The Deceived (22 page)

He gingerly slipped his gun out from inside his jacket and placed it on his lap. From the corner of his eye, he watched the new arrival take several steps into the restaurant. The man picked up a menu off the counter and opened it. Unfortunately, he didn’t appear to have any interest in what was written inside. Instead, he used the menu as a prop so that he could scan the room unobserved. At least, Quinn thought, that’s what the guy believed.

Orlando worked her way around the center aisle of the booths, then headed toward the front door. She was playing it cool, her focus on the exit, never on the man. The new arrival watched her for a moment, then moved his attention back to the restaurant, scanning the empty booths.

A slight alteration in Orlando’s path put the man between her and the door. Just before she reached him, his gaze fell on Quinn and Nate. His eyes started to narrow, and a hand moved up a few inches toward the opening in his coat.

“Excuse me,” Orlando said.

“Huh?” the man said, glancing down at her. “Oh. Sorry.”

He moved to the side.

“Thanks,” she said, then slammed the palm of her hand into the bottom of his chin.

CHAPTER

THE MAN WENT DOWN HARD.

Orlando drove a knee into his chest, then hit him again in his face. He twisted violently, throwing her onto the floor near the front door.

Quinn was already out of the booth, racing toward them, his gun ready. But he had no clear shot.

The man slipped his hand under his jacket and pulled out a pistol. As he brought it around to aim at Orlando, Quinn did the only thing he could do. He dove forward, pushing the man’s arm back against the floor. There was a loud bang as the gun discharged, the bullet flying harmlessly into the counter a few feet away.

Orlando tried to hold him down again, but the man twisted his body, throwing her off balance and into Quinn. The jolt sent Quinn’s SIG clattering to the floor, where it slid under a nearby table.

“What’s going on?” It was the waitress calling out from the back of the restaurant. “Stop it! Stop it! I’m calling the police!”

Quinn shot a glance back at Nate. His apprentice had climbed out of the booth and was holding his Glock, but he seemed torn between whether to help Quinn and Orlando or go after the waitress.

“Stop her!” Quinn yelled at him.

The words broke Nate’s indecision. He ran through the restaurant toward the kitchen.

The man tried to bring the barrel of his gun around to get a line on Quinn, but he’d only moved it a few inches when his body suddenly jerked. Orlando had pushed herself to her feet and was kicking him hard in the kidney.

Another kick. Another jerk. All Quinn could do was hold on so that their would-be attacker couldn’t put up any defense. The fourth time she brought her foot into the man’s back, it wasn’t just his torso that moved, his trigger finger also twitched. The gun went off with a deafening roar only inches from Quinn’s ear. He could feel the heat radiating off the barrel.

Orlando reached down and slammed her fist into the man’s face. Once, twice. By the third punch, he had gone slack.

Finally able to move again, Quinn ripped the gun from the man’s fingers, turning the barrel on its previous owner, then pushed himself up off the floor, watching for any sign of movement. Orlando held a couple of fingers against the man’s neck.

“Son of a bitch,” she said. “He’s still alive.”

Quinn knelt down and made a quick visual survey of the man.

He tapped Orlando on the shoulder. As she looked up, he put a finger to his mouth, then pointed to the man’s collar. On the knot of the man’s dark blue tie was a small disk. It was black and blended in with the fabric.

A transmitter.

Quinn then motioned to a bulge under the collar just below the man’s left ear. He carefully moved it so he could slip a couple fingers underneath. When he pulled them back out, he was holding a skin-tone earpiece attached to a wire leading beneath the man’s shirt.

He looked at Orlando. Her eyes were hard, all business.

Quinn pointed toward the rear of the restaurant. She nodded, then immediately got up and headed in the same direction Nate had gone moments before.

Quinn searched the man’s body, but the guy had nothing on him. No ID. No cash. No keys. His pockets were empty, not even a scrap of paper.

Who the hell are you?
Quinn asked silently.

He scooted across the floor and retrieved his SIG. Carefully he rose into a crouch, then began running toward the kitchen, his back bent low.

Before he had even gone five feet, the glass covering the front door shattered. As he ducked back to the floor, he heard something crash into the wall not far from the booth he had shared with the others. Bullets.

Apparently, the unconscious man had friends, and they seemed to be armed and pissed.

Quinn turned his head, listening. There were footsteps running toward the restaurant. Two, maybe three people.

He pushed himself back to his feet and began sprinting. The kitchen door was still twenty feet away. He wasn’t going to make it in time.

Thup-thup.
Bullets passing through a suppressor. Almost simultaneously, Quinn could feel the air change as the projectiles passed by only inches from him. He dove forward, pushing the swinging door open as another bullet smashed into the doorframe.

He rolled forward, then shoved the door closed with his feet. He took two quick breaths, then jumped back on his feet and glanced around.

The kitchen was about half the size of the dining area. Along one wall were two ovens, a large blackened grill, and several burners. On the wall opposite was a prep table, much of it covered by boxes and bags of ingredients. It wasn’t the cleanest kitchen Quinn had ever seen, not even close.

Orlando and Nate were at the far end of the room, near the back door. The waitress and an older man—Quinn guessed perhaps the cook—were huddled on the floor under the prep table.

Quinn moved over to them.

“Do you have a pantry or a restroom or something?” he asked. “Someplace you can hide in?”

“What’s going on?” the man asked.

Quinn looked at the waitress, repeating his question without saying a word.

“Yes,” she said. She pointed toward a door just beyond the grill.

“Get in there now. After it gets quiet, wait at least thirty minutes, then come out.”

They didn’t move.

“Now,” Quinn ordered.

