The Enraged (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) (25 page)

“All right, it’s called O & O.”

“Ah, so that’s O & O. I’ve heard of them, but have never had the pleasure until now. Not the kind of place I’d ever do work for. They don’t exactly have the best rep.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“My understanding is that O & O does work for hire.”

“If you’ve heard of O & O, then you know it does.”

“Then don’t you see? The client who sent them after us is most likely the one who sold Peter out to prevent him from looking into his wife’s murder. Whether they pulled the trigger or not, they’re the ones responsible for his death. Now they seem to be interested in taking out my friends and me. So what I need you to do is tell me who this client is.”

“You’ll forgive me for declining to give you that information,” she said.

“Actually, I won’t.”

“Let me rephrase. Decline to give you that information at the moment. You understand that I can’t just give you a name without doing some due diligence on my end.” The irony of her statement was not lost on her.

“I believe I can help you with that. Expect an e-mail from me. You’ll want to examine the attached files very carefully.”

“You have my e-mail address?”

“Of course,” he said. “Do you have a pen?”

“Yes.”

He gave her a phone number. “I expect to hear from you very, very soon. And know this. I’m going to find out who these people are one way or the other, and you’d much rather be on board now than have me look later into why you were unwilling to help.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Quinn?”

“It is.”

CHAPTER
29

SEATTLE

T
HE MOLE HAD
no
idea what he was going to tell Griffin if Orlando and Quinn didn’t provide him direction. He could go ahead and give up this Misty Blake woman, but he had a pretty good idea what Griffin would do if he found the woman, and the Mole couldn’t bring himself to be a part of that.

Perhaps he could generate a fictional identity. He could easily seed data all over the place to support it. He played it through in his mind, and grimaced. With enough time, he could do it, but that he didn’t have. One little glitch and it would be a house of cards tumbling down right on top of him.

So…what? Keep lying and say he couldn’t find anything? Griffin would never go for that.

The only real solution was if he didn’t have to worry about Griffin anymore.

He folded his arms and pursed his lips. Now there was an idea. He couldn’t execute it himself—not the physical part, anyway—but he could help someone else achieve that goal.

Quinn, for instance.

Griffin was already moving into the cleaner’s crosshairs. If the Mole could make sure Quinn had a clear shot, that would be problem solved.

All right. So what’s the first thing Quinn would want to know?

Where Griffin was, of course.

The Mole woke his computer and opened Slime, his self-written tracking software. Slime was a constant work in progress. He tweaked it sometimes two or three times a week, improving its capabilities and success rate. It could employ a variety of methods, the most common being the ability to track a cell phone.

The Mole didn’t try inputting Griffin’s number, though. He was sure the phone would be untraceable via traditional methods. That was fine. There was another, backdoor route he could try. He’d used it before, after the last time Griffin paid him a visit, when the Mole had wanted to make sure the man had actually left Seattle. It meant sending Griffin an e-mail, but as long as he had a legitimate reason for it, there shouldn’t be a problem.

Using the tracking program, he opened a blank e-mail with an embedded bot that would travel to Griffin’s phone and report back. Until the message was deleted, it would act as a tracking bug.

In the body, he typed:

Quick update. Making progress on woman. Looks like she’s former intelligence but will have more info when I contact you later.

M

He read it again, felt it would stand up to scrutiny, and hit
SEND
. He then switched to the tracking control screen and waited.

With the exception of the blinking cursor in the upper left corner, the box was empty.

“Let’s go, baby. Show me where he is.”

The cursor continued to blink, unmoving.

“Come on, you son of a bitch. Where are you?”

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

There was at least one other time, with a different target, when the bot had not sent a message back, but the Mole was confident he’d taken care of that error. So why was this one not—

Suddenly the cursor began to move, spitting out a set of GPS coordinates. Once the line was complete, the Mole copied it, pasted it into Google Maps, and was almost instantaneously provided with a location.

For the first time since he’d been shooting aliens with his team, the Mole smiled.

CHAPTER
30

ISLA DE CERVANTES

O
RLANDO WAS ASLEEP
when Quinn and Nate reentered her room. Liz was sitting in the chair, working on the laptop.

“How is she?” Quinn asked.

“She’s okay,” Liz said. “Just tired.”

Quinn’s gaze lingered on Orlando for a moment longer before moving down to the laptop screen.

“That’s a little better,” he said.

The blurry picture of the man at the Turkish accident scene had become more defined.

“I tried another pass,” she said, “but there was no visible change, so I think this is as good as it’s going to get.”

Quinn took the computer from her so he could get a better look. While the man’s face was still hazy, it was clear enough to be recognizable, especially to someone who knew him. Unfortunately, Quinn didn’t.

He showed Nate. “Ever seen him?”

“No,” Nate said after he scanned the face.

“Okay, let’s get this out to some people we trust. See if any of them can ID the guy. Can you two do that?”

Nate and Liz looked uncomfortable, but Nate said, “Sure.”

Quinn considered them for a moment. “Something going on here I need to know about?”

“No,” Nate said.

“Yes,” Liz countered.

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “And that would be…?”

Liz glanced at her boyfriend and then at her brother. “Nate’s not exactly fond of sharing information with me.”

“It’s not that,” Nate said. “It’s—”

“He thinks I can’t handle it. There’s also the whole keep-the-secrets-in-the-club thing you’ve all got going.” She pointed at her brother. “That’s your fault.” To Nate, she said, “I have news for you. I’m
in
the club now. Have been since the moment I arrived in Los Angeles and found you missing. You want this to work out between us? Don’t coddle me, and don’t keep things from me.”

