The Collected (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) (10 page)

He had expected the taking of the cleaner to be difficult, just not
that
difficult. After all, Quinn’s abduction had been the hardest to set up. As a cleaner, the man was in charge of his own work, and not a part of the official ops team, which meant he called his own shots and hired his own people.

To achieve their goal, Harris needed to get someone close to Quinn to feed information to the group of police officers Moreno had put together. The problem wasn’t who that person would be. That was easy. Harris simply trolled the lower levels of the freelance world and plucked someone more interested in money than loyalty. Burke had served his role well.

Getting Quinn to hire Burke, though, was another issue. Harris’s research had shown that the cleaner had a small group of operatives he’d consistently worked with over the last few years. Jamming their schedules had been a necessary first step before even offering the job to Quinn.

The hardest person to deal with in Quinn’s select little group turned out to be a man named Daeng from Thailand. According to several sources, Quinn had been using him a lot as of late. When Harris tried to find a way to contact Daeng and put him on the same kind of hold as the others, the people he talked to said the man only worked for Quinn, no one else.

Harris decided it was time to get a little actual dirt on his hands, and followed a lead back to the man’s home country, where he was able to finally figure out a way to get Daeng out of the picture. It had been a while since he’d killed anyone, but he hadn’t forgotten how. More importantly, the ploy had worked.

Daeng was moved out of the way, Burke was hired, and now Quinn was here.

“The shooter?” Romero asked.

The shooter was the only one on the list left to pick up. “In progress, sir.”

“So he’ll be here…?”

“Tomorrow.”

In contrast to Quinn, taking the shooter had been the easiest to set up, so Harris had saved him for last.

“You will inform me when he arrives,” Romero said dismissively.

Harris tilted his head in acknowledgment, but it was a wasted gesture. Romero was no longer paying him any attention.

CHAPTER 14

SAN PAOLO, BRAZIL

M
AURICE CURSON COULD
not believe his luck. For four years, he’d been persona non grata in the secret world. The only suitable employment he could find for someone with his particular skill set was as a bodyguard for rich losers.

But the asshole clients weren’t the worst part. It was the other bodyguards who really annoyed him. While there were a few ex-military types who Curson could respect, he was convinced the majority had all come straight from gyms where they’d spent their time lifting weights, taking steroids, and mostly likely watching that stupid Kevin Costner-Whitney Houston movie over and over. Smoke blowers who acted like they’d come straight out of the Secret Service and knew best what to do in any situation. Only none of them
had been in the Secret Service.

In Curson’s old career, he’d done jobs in over thirty different countries, had killed, been shot at, and successfully protected people a hell of a lot more important than the latest winner of
American Dumbass
. These other guys? They wore it as a badge of honor any time they knocked a member of the paparazzi to the ground.

Amateurs. A whole mess of idiotic amateurs.

That’s why when he’d been offered the gig—an actual, honest-to-God black ops situation—he had jumped at the chance. To hell with the fact it meant backing out of a previous commitment. And it didn’t even matter that it wasn’t a trigger-man position. He didn’t care. He was back
in
, and, hopefully, if he played his cards right, he’d never have to go back to that other crap work again.

The op was pretty straightforward. A snatch and grab. The target: a Brazilian economist who was stirring up trouble and needed to be convinced to adjust his thinking. While Curson would have preferred to be on the snatch team, he was content to be in charge of getting the package from the op site to the safe house—in effect, a glorified driver.

Two days of planning, a dry run, and he and the other team members were ready. Hell, he’d been ready for years. It was all he could do to keep the smile off his face as he sat in the appropriated ambulance, waiting for the target to be brought to him.

Four years in the cold—exiled for a mistake that could have happened to anyone—were finally behind him.

Goodbye, Mr. Stoned Movie Star. I’m really back in the game now.

“Sixty seconds.” The voice came over the comm in his ear.

This was it. The grab had been made and they were on their way.

Maurice climbed out of the ambulance and walked around to the back. He checked the street, confirmed it was as deserted as it had been before, and opened the rear doors.

