The Collected (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) (8 page)

Using the GPS on her phone, Orlando directed Quinn to a quiet industrial street on the southeast side of the city.

“That’s it,” she said, pointing at a two-story brick building a quarter of the way down the block.

Quinn drove past, made a U-turn, and parked at the curb.

The building in question was dark. From the research Orlando had done while they waited for their flight, they knew the lower half was used by a company that made novelty buttons and bumper stickers. It was the top floor, though, that Quinn and Orlando were interested in.

That was where Pullman lived.

His place had large loft windows across the front that were covered by heavy, dark curtains. Too bad, Quinn thought. It would have been nice to get a look inside.

He examined the rest of the block, then pointed at a building two down from Pullman’s. “That’s one.”

Orlando grabbed the bag from the back, and they exited the car. There was a narrow alcove entrance at the left edge of the building Quinn had singled out. From inside their bag of tricks, he removed the set of picks, and had the lock opened in seconds.

As he’d hoped, on the other side of the door was a staircase leading to the second floor. There was also a standard alarm keypad mounted to the inside wall. On it, a red light blinked rapidly. Orlando disabled the system by using a set of custom-rigged wires that linked the keypad to her phone, where an app she had written herself to override dozens of different types of security systems did the rest of the work.

Free to move around, they headed up the stairs, located the access to the roof, and were soon standing outside again. From there, it was simply a matter of jumping a three-foot gap onto the next roof, then stepping over an even smaller opening onto the roof of Pullman’s place.

There they paused while Orlando extracted from the bag the two SIGs and matching sound suppressors. She handed one set and a spare mag to Quinn, and prepped the second pistol for herself.

Once his suppressor was in place, Quinn removed from the kit the small metal cylinder that contained the syringe, and slipped it into his pocket.

“Ready?” he asked.

She gave her suppressor a final twist. “When am I not?”

__________

T
IMOTHY PULLMAN WAS
freaking out. He had never received a call from another broker like the one he’d had late the previous evening.

Sure, it could have been legit, but he didn’t believe that for a second. Would Quinn really have left Pullman’s number as a contact? Did anyone ever do that? He’d never heard of it before.

In the hours after the call, he’d moved through his apartment, sitting down on the couch or the bed or a kitchen chair, but never for more than a few seconds before his nerves made him stand back up and walk around again.

Fucking money
, he thought.
You’re an idiot, idiot, idiot!

He should have never taken this job. He should have thought about it more when it was offered to him, but he hadn’t been able to see through the piles of cash, and the dangled possibility it would lead to more.

Lead to more. What a joke
.

While his client had dutifully come through with the payment, the man had also conveniently fallen off the map. The timing of which,
incidentally
, coincided with the job going to shit.

The hit hadn’t been the problem. The target was dead. There was no question of that.

But the cleanup?

Something had gone seriously askew, and Quinn—who Pullman had been hearing for years was the cream of the crop—had disappeared without a trace. That might not have been so bad if police hadn’t discovered the body in an abandoned van just outside Monterrey. And
that
might not have been so bad if the body had been unidentifiable. Unfortunately, with the exception of a well-placed bullet hole and a few burn marks from a fire that had been quickly extinguished, the dead man was apparently in perfect condition. The police had no problem identifying him as a powerful Mexican senator, and former United Nations official.

If word got around about how disastrously things had gone, Pullman would have a hell of a time drumming up any new business. But it wasn’t business, or even the potential lack thereof, that had kept him awake all night.

It was the phone call.

“I was given your number by a cleaner named Quinn,” the woman had said.

Whoever she was, she wasn’t some broker waiting for Quinn to show up. Pullman was sure about that now. So who, then? Probably more importantly, who did she represent?

His biggest fear was that the senator had ties to the northern Mexican drug cartels. It hadn’t been mentioned in any of the news reports, but he knew all those political types, especially in that part of the world, had to have their hands in someone’s pocket. What if the senator’s cartel friends had already discovered that Pullman had been involved in the assassination?

