The Unwanted (29 page)

A security guard emerged from the building and started walking toward him.

"Excuse me, sir," the man said. "Can I help you?"

"I was just going to take the stairs up," Quinn said as he returned his hand to his side.

"I'm sorry, sir. The stairs aren't open to the public today. If you'll just return the way you came and take the ramp up, that's the quickest way from here."

"It used to be open, though, didn't it?" Quinn asked. "I remember taking it in the past."

"It's closed today, sir."

Quinn smiled. "Sorry to have bothered you."

"No problem. Have a good day."

The guard stayed where he was as Quinn turned and began retracing his steps along the pathway. That was a good thing. In fact it was very possible it had been the only thing that kept Quinn alive. For in the bushes near the base of the stairs, Quinn had seen him. The man in the suit.

He had somehow gotten past the security guard's gaze, and was lying in wait. All he would need to do was to slip under the chain barrier and climb up the stairs at the appropriate time to catch Quinn and Primus together.

Only now Quinn knew he was there. And the suit had to assume the same.

Quinn walked rapidly back into the central court, then glanced at his watch. 11:57 a.m.

He only had three minutes until the meet time, and he had failed to neutralize the suit. Not good.

There was a tiny voice in the back of his mind that said maybe the men in the suits had been with Primus. His protection team.
Maybe.
But it seemed even more probable to Quinn that, like the assassin in Ireland, they had been sent to derail the meeting and permanently remove Primus.

Quinn would just be collateral damage. A necessary hit, but a nameless body representing those Primus was working with. It would be Primus who was the big prize. With him gone, the pipeline of information would be sealed.

Quinn ran into the central court. Unlike the sparse crowd Nate had described earlier, there were several dozen people there now, many in line to buy tickets, while others milled around waiting for the museum doors to open at noon. Most of the tables were also occupied. People having early lunches or drinking cups of coffee. Some in groups chatting, others alone reading the paper or sipping their drinks. A few children were even running around.

Quinn scanned those close by, but no one matched what he was looking for. Dark salmon polo shirt and jeans. That had been all the description Primus had given Peter.

Quinn moved farther into the crowd, knowing he had to find Primus immediately, before the remaining assassin could get to them.

Dark salmon polo shirt.

He glanced over at the ticket lines. There seemed to be an equal mix of men and women, most older, retirement age. Noon on a weekday, most of the younger set was too busy working toward their first heart attacks to visit a museum.

Dark salmon.

Goddammit!

There were several polo shirts, but the majority were either blue or black or white. None salmon colored.

His gaze moved toward the Ahmanson Building, scanning toward the right.

Dark salmon polo—

There.

His gaze zeroed in on the back of a man at the far end of the central court. A polo shirt that looked almost brown but could pass for dark salmon. The guy's black hair was trimmed short and had more than a hint of silver running along the sides and across the back. And on the top there was very little hair at all. Fifties, maybe, or a youthful sixty.

He was headed toward the northwest exit.
Primus?

Quinn glanced over his shoulder to see if he could spot the suit, but there was no sign of the potential assassin. Ahead, polo shirt had picked up his pace and was nearing the path between the buildings that would take him out of sight.

Quinn weaved through the growing crowd, his own pace a step below a jog.

"Sorry," he said as he sidestepped a couple who'd moved into his way.

Primus was only a few steps away from disappearing around the corner. Quinn started running, acting as though he was trying to catch up with a friend. It seemed to work. People moved out of his way, but few even gave him a second glance.

As the gap closed, the man must have heard Quinn, for he glanced over his shoulder, the look on his face a mixture of anger and worry.

"Hey," Quinn said, sounding like a friend. "Glad I caught you. It's been a long time."

Primus slowed, allowing Quinn to catch up.

"Peter sent me," Quinn said in a low voice.

"I know who you are," Primus said through unmoving lips. "But the meet's off."

Quinn had a flash of Orlando kneeling next to the dead man by the observation pit, her shirt soaking with her own blood.

"I don't think so," he said.

Primus's eyes narrowed. "You come rushing in, not caring who notices you. You could have gotten us both killed. We're through here."

"No," Quinn said as he clamped his hand on Primus's arm. "We're not."

The man tried to pull it back, but Quinn was in much better shape. In fact, Quinn would have wagered that the man hadn't been in a gym in thirty years. He was carrying a spare tire around his waist that, at the very least, would get a small car to the next gas station.

"Stop it," the man said. "Let go of me."

Quinn ignored the suggestion. Gripping tightly just above Primus's left elbow, he pulled the man around so they were walking back into the central court area.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? I said let go of me."

Quinn glanced at the man, then returned his gaze to the crowd, scanning for trouble.

"I'm trying to save your life," Quinn said. "So I would appreciate it if you would shut the hell up."

CHAPTER
20

PRIMUS SEEMED INTELLIGENT ENOUGH TO KNOW
when to speak and when to follow directions. He allowed Quinn to lead him through the central court area and down the walkway that led out to the sidewalk along Wilshire Boulevard.