“Thirty seconds.”

He climbed inside, ready to accept the package.

The three-member snatch team appeared at the back right on time, the target propped up under one of the men’s arms like a passed-out drunk. Working quickly, they transferred the Brazilian onto the gurney inside, and Curson buckled him down.

“Set?” the team leader asked.

“All set,” Curson told him.

“He’s all yours.”

The men disappeared down the street.

As Curson checked the buckles one last time, he realized his cargo didn’t appear to be breathing.

Oh, crap.

He checked the target’s pulse, or tried to, because there was none.

Oh, God, no.

The snatch team had delivered him a stiff.

He immediately began CPR.

“Come on, come on,” he implored the lifeless body.

No response.

He glanced at his watch. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be behind schedule.

Dammit!

He tried another go at CPR, but there was no bringing the man back.

Dammit, dammit, dammit!

He knew this would somehow become his fault. His grand reentry into the realm of secrets and spies thwarted before it could even get going.

He took a deep breath.
Be a pro. Finish the job.

He climbed out of the back, circled around the vehicle, and got in behind the wheel. Sticking to his preplanned, less-trafficked route, he reached the turnoff for the safe house just inside the time range he’d been given.

During the whole drive, he’d been thinking about the dead man in back. He’d explain everything to his client. Tell him the target had arrived DOA, and that he’d even tried multiple times to resuscitate him. They’d have to believe him. They’d just have to.

He turned down the driveway, rehearsing in his head what he was going to say. But as he approached the isolated house, thoughts of his explanation vanished. Parked directly in his path were two sedans, their occupants standing outside, guns drawn and pointed at him.

He looked in his mirror, intending to back out of there as fast as possible, but a third car was pulling across the driveway, blocking his exit.

Oh.

Crap.

CHAPTER 15

CHICAGO

P
ULLMAN WAS RIGHT
about the phone number he had for Mr. Brown. Disconnected.

“A burner,” Orlando said. “Probably already dumped in a landfill.”

Quinn nodded. “What about this Burke guy? Is he missing, too? Because if he isn’t, I would very much like to talk to him.”

They stopped at the next coffee shop they spotted, and took up residence at a table near the front door as early morning commuters lined up for their shot of espresso.

Orlando first made a pass through the documents on Pullman’s computer. It didn’t take her long to turn up the list of people who’d been hired for the Lopez project—each name accompanied by contact information. She turned the screen so Quinn could see. He recognized only one of the names from the ops team, but it wasn’t someone he’d worked directly with before. Below the team were two more names: QUINN and BURKE.

“I say we give Mr. Burke a call,” he said.

Orlando punched the number into Pullman’s phone. “Ringing.”

He watched her, hopeful, but it soon became clear no one was going to answer.

After disconnecting, she handed the phone to Quinn and moved Pullman’s computer to the side, aiming the screen at him. “Maybe one of the others will answer,” she said. She pulled her own laptop out of her bag.

Quinn went straight to the last name on the ops team list. Kelvin Moore was the team leader, so, theoretically, he’d be the one with the most information.

The line rang three times, then, “What the hell is it now, Pullman?”

“Mr. Moore?”

A long pause. “Who is this?”

“My name’s Jonathan Quinn.”

“Quinn? The cleaner? Bullshit. You don’t sound like him at all.”

“The man you worked with in Mexico is a colleague of mine who also goes by the name of Quinn.”

“What kind of crap is this?”

“My friend hasn’t checked in yet, and I’m trying to figure out—”

“Brother, you have called the wrong number.”

Moore hung up.

Quinn called back. The line was answered and immediately disconnected. A third try received a message telling him the subscriber was out of calling range.

He tried the other names on the list. Two of the numbers played back the same out-of-range message, but the last was answered.

“Pullman?” A woman’s voice.

“I’m looking for Bob Rooney,” Quinn said.

“This is Bobbie.”

Bobbie? Wait.
“Bobbie
Harbin
?” he said.