The woman nodded and pulled the man up with her. Within moments, they had disappeared into a small storage closest.

Quinn joined the others at the back door. “Everyone okay?” he asked.

Nods all around.

Quinn handed the weapon he’d acquired from the man out front to Orlando. Now they were all armed.

“No suppressor on that,” he told her. “So be judicious.” He looked at the back door. “This and the front are the only exits?”

“One-story building, shops on each side,” Orlando said. “So just the two as far as I’ve seen.”

Suddenly they heard someone running through the dining room.

“Keep an eye on this,” Quinn said to Nate, pointing at the back door.

He didn’t have to tell Orlando anything. She followed him without hesitation.

“How many do you think?” she whispered as they neared the front of the kitchen.

“Counting your friend on the floor out there, three or four total,” he said. More than that would have drawn too much attention.

She nodded in agreement.

Quinn motioned for her to take cover behind the central prep table, then he tucked himself in next to a storage cabinet. From beyond the door, he could hear breathing. Not labored, but deep nonetheless.

Quinn gripped his gun in both hands, then concentrated all his attention on the people beyond the door.

A footstep, so light it was almost nothing. Then two steps, simultaneous. Two people.

The door inched open, its old hinges emitting a low creak.

Quinn waited, hidden from view by the cabinet. He could hear two people quietly enter the kitchen. The door began to close behind them.

Quinn took a deep breath.

“Drop them,” he said as he pushed himself out, gun leveled at the new arrivals. Men, dressed much like their friend had been.

The man nearest the entrance moved the hand holding a gun quickly toward Quinn, while his partner ran to his left. Quinn fired first, catching the man square in the chest. He then turned his SIG toward the partner. But the man had crouched out of sight behind the far end of the prep table.

“Don’t be stupid,” Quinn said. “Put down the gun and step out.”

Quinn caught a glimpse of the barrel of a gun turning toward him. He dove to the floor just as the man’s weapon went off.

“Throw it down. Now!” the man said.

He stood up, his gun pointed at Quinn. That was unfortunate for him. He was paying so much attention to Quinn, he didn’t see the heavy skillet in Orlando’s hand rushing toward his head.

The pan connected solidly against his temple, staggering him.

As Quinn jumped up, the man tried to raise his gun. This time when the skillet connected with his skull, he dropped to the floor.

“You could have just shot him,” Quinn whispered to her.

“You said to be judicious.”

Quinn smirked. “Check him.”

While she bent over the man, Quinn moved to the dining area door. The two men in the kitchen and the one on the floor near the front entrance, that was three. If there was a fourth person on the team, he would most likely be in back, watching the alley. But best not to take any chances.

Quinn eased into the dining room, keeping low. He did a quick sweep, but with the exception of unconscious man number one, the room was still empty. It wouldn’t be for long, though. Quinn could hear the wailing of at least two approaching police cars. They were still several blocks away, but they would be here soon.

He ran back into the kitchen.

“We’re going out the back,” he said as he moved quickly through the room to the rear door.

Orlando was already there, standing next to Nate.

“What if there’s someone else out there?” Nate said.

Quinn moved a finger to his mouth, quieting his apprentice. The sirens from the police cars were very near now. Any moment they would be entering the parking lot out front.

“Cover me,” he said to Orlando.

She nodded. Quinn counted to five, then pulled the door open.

Nothing happened.

Holding his gun in front of him, he walked quickly into the alley and did a 360 sweep. Again, nothing. If there had been another one of the team waiting to stop their escape, the sirens must have scared him off.

“Let’s go,” Quinn said.

At the Marriott, Quinn and Orlando kept watch while Nate went up to the room and quickly gathered their things. After that, they went to Aunt Jay’s house. By then, it was almost 11 p.m.

“There’re two bedrooms upstairs, you guys can take those,” Orlando said as they entered the living room.

“What about you?” Nate asked.

“I’ve been using the guest bedroom down here.”

That was all Nate needed. He grabbed his bag and headed up the stairs.

“Do you have any of that lemonade left?” Quinn asked.

“I can do better than that,” she said.

She led him into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was a six-pack of Kirin beer sitting on the top shelf.

“Picked it up after everyone left this afternoon,” she said. “Bottle opener’s in the drawer over there.”

Quinn retrieved it while she pulled out two bottles.

“Come on,” she said.

She headed toward the back door, opened it, and stepped outside. Quinn followed.

The door let out onto a short flight of steps that led down to a tiny backyard, perhaps twenty feet wide by fifteen deep. They descended the steps, and Orlando sat in one of two ratty-looking lawn chairs in the middle of the yard.

“Are you sure those things won’t break?” Quinn asked as he

stepped onto the grass. “Not the one I’m in,” she said. He handed Orlando the bottle opener, then carefully lowered his

weight into the empty chair, ready to jump up if it seemed like it was

about to collapse. The chair held. Orlando popped off the caps, then handed him one of the bottles. “Skoal,” he said, holding out his bottle. She smiled, then tapped her bottle against his. Without another

word, they both took deep drinks. “They must have figured out who I was, and followed me out here from D.C.,” Quinn said. “Then what?” Orlando asked. “Tracked you down at the Marriott,

then followed you to the restaurant?” He shrugged. “How else?” She didn’t look convinced, but it was the only thing that made sense. “If that’s true, they could have followed you here earlier today,” she

said. He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Someone would have been waiting here for us if they had.”

She took another sip of her beer. “This is the first time they’ve actively come after you, right? Until now, they’ve only been reacting to your presence.”

She was right. At the house in Houston, at the gallery in D.C., it had been Quinn who’d made the initial contact. “They must think I know something,” he said. “Probably some