Shadow of Betrayal (25 page)

The other steps stopped, but the follower hadn’t gone far enough. If Quinn popped out now, the man would see him for sure.

“Who are you?” she said.

“That’s funny,” a male voice said. “That was my question for you.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Not a big deal. I was only mildly curious anyway.”

There was a pause, then the all too familiar
thup
of a bullet passing through a suppressor.

BEFORE QUINN COULD RUSH OUT OF THE STRUCTURE
, there was a second
thup.
Once out of his hiding place, the first thing he saw was Orlando.

She was on one knee, her back resting against the observation pit wall. Lying on the ground in front of her was the man, a bright red spot growing in the center of his chest.

“Are you okay?” Quinn asked Orlando.

She looked up. There was blood on her neck and left shoulder. She’d been hit at the point where her neck curved into her shoulder, but it looked like the bullet had passed through cleanly. Orlando had one of her hands over it, applying pressure.

“Check him,” she said.

“Don’t have to,” Quinn said.

“Good.”

Quinn looked around. For the moment, no one seemed to have noticed them.

“We’ve got to get you out of here,” he said. “Nate, where are you?”

“I was tailing the other guy like you wanted,” Nate said. “He’s
heading over toward BCAM.” The Broad Contemporary Art Museum.

“I need you here now.”

“Copy.”

Quinn glanced at Orlando. “Will you be okay for a minute? I need to move him.”

“Sure,” she said, her voice weak.

Quinn patted the man down, looking for anything that might ID him, but the man’s pockets were all empty. Quinn then slipped his arms under the dead man’s shoulders and pulled the corpse over to the observation pit and through the gate. The body left a nice trail of blood. Quinn went back and kicked as much dirt over it as he could. Before he finished, Nate arrived.

“Cover this up somehow,” Quinn said. “Leaves, dirt, whatever.”

While Nate did that, Quinn checked on Orlando. He moved her hand to get a better look. Though the top of her shirt was soaked, the bleeding seemed to have slowed.

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

“I know you will,” he told her. “Hang on for just a few more minutes, okay?”

She nodded.

Quinn motioned for Nate to follow him into the observation area.

“You shoot him, or Orlando?” Nate asked.

“She did,” Quinn said. “Grab his legs.”

“What’s the plan?”

Quinn made a motion with his hand, mimicking moving the body over the top of the railing at the edge of the pathway and into the pit. They each grabbed an end of the corpse.

“This guy weighs a ton,” Nate said.

Quinn couldn’t argue with that.

Once they got him on top of the railing, a simple push forward sent the body tumbling over the side. Their aim turned out pretty good. The body landed in the tar near the end closest to the pathway, and therefore out of sight from anyone who might take a peek through the fence. If they were lucky, it might be several days or even weeks before the body was found.

Once the gate was relocked, and Orlando had donned Nate’s jacket to hide her wound, they headed back to the car. As Quinn helped Orlando into the front seat, Nate headed for the driver’s door.

“You’re in back,” Quinn said. “I’ll drive.”

But before Nate even moved, Orlando said, “It’s almost time for the meet.”

“It’s canceled,” Quinn said.

“It’s not, and you know it. Besides, that other guy I saw might be getting into position to kill Primus. You can’t let that happen.”

“It’s Peter’s problem.”

“And we’re working for Peter, so it’s our problem. You’re just concerned about me. If I was anyone else, the op would still go on.”

“Hell yes, I’m concerned about you!”

“Does Nate know where to take me?”

Before Quinn could say anything, Nate said, “The Westwood facility?”

Quinn pressed his lips together, then nodded.

“Then I’ll be fine,” Orlando said. “But not if you keep arguing. I only have so much blood.”

Quinn stared at her, then took a step back, his hand still on the open passenger door. Orlando was pissing him off, but she was right. “I’ll call ahead.”

Orlando smiled as best as she could. “Be careful.”

Quinn looked at Nate. “Keep me informed.”

“I will,” his apprentice said, then climbed behind the wheel.

