The Cleaner (16 page)

screens.

Quinn looked over. The asset was half hidden in a shadow cast by a stack of steel drums. As Quinn watched, her right foot moved a few inches.

'She's still alive,' he said.

'Are you sure?' Skyler asked.

Quinn nodded.

'We've got to do something,' Glaze said.

'You want to tell me what?' Quinn asked.

'We can't just sit here.'

'Yes, we can.'

'We've got movement,' Skyler said.

Four men were moving into frame on the wide shot. Each was dressed in dark clothing, and all were carrying identical weapons – Heckler and Koch G36K assault rifles. Those were not the weapons V12's team had been equipped with.

The four men moved cautiously across the floor, the barrels of their guns sweeping the areas in front of them. As they reached the first of the bodies lying on the floor, one of the men pushed it with his foot. There was no reaction. The second body yielded the same results. But the last moaned as the foot was jammed into his side. Without hesitating, one of the armed men pointed his G36K at the man's head and pulled the trigger.

As they rounded the stack of drums, their rifles suddenly tightened against their shoulders, barrels pointed at the asset.

'Secure,' one of the gunmen called out. 'She's unarmed.' Then, more quietly, said, 'Get up. Slowly.'

The asset rose to her feet. The gunman who had spoken motioned for her to move forward. As she stepped out of the shadow, she appeared to be

cradling her right arm. Blood soaked her sleeve, but otherwise she appeared uninjured. 'Who's that?' Quinn asked. Movement had caused him to look at the monitor on the far right.

From the same direction the four gunmen had entered, a fifth man appeared. This one was different from the others. He was wearing an expensive-looking gray suit, and unlike his friends, he wasn't carrying a rifle. But there was a bulge at the small of his back, under his jacket. So he wasn't completely unarmed. He was tall and thin; Quinn guessed maybe six foot three, and 170 pounds. His dark brown hair was long, falling just below his shoulders in waves and curls that made his head appear larger than it was. Though there was no smile on his face, Quinn sensed an air of satisfaction surrounding him. No, it was more than that – an air of superiority, of extreme confidence in every step he took.

'I think we need to get out of here,' Glaze said.

'What are you talking about?' Skyler asked.

'We need to leave,' Glaze said. 'Now.'

'A minute ago you were ready to rush in there and help,' Quinn said.

'I was wrong.' Glaze started to rise again. This time instead of heading toward the back door, he was turning toward the front of the van.

'Hold on,' Quinn said. 'We're not going anywhere.' 'Don't you know who that is?' Glaze stared at the other two, eyes blazing. 'That's Borko.' There was a moment of silence as Quinn and Skyler looked back at the screen. 'No shit?' Skyler said.

Quinn stared intently. He'd only seen pictures of Borko before, none very good. The man in the garage certainly could have been the Serb. He fit the description.

'How do you know?' Quinn asked.

Glaze stared down at Quinn. 'Because I worked with him before, that's how,' he said, as if daring Quinn to challenge him. 'Last year. We used him on a job. I met him at the setup meeting. He didn't do what we asked. People died who shouldn't have died. But he didn't care. I don't think he cares about anything.'

Glaze couldn't fake the fear that radiated from his words. There was little chance he was lying. Quinn looked at the screen again.

Borko was one fucked-up son of a bitch. Not everyone in the business knew who he was, but Quinn had heard stories from several very reliable sources. Borko reportedly cut his teeth as one of the late Slobodan Milosevic's ethnic-cleansing experts. He was even said to be a member of the
Sluzba drzavne bezbednosti
–
Milosevic's malevolent state security service – getting his start in the early 1990s infiltrating university student groups to help quell an uprising that threatened to topple the regime.

He should have been arrested years ago. He should have stood trial for crimes against humanity in the World Court in The Hague. He should have been killed a thousand times over, but he hadn't been.

In fact, he'd simply disappeared when the war ended, his name never appearing on any wanted list. A few years later he resurfaced, this time as the head of his own little organization. For a price, he and his team were available to do people's dirty work. The only limitation on projects they would accept was the price clients were willing to pay.

