolya was up front driving.

“Hello?” Mikhail said into his phone.
“Da … da …”
He sandwiched it between his ear and his shoulder, then typed something on his computer.
“Spasibo.”

He hung up the phone and looked at Petra.

“What?” she asked.

“Stepka got an address,” Mikhail said.

“How old?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not old.” He smiled. “Current.”

They reached Portland at nine-thirty, and twenty minutes later entered the small town of Gorham.

“There,” Mikhail said, pointing at a house on the left, set back from the street.

“I don’t see any lights,” Kolya said. “Maybe he’s not home.”

They drove past, continuing down the road another hundred yards before Petra told Kolya to pull to the side.

“What now?” Mikhail asked.

Petra considered their options. They could get out of the car here and work their way back in the darkness. Take some time to observe the house, make sure nothing was amiss before making a move. That would be the cautious approach.

But so far the cautious approach hadn’t worked for them.

“We go knock on the door,” she said.

While the day had been cool, the night was bordering on damn cold. Quinn was wearing two T-shirts, a thick sweater, and a wool jacket. He’d even put thermals on under his jeans. Still, he swore he could feel his body temperature lowering.

Nate was similarly attired. But if he was as miserable as Quinn, he wasn’t saying anything. They’d been waiting in the woods for an hour, having worked their way in from a half mile away.

They’d found a suitable hiding place between some trees and bushes, a small area that had been flattened by either kids or an animal. Not quite the fort Quinn had had in his youth, but it would do.

They were behind the garage, and from that angle could see only part of the back of the house and none of the front yard. The windows on this side were all dark. Perhaps the target had turned in early.

Donovan’s voice came over their comm gear. “Position check.”

“Set,” five voices replied, one after the other in a prearranged order. Quinn and Nate remained silent. Donovan was only interested in his ops team at the moment, not the cleaning crew.

Quinn checked his watch. Seven minutes until show-time.

“How long do you think it’ll take them?” Nate whispered.

Quinn kept his eyes on the dark house. “We’ll get the call at 10:05.”

“My money’s on 10:07,” Nate said.

“Hundred bucks?” Quinn asked.

“Works for me.”

Quinn flexed his feet to keep his muscles warm as he wondered for the millionth time in the last hour how he could work a “minimum temperature” clause into his job requirements.

“Car on slow approach,” a voice said over the radio. Not Donovan, one of his men.

“Which direction?” Donovan asked.

“From the east. Same car passed by a few minutes ago … still slowing … okay, stopping at the end of the driveway.”

“Everyone hold position,” Donovan said.

“Turning onto the driveway,” the voice said.

“Do you have a visual on who’s inside?” Donovan asked tersely, unable to keep the growing annoyance from his voice.

“Man up front, man and woman in the back.”

“We’re moving,” Quinn whispered to Nate.

His apprentice nodded, then stepped back so Quinn could take the lead. They headed twenty feet deeper into the woods, then west toward the corner of the property. There they hunched down again, this time in a spot with a view of the front yard and the entrance to the house.

The car slowly rolled up the driveway. The driver had turned off the headlights, but the running lights were still on. As it neared the house, it slowed to a crawl.

“They’re stopping,” one of Donovan’s men said.

The car came to rest twenty feet from the house’s front door.

“I’ve got movement inside the building,” another voice said. It had to be Dailey. He was the one set up across the street, monitoring the thermal readings coming from inside the house. “Subject is descending from second floor … holding at bottom of stairs … okay, moving again, toward the front door.”

Just then the two back passenger doors of the sedan opened.

“Subject has stopped again,” Dailey said.

Must have heard his visitors
, Quinn thought.

“Okay, he’s moving to the window north of the door. Two bodies out of the car. Driver still inside.”

“Everyone continue to hold,” Donovan instructed. “But be ready to move. If we have to, we take them all. Team four, you guys might have a little more work than planned.”

Quinn keyed his mic on and off, creating an electronic click indicating he understood.

Understood, yes. But he hoped to God that Donovan was wrong. The more people involved, the more chances things would go wrong, and getting caught with several bodies in a small town in Maine was kind of hard to talk your way out of.