Quinn watched until they were out of sight before turning back and reentering the park.

Time was becoming his enemy more than anything else. The meet was only ten minutes away, and he still hadn’t found the second man.

Maybe he’d seen his partner go down, and had decided the situation was too hot to hang around. But for a professional, the loss of a team member shouldn’t have mattered. The mission would take precedence. And given the circumstances, it was best to assume the guy was a pro.

Quinn checked his watch once more. Eight minutes to go. Just enough time to check the central court again. He headed toward the ramp at the west end of the lake leading up to the central court level, but he slowed before he got there.

There was another way up from this side, one few members of the public used. To the right of the ramp was an asphalt path lined by grass and bushes, and squeezed between the lower level of the Bing Building on the left and the lower level of the Japanese art pavilion on the right. It only went about one hundred feet in, then stopped. And there, surrounded by tall bushes, was the alternate route up, a metal staircase that curved around itself until it reached the central court.

Quinn veered down the path, ready to pull out his gun at the first sign of trouble.

There were windows along the ground level of the Bing Building. Most were covered with shades, but a few were uncovered enough to see the offices beyond. As he neared the end of the pathway, he noticed a chain strung across the staircase. There was a sign mounted on a metal stand posted in front of it. The intent was clear enough. The stairway was closed.

He progressed only a few feet farther when he heard a door to his left open. Instinctively his hand moved under his sports coat, his fingers wrapping around the butt of his pistol. But he didn’t pull the weapon out, holding position until he could assess the threat.

A security guard emerged from the building and started walking toward him.

“Excuse me, sir,” the man said. “Can I help you?”

“I was just going to take the stairs up,” Quinn said as he returned his hand to his side.

“I’m sorry, sir. The stairs aren’t open to the public today. If you’ll just return the way you came and take the ramp up, that’s the quickest way from here.”

“It used to be open, though, didn’t it?” Quinn asked. “I remember taking it in the past.”

“It’s closed today, sir.”

Quinn smiled. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“No problem. Have a good day.”

The guard stayed where he was as Quinn turned and began retracing his steps along the pathway. That was a good thing. In fact it was very possible it had been the only thing that kept Quinn alive. For in the bushes near the base of the stairs, Quinn had seen him. The man in the suit.

He had somehow gotten past the security guard’s gaze, and was lying in wait. All he would need to do was to slip under the chain barrier and climb up the stairs at the appropriate time to catch Quinn and Primus together.

Only now Quinn knew he was there. And the suit had to assume the same.

Quinn walked rapidly back into the central court, then glanced at his watch. 11:57 a.m.

He only had three minutes until the meet time, and he had failed to neutralize the suit. Not good.

There was a tiny voice in the back of his mind that said maybe the men in the suits had been with Primus. His protection team.
Maybe.
But it seemed even more probable to Quinn that, like the assassin in Ireland, they had been sent to derail the meeting and permanently remove Primus.

Quinn would just be collateral damage. A necessary hit, but a nameless body representing those Primus was working with. It would be Primus who was the big prize. With him gone, the pipeline of information would be sealed.

Quinn ran into the central court. Unlike the sparse crowd Nate had described earlier, there were several dozen people there now, many in line to buy tickets, while others milled around waiting for the museum doors to open at noon. Most of the tables were also occupied. People having early lunches or drinking cups of coffee. Some in groups chatting, others alone reading the paper or sipping their drinks. A few children were even running around.

Quinn scanned those close by, but no one matched what he was looking for. Dark salmon polo shirt and jeans. That had been all the description Primus had given Peter.

Quinn moved farther into the crowd, knowing he had to find Primus immediately, before the remaining assassin could get to them.

Dark salmon polo shirt.

He glanced over at the ticket lines. There seemed to be an equal mix of men and women, most older, retirement age. Noon on a weekday, most of the younger set was too busy working toward their first heart attacks to visit a museum.

Dark salmon.

Goddammit!

There were several polo shirts, but the majority were either blue or black or white. None salmon colored.

His gaze moved toward the Ahmanson Building, scanning toward the right.