'Don't you get it?' Glaze said. 'He's going to come after us next.'

'No,' Quinn said. 'He isn't.'

'What the fuck are you talking about?' Glaze said. 'He's going to kill us.'

Quinn looked up at Glaze, his gaze steady but calm. Finally, the look in Glaze's eyes changed from fear to dawning understanding. Slowly, he sat back down.

'If he knew we were here,' Glaze began, 'he'd already have come after us, right? Before he went inside.'

'Exactly,' Quinn said.

'You're sure?' Glaze asked.

'I'm sure.'

They returned their attention to the screens. Two of Borko's men had escorted the asset into the center of the room. She didn't even try hiding her fear; Quinn could clearly see it on her face. What was happening wasn't part of the plan that had been laid out to her. V12 was just supposed to transfer her to a team from SCG, who in turn would have been responsible for getting her safely out of the country. That was the service her friends had paid for. That was what the asset had been expecting.

Borko approached the woman.

'Are you Karina Sanchez?' he asked. 'I don't know who that is,' she said much too quickly.

Borko smiled, then casually removed his pistol from under his jacket and slapped the woman across the face with its barrel. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor. When she looked up, blood began seeping out of the new cut on her cheek.

'Are you Karina Sanchez?' Borko asked again.

Before she could answer, a noise came from the side of the room. It was a door opening. Borko's gunmen whipped around, their rifles pointed at the source.

Quinn's eyes jumped to the monitor with the best view. Two men had just entered the building. They were talking at first, two friends arriving early to work. One was carrying a cup of coffee, while the other held a toolbox.

The moment they saw Borko and his men, the man with the coffee dropped his cup and bolted for the door. A bullet took off the back of his head before he could escape. His friend watched, frozen to the spot where he stood. As he turned his eyes back toward the center of the room, he was greeted with the barrels of four guns pointed at him.

'Hey, it's cool,' the man said. 'Listen, I don't care what you're doing. Just let me go and I'll keep my mouth shut.'

Borko reached down and lifted the asset back to her feet, then looked at the new arrival. 'Why don't you come over here for a moment?'

The man hesitated. 'I think it might be better if I just leave.'

'You a mechanic? This where you work?' Borko asked.

The man nodded.

'You're a little early, aren't you?'

'Just picking up a little overtime,' the man said. 'That's all. I'll come back later, okay?' 'Bring him over,' Borko said to his team. One of the men approached the mechanic, his

gun pointed at the man's head. 'Move,' the gunman said. The mechanic did as he was told, stopping when he was only a few feet away from Borko. 'You can put that down,' Borko said, glancing at the toolbox.

The man seemed to suddenly remember he was carrying something, then quickly set the box down on the floor. 'I swear, you let me go, I'll forget I ever saw you.'

But Borko had stopped listening. His attention was back on the asset.

'Miss Sanchez, the person who paid me to find you is not very happy that you decided to find employment elsewhere. As you can imagine, he is not anxious for others in his organization to follow your lead. So he has asked me to make sure you let the others know you made a mistake.'

Borko nodded once. Two of his men quickly shouldered their rifles and grabbed the mechanic by the arms. Once he was secure, Borko kneeled down next to the toolbox and opened it.

'What do you carry in here?' Borko asked. Before the man could reply, Borko reached into the box and pulled something out. 'This will be fine.'

As he stood up, Quinn could see a long, thin screwdriver in the Serb's hand. Borko looked back at the woman.

'Don't worry. I am not actually expecting you to make any kind of speech. There are many ways to deliver a message. Perhaps you'd like to get a preview of what your message will look like.'

Borko turned to the mechanic, the screwdriver held tightly in his hand.

'What the fuck?' the man said. 'Come on. I ain't done nothing. Please.'

The Serb put his free hand on the man's shoulder, smiled, then jabbed the screwdriver deep into the man's abdomen.

The mechanic cried out in agony and started to double over. But the gunmen held him up so Borko could pull the tool out. Borko waited a moment, then shoved it in again, this time on the other side.

The mechanic vomited, his breakfast barely missing Borko's shoes. Borko once again removed the screwdriver. This time he held the bloody weapon in front of the asset's face.