The two from the car gathered together near the front of the sedan.

“Binoculars,” Quinn whispered.

Nate pulled a set of binoculars out of his backpack and handed them to Quinn. By touch, Quinn flipped the night vision switch, then raised them to his eyes. As he peered through the lenses, he felt his phone vibrate once in his pocket. A text message. It would have to wait.

He focused in on the car. As reported, the driver had remained behind the wheel. He was young, with short hair. And though Quinn couldn’t really see his face, he could tell the kid was annoyed.
Probably doesn’t like being left out
.

Quinn moved his attention to the driver’s two friends. The man had broad shoulders and a hard face and looked to be in his late forties. Short for a guy, maybe five-six tops, but with the vibe of someone who could get things done.

Quinn tried to get a look at the woman, but she was turned toward the house.

He followed the duo as they approached the small porch. Then he got what he’d been waiting for. The woman began to turn, unknowingly offering her profile to him. Just as her face came into view, everything went bright white.

Quinn pulled the binoculars from his eyes and blinked rapidly.

“Dammit,” he said.

He tried to look around, but all he could see was the afterimage of the flash.

“Are you okay?” Nate asked.

“Someone turned on a light,” Quinn said.

“On the porch.”

“I can’t see a goddamn thing.” He held the binoculars out in Nate’s direction. “See what’s going on.”

The binoculars were good enough for most pedestrian uses, but as a professional tool they didn’t cut it. Quinn would have gone with a model that automatically adjusted as incoming light sources increased. This was what happened when someone else took care of your equipment needs.

“The door’s still closed,” Nate said. “The two from the car are standing a few feet away, looking at it. The guy has his hand behind his back under his jacket.”

“Armed?”

“Hasn’t pulled anything yet, but I’m guessing he is.”

Quinn continued to blink. “And they’re just standing there?”

“Yeah,” Nate said. “Wait. The woman just took a step toward the door. Looks like she’s saying something.”

The voice of one of Donovan’s men came over the radio again. “They’ve made contact.”

“Continue holding,” Donovan said. “He may turn them away.”

Quinn blinked again, then shut his eyes and concentrated on the split second he saw the woman’s profile before the flash.

The moment he reopened his eyes, he keyed his mic. “Donovan. They’re not friendlies. The woman showed up at the last assignment I had for Wills. They also appear to be armed. I repeat, they’re armed.”

FROM THE CORNER OF HER EYE, PETRA SAW MIKHAIL
reach for his gun when the light came on.

“No,” she whispered, not moving her lips. “Not yet.”

Mikhail left his hand behind his back, empty, but ready to grab his weapon if needed.

“Motion sensor?” he asked.

Petra shook her head. If there was a sensor, the light would have come on as they walked up, not after they’d stopped. Someone inside had flipped a switch.

A muffled voice called out from behind the door. “Go away!”

Petra took a step forward. “Mr. Moody?”

“Go away! Leave me alone!”

She arched an eyebrow at Mikhail.
Not a denial
.

“Mr. Moody, we just want to talk to you.”

“Get the hell out of here or I’m calling the police.”

His accent was not strong, no doubt tempered by years in the States, but there was still a trace of British roots.
Just like Moody would have
. It had to be him. Moody was alive. For the first time, she could sense a glimmer of hope. They had gotten to him first. Finally, someone would be able to point them to the Ghost.

“We’re here to help you, not hurt you. We just want to talk. Can we come in, please?”

“No.”

“Mr. Moody. Did you know a man named Ryan Winters?”

A slight hesitation. “I don’t know anyone by that name. Now leave.”

“How about Stacy McKitrick? Or David Thomas?”

Nothing for a second, then the latch clicked and the door opened an inch. It was dark inside, but the light from the porch was enough to see the shadowy form of someone standing a few feet back from the gap.

“What do you want?”

Petra focused on where she thought Moody’s eyes were. “They’re dead, Mr. Moody.”

It was as if all the wind had been knocked out of him. “Dead? All of them?”

“Yes. And if you don’t let us help you, you’ll be dead, too.”

“Positions?” Donovan asked over the walkie-talkie.