Silence.

“Don’t hang up. It’s Jonathan Quinn.”

“That name’s been thrown around a bit lately.”

“I know, I know. The guy who was in Mexico with you. He’s my partner. Uses the same name.”

“That’s…weird.”

“Long story.”

“How do I know you’re you?”

“Baton Rouge. Crawfish dinner. Cajun karaoke.”

Orlando looked over for a second, one eyebrow raised.

Bobbie grunted a half laugh. “Okay, okay. Just don’t go into any details. I barely remember that night, which I think is probably for the best.”

“What’s with the Rooney?”

“A little trouble under the old name. Thought it best to change it up. What the hell are you calling me for? And why are you on Pullman’s phone?”

Ignoring the second question, he said, “I’m hoping you might have some information.”

He could sense her hesitation. “What kind of information?”

“I’m sure you heard things didn’t end up going so well on the job you just finished.”

“I might have run across something about that.”

“Then you know the body was found.”

“Yeah. I guess your partner isn’t quite as good at his job as you are.”

“My partner is excellent at his job,” Quinn said quickly.

“Currently, there seems to be some evidence to the contrary.”

Bobbie had always been one to see the world in terms of black and white, while Quinn operated in the grays. He said, “He’s missing, Bobbie. He hasn’t been heard from since he last talked to you all. I want to know if there was anything unusual you might have noticed.”

The line was silent for a few seconds. “Nothing that comes to mind. I’m sorry your friend is missing, but—”

“What about Burke? The guy who was working with him?”

Another pause. “I only saw him twice, and neither time for very long. I did get kind of an odd vibe from him, though, like he wasn’t the kind of guy I’d want to hang out with.”

“Did he say anything unusual? Anything that stands out?”

“I did see him on his phone behind the motel where we were having our planning meeting once. He didn’t see me at first, but when he did, he wrapped up his call pretty quickly. As he walked past, he shook his head and said, ‘Family drama. What are you going to do?’”

“Was he lying?”

“Sure he was,” she said. “But we all do that. I just figured he was lining up another gig, and didn’t want to share the information.”

“Anything else?”

“No. That’s it,” she said.

“Okay, thanks, Bobbie.”

“Quinn.”

“Yeah?”

“I
am
really sorry your partner’s missing. If you want my guess, either the police have him and aren’t talking, or he died trying to get away. Watch your step. It’s probably something you don’t want to get pulled into.”

“Call me if something comes to mind,” he said, then hung up.

“Bobbie?” Orlando asked.

“Bobbie Harbin. You remember her?”

“Hard to forget a five-foot-ten skinny blonde. What’s this about crawfish and karaoke?”

“A bad night.”

She gave him a skeptical half smile. “Define
bad
for me.”

He laughed. “Not as bad as you’re thinking.”

With a roll of her eyes, she returned her attention to her computer. “I’ve located Burke’s phone.”

Quinn pushed out of his seat and came around so he could look over her shoulder.

She had her cell-phone-tracking software up. In one window was a map pushed in close on two intersecting roads. In the middle, a small blue circle pulsated, indicating the phone’s location.

“Mexico?” Quinn asked.

“Yeah, but not Monterrey. Imuris.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s in Sonora. South of Arizona. I was able to pull a twenty-four-hour history. The phone hasn’t moved.”

“Dumped?”

“It’s an empty lot, so either that or he likes camping out.”

Quinn frowned, disappointed. “He could be anywhere now.”

“Or,” Orlando said, “he could have gone someplace he knows well.”

“And where would that be?”

“While the program was running down the phone’s location, and you were still chatting with your ex-girlfriend—”

“Never was my girlfriend.”

“Ex-lover, then.”

“Not that, either.”

“We’ll just call it a one night stand.”

“No we wo—”

“
While
you were still on the phone,” she said, “I did a little digging on Burke. The guy’s still new to the business. Takes whatever comes his way. It’s obvious no one’s taught him how to effectively cover up his information.”