'You see, one more time and he'll probably pass out,' he said. 'He won't be dead yet, but he will miss all the fun. This method is effective, but most of the damage is on the inside. Outside? Only a couple of small holes. Not very dramatic. To be an effective message, there has to be a more dramatic presentation.'

Without warning, he lashed out with the screwdriver, slashing its blade across the mechanic's face, detaching part of the man's cheek. He did it again and again and again. Face, neck, shoulders, chest.

Finally he plunged the weapon upward under the man's rib cage, undoubtedly aiming for the heart.

Within seconds, the mechanic was dead.

As the gunmen let the body slump to the floor, Borko pulled his makeshift weapon out and turned back to the asset, smiling.

'So, Miss Sanchez, are you ready?'

He raised the bloody screwdriver again.

After Borko and his team cleared out, Quinn told Skyler to get behind the wheel, but not to start the engine yet. Quinn glanced at his watch, then fixed his eyes on the monitor displaying the wide shot of the carnage. Each minute that passed was agony to Quinn. The chance that another civilian – perhaps a security guard, or another city worker arriving early – would enter the room and find the massacre increased with each moment Quinn continued to hold their position. But he'd been well trained, and understood that caution was one of the most important parts of the job.

The wait paid off. After nearly fifteen minutes someone stepped out from the shadows of one of the trucks. It was Borko himself, armed now with one of the G36K rifles. He appeared to be alone.
Does the son of a bitch think he could take on an entire rescue team by himself?
Quinn thought, then paused.
He probably does, and probably could.

The Serb walked around for a moment, gave each body a shove, then exited the building.

Another fifteen minutes passed. Quinn wanted to wait longer, but knew they couldn't chance it. Finally, he said, 'Now.'

Skyler started the engine and pulled out. 'Don't rush,' Quinn reminded him. 'Nice and easy. Like a routine you do every day.'

Per their plan, Skyler didn't drive directly to the entrance of the garage. Instead he drove a route that took him around several buildings in the immediate vicinity, checking for Borko and his men.

They found no sign of them.

'What about SCG?' Glaze asked. 'We were transferring her to them. Their guys have to be here somewhere.'

Quinn shook his head. 'Their guys never made it.'

As Skyler drove toward the garage, Quinn handed Glaze two pairs of gloves. One pair was the lightweight rubber kind doctors used. The other was also rubber, only heavy duty – janitor gloves, extra tough. He and Skyler had similar sets.

'What are these for?' Glaze said.

'You're going to have to help us,' Quinn said. 'Gloves on at all times. Surgical first, then the others over the top. Only take the thick ones off if you need to do detailed work. But be careful. No prints. You get a tear, you let me know. I'll get you another pair.'

Quinn could still see the fear in the other man's eyes. But to Glaze's credit, he didn't protest.

'One more thing. When we're inside, I do the talking. No comments. No unnecessary noise. If you have a question, okay. But think it through first and keep it brief. Understand?'

'I understand.' Glaze's voice was a dry whisper. At the garage, Quinn entered first, slipping in through the back door and making a quick search

of the facility. Except for the bodies, they were alone.

Despite not expecting any casualties, Quinn had come prepared with plenty of plastic sheeting. He, Skyler, and Glaze were able to get the bodies wrapped quickly, securing each package with duct tape, then loaded them into the back of the van. It was a tight fit, but they were able to get them all in. All, that is, except the civilian shot while running for the door.

'Not yet,' Quinn said when the other two moved to wrap the man up.

Instead, he had them turn their attention to the blood on the cement. While Skyler and Glaze mopped up the excess fluids, Quinn searched the garage. He found several bags of absorbent sand, probably used to soak up motor oil spills. Quinn brought one of the bags over to where the murders had occurred.

As Skyler and Glaze finished, Quinn poured sand over the wet spots on the concrete to draw out as much of the blood as possible. He knew there would be a stain, but the plan he had in mind would deal with that.

While the sand did its work, Quinn and his team did a detailed search of the room, collecting all the brass left over from the gunfire. When they were done, Quinn stood still for a moment, taking in the room.