One by one, each of his men replied “Set” in the same order they had answered earlier. And again, Quinn and Nate remained silent.

“Close in.”

“Leave me alone,” Moody said. “I don’t need your help.” He paused. “Maybe
you’re
the ones who killed them, and you’ve come to kill me, too!”

“We’re not here to hurt you.” Petra put her hand on the door. “We’re here to help.”

“You’re lying. Get the hell off—”

There was a faint
thup
followed by the crunch of glass. Mikhail spun back toward the car, but Petra grabbed his arm and pulled him forward just as something whizzed through the air and smashed into the side of the house.

“Inside! Inside!” she said.

Moody tried to shut them out, but Petra jammed her foot into the opening before he could. Half a second later Mikhail drove his shoulder into the door, sending Moody flying back into the house.

They raced inside. Moody was sprawled on the floor, a look of bewilderment on his face.

“Gunshots,” Mikhail said.

Petra kicked the door closed. “I think the first hit the car.”

Mikhail gave her a look that told her they were both thinking the same thing.
Kolya
. In the driver’s seat. Nowhere to hide.

From outside they heard the shattering of glass as the porch light went out. But Petra ignored it. They had come for information. She couldn’t chance blowing it this time, worrying about something she could do nothing about. Reaching down, she grabbed the old man by the front of his sweatshirt and pulled him to his feet. She pulled the picture from her pocket and held it in front of his face.

“Have you seen this before?”

Moody stared at her like he couldn’t understand what she was saying. He looked scared and old and frail.

“Look at the picture, dammit!”

Moody held Petra’s gaze, fear in his eyes, then looked at the picture and gasped. “Where did you get that?”

“So that’s a yes?”

Moody gave her a single, shocked nod. “Where … how …?”

The shot had been taken in what looked like a small restaurant. There were two tables on either side of the image, and a bar that ran almost the entire length of the background, with plates of sandwiches sitting on top that looked untouched. Scattered around the room were fourteen people, nine men and five women, some sitting at the tables, some standing near the bar. All but one looked like they were between seventeen and twenty-two. The one who didn’t was a man who had to be at least forty. They were dressed comfortably for the time, button-down shirts and slacks for the men, blouses and skirts for the women. Several of the men and one of the women had glasses of beer in front of them, though none were drinking at the time the image was snapped. And though they had all been looking at the camera, not one of them had been smiling. “You’re in this photo, aren’t you?” she asked.

Hesitation, then another nod.

She pointed at one of the men near the bar. Young and smiling and completely average, his hand curved around a glass. “You, correct?”

“So long ago.”

“And this one,” she said pointing at a man at the left table, leaning back casually. “David Thomas, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And this is—”

“Ryan Winters.”

Petra could feel the hair at the back of her neck tingle. Finally, they had their key. Moody. He would be able to point them toward the Ghost, toward closure.

“We know most of the names of the people in the photo,” she said. “What I need is for you to tell us who—”

The shatter of glass cut her off.

Petra pushed Moody back to the floor as a second windowpane blew inward.

She glanced at Mikhail. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“The garage,” he said.

“Is there a car there?” Petra asked Moody.

“Please, leave me alone,” Moody pleaded.

She grabbed him by the arms and rolled him onto his back. “I am
not
here to kill you. But the people outside are. So if you want to live, you will help us get out of here.”

He nervously licked his lips.

“Is there a car in your garage?”

“Yes,” Moody said. “A pickup.”

“Where are the keys?”

“In the kitchen. On a hook by the door.” Moody motioned toward the back of the house.

“Come on,” Petra said.

“Take my truck. I don’t care,” he said. “But I’m staying here.”

“I already told you, they will kill you if you stay.”

“You’ll kill me if I go.”

“You misunderstand the situation, Mr. Moody. You’re more valuable to me alive than dead.”

The glass on one of the Maxima’s windows imploded.

“What was that?” Donovan shouted over the radio link.

In the moment of silence that followed, something smacked into the side of the house. A voice crackled over the walkie-talkie, one of Donovan’s men. “Someone’s shooting. They hit the car and just hit the house. I think that first shot might have got the driver.”