Dark salmon polo—

There.

His gaze zeroed in on the back of a man at the far end of the central court. A polo shirt that looked almost brown but could pass for dark salmon. The guy’s black hair was trimmed short and had more than a hint of silver running along the sides and across the back. And on the top there was very little hair at all. Fifties, maybe, or a youthful sixty.

He was headed toward the northwest exit.
Primus?

Quinn glanced over his shoulder to see if he could spot the suit, but there was no sign of the potential assassin. Ahead, polo shirt had picked up his pace and was nearing the path between the buildings that would take him out of sight.

Quinn weaved through the growing crowd, his own pace a step below a jog.

“Sorry,” he said as he sidestepped a couple who’d moved into his way.

Primus was only a few steps away from disappearing around the corner. Quinn started running, acting as though he was trying to catch up with a friend. It seemed to work. People moved out of his way, but few even gave him a second glance.

As the gap closed, the man must have heard Quinn, for he glanced over his shoulder, the look on his face a mixture of anger and worry.

“Hey,” Quinn said, sounding like a friend. “Glad I caught you. It’s been a long time.”

Primus slowed, allowing Quinn to catch up.

“Peter sent me,” Quinn said in a low voice.

“I know who you are,” Primus said through unmoving lips. “But the meet’s off.”

Quinn had a flash of Orlando kneeling next to the dead man by the observation pit, her shirt soaking with her own blood.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

Primus’s eyes narrowed. “You come rushing in, not caring who notices you. You could have gotten us both killed. We’re through here.”

“No,” Quinn said as he clamped his hand on Primus’s arm. “We’re not.”

The man tried to pull it back, but Quinn was in much better shape. In fact, Quinn would have wagered that the man hadn’t been in a gym in thirty years. He was carrying a spare tire around his waist that, at the very least, would get a small car to the next gas station.

“Stop it,” the man said. “Let go of me.”

Quinn ignored the suggestion. Gripping tightly just above Primus’s left elbow, he pulled the man around so they were walking back into the central court area.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? I said let go of me.”

Quinn glanced at the man, then returned his gaze to the crowd, scanning for trouble.

“I’m trying to save your life,” Quinn said. “So I would appreciate it if you would shut the hell up.”

PRIMUS SEEMED INTELLIGENT ENOUGH TO KNOW
when to speak and when to follow directions. He allowed Quinn to lead him through the central court area and down the walkway that led out to the sidewalk along Wilshire Boulevard.

If this had been New York, in no time they’d have been sitting in the back of a cab heading safely away. But this was L.A., where if you wanted a taxi you had to call for one, then wait at least twenty minutes until it arrived. So they were on foot until Quinn could secure a ride.

There was a crosswalk to the left of the LACMA entrance. A small group of people were already waiting at the curb, several leaning forward, anticipating the changing of the traffic light on Wilshire. A second later the pedestrians got their green light to cross the street.

“Come on,” Quinn said.

He yanked the man toward the street. The red palm that meant wait started blinking in the crosswalk signal just as they stepped off the curb.

“Faster.”

Primus complied, matching Quinn stride for stride.

They had already passed the divider in the middle of the road and were halfway across the two eastbound lanes when something whizzed through the air several feet to the left of Quinn’s head.

“What the fuck was that?” Primus said, his step faltering.

Quinn knew exactly what it was, but this wasn’t the time for talk. Instead, he pushed Primus to the right. Another bullet flew behind them, and a woman’s voice cried out in pain. And then screams everywhere.

Quinn pulled Primus to the right, altering their path again, before reaching the curb.

“Jesus,” Primus said. “Someone’s shooting at us!”

Quinn held on tight, willing the man to remain calm. Just beyond the sidewalk was one of the older parking lots used by LACMA.

“Follow me,” Quinn said.

He guided Primus between the parked cars, then pulled Primus behind a Ford SUV and stopped. Quinn peered through the vehicle’s windows toward the museum. There was no one on the street. The pedestrians had scattered when the attack began.