Perhaps
they
had captured Quinn, and tortured Pullman’s name and number out of him. That stopped him pacing for a moment.

Jesus.
If that were true, he was toast.

Those bastards weren’t just dangerous, they were unrelentingly vicious, and wouldn’t be content to just kill Pullman.

Not long after midnight, he’d retrieved his Colt .45 pistol from the safe in his room. Being on the administrative end of projects, and never having to go out into the field himself, he’d only used the gun a few times at a firing range, with less than spectacular results. But he felt better having it in his hand as he continued carving a path across his floor.

He next wondered if there was a way they could figure out where he lived.

He’d always been careful never to let
anyone
know where his place was. Even his family had no clue. And when he craved companionship, he paid for a few hours of Jessica’s time in a cheap motel room across town.

The phone call. Could they pinpoint his location through that?

He didn’t think so. He’d paid good money for some equipment that was supposed to prevent anyone from doing that. Granted, it wasn’t quite top of the line, but the guy who sold it to him promised it was more than adequate.

More pacing, more questions.

Run?

Don’t run?

Threat?

Not a threat?

At 5:57 a.m., he still had no answers.

At 5:57 and five seconds, the floorboard behind him creaked.

__________

P
ULLMAN STOOD NEAR
his couch, staring at the wall, a cannon of a gun dangling from his hand. Quinn and Orlando, having already checked the rest of the apartment and confirming there was no one else present, watched him from the shadows across the room.

Finally, Quinn gave Orlando a nod, and he moved forward, making it to within ten feet of the man before the floorboard groaned.

Pullman started to turn, his gun rising. Quinn took two quick steps forward and grabbed the gun. A
boom
filled the apartment as Pullman pulled the trigger, the bullet flying over Quinn’s shoulder and into the ceiling.

Quinn wrenched the gun out of the man’s grasp, tossed it behind him, and slammed the butt of his SIG into the side of Pullman’s head.

Pullman wheeled backward, a shout of surprise and pain escaping his lips. Quinn followed right after him, this time whacking an open hand against the man’s ear.

Pullman jerked in response, his hand flying up to protect himself as he cried out again.

Quinn grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him at a stuffed chair next to the couch. When Pullman’s legs hit the seat, he crumbled backward.

“Please, please,” the broker said, his hands raised protectively in front of his face. “This is all a mistake.”

“You’re damn right it is,” Quinn said. “I am
not
a fan of being shot at.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…Look, I didn’t realize who he was. Okay?”

Quinn cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. “Didn’t realize who
who
was?”

“The senator. Um, uh, Lopez. Right? That’s his name, I think…Yeah, yeah. Senator Lopez. I swear. I didn’t know.”

Senator Lopez?
Who the hell was this guy talking about?

He glanced at Orlando. She shrugged, as confused as he was.

As he turned back, Pullman started to push himself out of the chair.

“No one said you could get up.” Quinn knocked the broker back down. “Tape,” he said to Orlando, his eyes never leaving Pullman.

There was a loud rip, and a second later Orlando came around his side, a loose end of duct tape in one hand and the roll in the other.

Pullman pushed back in the chair. “Wait! Wait! I told you I didn’t know.”

“Arms at your side,” Quinn ordered.

“Please!”

Quinn pointed his SIG at the man’s shoulder. “Take them down or I will.”

Pullman dropped his arms.

“Take off your shirt.”

“What?”

“Take it off.”

“Okay, okay,” the man said. He pulled off his shirt, revealing an abnormally hairy chest.

“Drop it on the floor.”

As soon as the man did, Quinn grabbed him by the nape of the neck and pulled him forward several inches so Orlando would have room to work. Orlando stuck the end of the tape to the broker’s chest, then wrapped it around the man’s body several times, pinning Pullman’s arms tightly to his side. Once that was done, Quinn pushed the man back, and Orlando wound more tape around the chair, creating a web that would keep Pullman where he was. She then ripped off a small piece and stuck it over the man’s mouth.