“Who the hell fired?”

“It looked like it came from the southeast.”

“Mercer,” Donovan said, “did you see anything?”

A slight pause. “Nothing.”

“That’s your area! Check it out! There must be someone else out there.”

“Copy that,” Mercer said.

“What about the two in front of the house?” Donovan asked.

“They’ve gone inside,” one of the men said.

“Son of a bitch,” Donovan said. “Someone take out the porch light.”

“Copy that.”

A second later the lamp above the door shattered, and the yard went dark.

“Light’s disabled.”

Donovan took a deep, audible breath. “All right. Everyone but Mercer, move in. But carefully. There’s a sniper out there somewhere. Mercer, you find that shooter.”

“Copy,” Mercer replied.

With Mercer hunting for the sniper and Dailey monitoring the thermal scanner, Donovan’s six-man team was down to four.

“Well, this is exciting,” Nate said.

“Exciting” was not a word any cleaner wanted associated with the job he was working on. Routine, dull, uneventful. Those were the descriptions most desired.

“You hear even the hint of a siren, that’s an automatic abort,” Quinn said.

“Good by me.”

So far there had been no signs that any of the neighbors had noticed anything wrong. The trees and the distance appeared to be working in their favor.

Just then two men slipped out of the cover of the woods. The first crept to the tree that was near the front door of the house. The other headed toward the Maxima.

“In position across from the door,” a voice said on the radio.

“We have a problem,” a second voice said.

“Like I hadn’t noticed that,” Donovan said.

“More of a problem. I’m at the Maxima. The driver is dead. Bullet caught him right below the ear. Doesn’t look like a random shot to me. He was definitely targeted.”

Quinn blew out a breath. A bad situation had just gotten worse.

“Fine,” Donovan said. “We are still on mission. Dailey, what do you see?”

“The heat signatures are all together, not far inside the house.”

“Is anyone looking out the window?”

“No one’s near any window.”

“Good. Abel, you and Cox move in close. See what you can hear.”

“Copy that,” Abel responded.

The man at the car and the one behind the tree began running in a crouch toward the front door.

“I think I jinxed us with that ‘exciting’ comment,” Nate said to Quinn.

“Yeah. I wasn’t going to point that out,” Quinn said.

“Thanks for your consideration.”

There was a sudden movement from the far side of the car. A third man was heading quickly across the front lawn toward the house.

“Donovan, is that you?” Abel said.

“What are you talking about?” Donovan said.

“There’s someone about thirty feet to my right. He looks like one—”

A muzzle flashed. It was followed almost immediately by the disintegration of one of the windows next to the front door. Another flash. Another window shattered. Quinn saw Abel and Cox dive for cover. When he looked back at the front yard, the third man was gone.

“Shooter! Shooter!” Abel yelled as he and Cox sprinted toward the Maxima.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is going bad fast,” Nate said to Quinn. “Someone’s got to be calling the cops by now, don’t you think?”

Quinn nodded. “We’ll hold our position so we can act as eyes for the others. But if there are any bodies, we’re leaving them.”

Abel and Cox circled the Maxima.

“He’s gone,” one of them said.

“Dailey, scan the yard,” Donovan said. “See if you can pick up something.”

“I can’t reposition that quickly,” Dailey said.

“Fine. Stay on the house. Mercer, anything?”

“No.” Mercer sounded winded. “Someone was just running through the trees, but I lost him.”

“Goddamn it. The rest of you, into the house. Now. I don’t care how you do it. They already know we’re coming.”

The phone in Quinn’s pocket buzzed again, reminding him he had a text waiting. The vibration was loud enough for Nate to hear. He looked at Quinn, eyebrows raised.

Quinn ignored both his apprentice and the phone.

Abel and Cox darted to the front door. Without pausing, Abel kicked out with his right, connecting with the door just below the knob.

Quinn could hear the sound of the wood cracking. More noise pollution. He had seldom seen a job go this bad this fast.

Abel kicked again. This time the door flew inward, then rebounded toward them. Cox took up position against the jamb, aiming his gun into the darkness. Abel nodded, then rushed forward, keeping low.