Only three weeks ago, Quinn would have argued in Nate’s favor, telling his sister she didn’t need to know certain things. But she was right. She’d played a valuable part in the search for Nate and Peter, and had handled herself exceptionally well. And then there was Orlando. He didn’t need her to almost die for him to know how important she was in his life, but it reinforced the point nonetheless. Being with her—their loving each other—made everything better, but their relationship would have never lasted if they’d kept secrets from each other. As much as he hated to admit it, Nate and Liz were good together. He loved both of them, and knew they deserved what he and Orlando had. If they could get past acting like idiots.

He took a deep breath and said, “Dear God, are you kidding me? Nate, sometimes there’s an exception that trumps any of the rules I’ve taught you. Can you not see that Liz is that exception? Don’t screw it up. And Liz, there’s a club of secrets. And yes, you’re in it now, but sometimes both Nate
and
I will forget that and balk before telling you something. It doesn’t mean we don’t trust you. It just means we want to keep you safe. Point it out to us when it happens, then move on.” They both gaped at him. “Are we good? Great, then let’s get those e-mails sent.”

While they got started, he walked over to Orlando and ran his hand lightly over the top of her head.

“Nice speech,” she whispered, her eyes still closed.

“Oh, you were listening, were you?”

“Kind of hard to sleep with all the noise.”

His playful manner disappeared. “Oh, sorry. We’ll move down to the cafeteria.”

“Don’t you dare. I like having people here.”

He swept his finger past her temple. “Are you sure?”

When she didn’t answer, he realized she’d fallen back asleep. He was half tempted to go ahead and tell the others to take it out of the room, but he knew that wasn’t what Orlando wanted.

A few minutes later, his phone vibrated. He pulled it out and saw the call was from
UKNOWN
. He moved over near the door and answered.

“Where are your friends hiding?” the Mole asked. The machine-like monotone was still there, but his halting speech pattern was gone.

“I don’t think I need to tell you that.”

“Then let me tell you. Western Virginia, or perhaps West Virginia.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because my client is heading in that direction as we speak.”

Quinn tensed. “Where exactly is he?”

“At the moment, on I-66 ten miles west of Marshall, Virginia.”

Quinn didn’t have a map in front of him, but if the Mole’s client was still on I-66, he had to be at least forty-five minutes to an hour away from Daeng and the others. “Are you going to tell me his name now?”

“That depends. Can you promise me he won’t be a problem for me anymore?”

“If he’s involved in what I think he is, then yes.”

“That’s not a guarantee.”

“It’s the best I can do at the moment.”

A pause, then, “Griffin. His name is Griffin.”

__________

SAN FRANCISCO

H
ELEN CHO STOOD
at her office window. She could see all the way to the Bay Bridge and Treasure Island. But she wasn’t looking at the sights. She wasn’t looking at anything at all.

On the desk behind her, her computer screen still displayed the crime scene photos from the car wreck in Turkey. It was definitely a crime scene, not an accident, as she and almost everyone else believed for so long.

She had met Miranda Keyes once, at some sort of DC function, its purpose unremembered. She could tell from that one encounter that Miranda was destined for great things. That’s what made what Helen had thought was an accident so much more tragic. A strong, charismatic, intelligent woman struck down long before her full potential was realized. That was the extent of what she’d known of the woman then, but that wasn’t the case now.

Her intercom buzzed. Reluctantly, she tore herself from the window and answered. “Yes?”

“Mr. Quinn is on the line again,” David said.

Of course he is
. “Put him through.”

She sagged into her chair and stared at the display screen of her office phone before touching the blinking line. “I believe I said
I’d
be in touch with you.”

“You’ve had plenty of time to read what I sent you, and check what you needed to check,” he said. “But let me help you. Your client’s name is Griffin.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“Not important. I just need you to confirm.”

She clicked through the pictures until she found the one she was looking for. “Griffin is not the client,” she said, looking at the photo.

“You’re lying to me.”

“Griffin is not the client, but he does work
for
the client.”

A pause. “Then who is his boss?”

“You have a picture of him. It’s the enhanced close-up of the man at the crime scene.”

“You know him?”

“I do.”

“Who is he?”

“A story first,” she said.

“I don’t have time for stories.”

“It’ll be quick, I promise. It’s an age-old tale of ambition, jealousy, and greed.” The story she told was one she’d read in an archived FBI report she’d dug up after reading what Quinn had sent her.

When she finished, he said, “How reliable is this story?”

“I’ll need to check sources, but given what you…well, I guess it’s more what
Peter
unearthed, I would say very.”

He was quiet for a moment. “The enforcer. Griffin, right?”

“Yes.”

“And the second man—he’s the one in the picture?”

“Correct.”

“You want to tell me his name now?”

“Kyle Morten,” she said.

“And the third person? Morten’s client?”

“That, Mr. Quinn, is a bit trickier.”

CHAPTER
31

TREVOR HOLLOW

T
HE RAIN HAD
started an hour earlier. For the first few minutes, it had been an on-again, off-again sprinkle, but then the storm began to assert itself, and the smattering of rain became a downpour. The water beat against the roof in an endless series of crescendos, while the accompanying wind howled past the windows.

Daeng was used to hearing storms like this. In Bangkok, the clouds would roll in most afternoons and soak the city in minutes. But those storms were gone as fast as they came, and Daeng had the sense this one would last for a while.

“Did you touch anything over here?” Misty asked.

She was in the kitchen near the counter where the dishwasher was located, in one hand a bottle of bleach, in the other a wad of paper towels.

“I didn’t, but wipe it down anyway.”

While she splashed bleach onto the counter, Daeng finished removing any fingerprints from the chairs around the dining table.

Their cleaning frenzy was initiated by a call from Quinn ten minutes earlier.