Pullman yelled in protest, his voice leaking from the bottom of the strip.

“See, that just pisses
me
off,” Orlando said.

She tore off two more pieces. The first she put over the lower half of the man’s mouth. The other, longer strip she wrapped under Pullman’s jaw and up the side of his face so that it held down the ends of the other two.

“Yell again,” she said.

Pullman stared back, silent.

“You heard her,” Quinn told him.

Pullman gave a halfhearted yell. This time his voice was sufficiently muffled.

“Better,” Orlando said.

Quinn leaned forward a few inches. “You brought this on yourself. If you hadn’t tried to shoot me, we might have had a nice, pleasant conversation. But you just couldn’t help pulling the trigger, could you?”

Pullman mumbled something.

“I’m going to let that pass, but from now on this is how it’s going to work. Your mouth stays shut unless I give you permission to speak. Understood?”

Pullman nodded.

“I’m going to ask you a few yes-or-no questions. A nod for yes, a shake for no. Easy, right?”

Another nod.

“Excellent. All right, something simple first. You are Timothy Pullman, correct?”

Pullman stared at him for a moment, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

“Before you answer,” Quinn said, “some of these questions we already know the answer to, so we’ll know right away if you lie to us, and that won’t make us very happy.” He raised his gun a few inches to ensure the message wasn’t too subtle for the man.

Pullman looked away.

“So, Pullman, right?”

A nod.

“Good. Then we’re in the right place. It would have been pretty embarrassing if you were the wrong asshole, don’t you think?”

The broker looked like he wasn’t sure if he should nod or shake or what.

Quinn raised his hand, his palm out. “Rhetorical.” He smiled. “Yes or no. You put together an op that supposedly finished two days ago.”

A nod.

“Did this Senator Lopez have something to do with the job?”

Yes.

“The victim?” Quinn guessed.

Pullman hesitated.

“Remember. Only the truth.”

Pullman’s head moved up and down.

“So you think we’re here about him? Maybe we’re not too happy that he’s dead?”

Pullman nodded.

“And that’s where you’re wrong,” Quinn said. “Partially, anyway. We
are
here about the project, but we couldn’t care less about Senator Lopez.”

Pullman looked confused.

“You’ve been straight with us so far. I can see it in your eyes, so don’t screw it up now.”

The man immediately shook his head.

“Good. The person we’re interested in is one of the people you hired. The cleaner. Quinn, right?”

A quick, decisive nod.

“See, here again is an example of something that could have made things a lot easier. When my associate called you last night, you could have told us the truth then. If you had, we wouldn’t have had to come all the way out here to see you.” Quinn paused. “Please tell me you regret not being a little nicer.”

Pullman nodded with enthusiasm.

Quinn clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth several times, then said, “All right. I’m going to take the tape off your mouth now, but your lips stay sealed unless you’re answering a question from either me or my friend. Got it?”

Yes.

Quinn smiled, and ripped off the long piece that went under Pullman’s jaw. The broker’s eyes widened as he let out a grunt.

“Sorry about that,” Quinn said. He removed the two pieces from over the man’s mouth. “There. Better?”

Pullman started to speak, then thought better of it, and nodded.

“Another easy one. The Lopez job, is it over? Or did it get extended?”

“Over,” Pullman croaked.

“When?”

“Like you said—almost two days.”

“So, on schedule.”

A nod, tentative.

“Then where is Quinn?”

“I don’t know. The job went…bad.”

“Explain bad to me.”

“The police found the body before it could be disposed of.”

Quinn hid his surprise. “They caught your cleaner?”

Pullman hesitated.

“Answer the question.”

“I don’t
know
the answer. I’m not sure if they arrested him or not. I tried to find out, but it’s like he disappeared.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There was some kind of manhunt in the news after they found the body, but I’m not sure if they caught anyone.”