If this had been New York, in no time they'd have been sitting in the back of a cab heading safely away. But this was L.A., where if you wanted a taxi you had to call for one, then wait at least twenty minutes until it arrived. So they were on foot until Quinn could secure a ride.

There was a crosswalk to the left of the LACMA entrance. A small group of people were already waiting at the curb, several leaning forward, anticipating the changing of the traffic light on Wilshire. A second later the pedestrians got their green light to cross the street.

"Come on," Quinn said.

He yanked the man toward the street. The red palm that meant wait started blinking in the crosswalk signal just as they stepped off the curb.

"Faster."

Primus complied, matching Quinn stride for stride.

They had already passed the divider in the middle of the road and were halfway across the two eastbound lanes when something whizzed through the air several feet to the left of Quinn's head.

"What the fuck was that?" Primus said, his step faltering.

Quinn knew exactly what it was, but this wasn't the time for talk. Instead, he pushed Primus to the right. Another bullet flew behind them, and a woman's voice cried out in pain. And then screams everywhere.

Quinn pulled Primus to the right, altering their path again, before reaching the curb.

"Jesus," Primus said. "Someone's shooting at us!"

Quinn held on tight, willing the man to remain calm. Just beyond the sidewalk was one of the older parking lots used by LACMA.

"Follow me," Quinn said.

He guided Primus between the parked cars, then pulled Primus behind a Ford SUV and stopped. Quinn peered through the vehicle's windows toward the museum. There was no one on the street. The pedestrians had scattered when the attack began.

Since the bullets had come at a downward angle, Quinn scanned the roofline of the Bing Building looking for the other suit. He spotted him almost at once. The man was hidden behind one of the small concrete blocks that decorated the roofline. But either he was a lousy shot, or he'd just reached the roof as Quinn and Primus began crossing the street and was rushed.

"That was meant for me, wasn't it?" Primus said.

Quinn glanced over, then followed Primus's gaze back toward the street.

The woman who had been hit was leaning against the back side of a large metal utility box near the corner. It was just big enough to shield her and the man with her from the shooter. The man, her husband perhaps, was talking to her as he pressed his hand down on her wound. She seemed to still be conscious, but she would need medical attention very soon.

"I think it might have been meant for both of us," Quinn said.

He looked back at the roof where the assassin had been, but he was gone.

Sirens, dozens of them, wailed their way toward LACMA. The assassin would have heard them sooner up where he had been, and realized it was time to cut out.

"Let's go," Quinn said. He started to turn, but Primus stopped him.

"We're going to get shot!" he said.

"He's gone," Quinn told him.

"Gone?" Primus glanced at the building, then back at Quinn. "How can you be sure?"

"You hear the sirens?"

The man nodded.

"He's gone. Now come on."

"What if you're wrong?"

"I was right about getting you the hell out of there, wasn't I?" Quinn said.

Primus looked at Quinn for a moment, then nodded.

Fearing the whole museum complex, including the parking lots across the street, would go into lockdown the moment the police arrived, Quinn led Primus into the neighborhood farther south of Wilshire, then over to Olympic before heading west toward Fairfax.

He found what he was looking for near the intersection with San Vicente Boulevard. Another parking lot, this one serving a Shakey's Pizza at one end and a Starbucks Coffee at the other. There was enough room for maybe forty cars, not huge but big enough.

Quinn concentrated on the cars behind the pizza parlor. The restaurant had no windows along the back, so he could work unobserved. And since it was only a little after noon, most of the car owners would most likely be in the middle of their meals and not returning soon.

It took him under a minute to find a car that was open.

"Get in," he said to Primus.

"You're going to steal a car?" the man asked like it was the crime of the year.

"Get in," Quinn said. His tone left no room for further conversation.

Primus climbed in through the driver's door, then maneuvered himself over the center console and into the passenger seat. Quinn followed him in and closed the door.

"Belt up," he said as soon as he got the engine running.

"You've done this before," the man said.

"Once or twice."

Quinn dropped the transmission into reverse, and looked out the rear window as he began to back up. Their new ride was only halfway out of its space when two men came around the corner of the building. Young guys, in slacks and dress shirts. They came to a dead stop at the sight of the car pulling out of the space.

"Shit," Quinn said.

"What?"

Quinn didn't have time to answer. He hit the accelerator, whipping the car the rest of the way out of the space, just missing the passenger van parked in the next spot. There was a moment's pause as Quinn shoved the car into drive, and the two men continued to stare at them. Then they all began to move at once, the car and the two men.

The men were able to pull level with the rear fender as Quinn reached the exit, but that was as close as they got. Quinn swung to the right and sped off down an apartment-lined street. In his rearview mirror, he could see the men give up running.

But not the chase,
Quinn thought as he saw one of them pull out a cell phone.

Quinn zigzagged through the streets, moving south, then west, then south until they reached Venice Boulevard. He headed west, keeping pace with other cars and blending in. Soon they would be in Culver City, an independent city with its own police force. A stolen car from Los Angeles would not be high on the priority list of the Culver City PD.

He glanced over at his passenger. Primus had sweat beading on his brow and balding dome. His right hand was rubbing the spot on his left arm Quinn had been holding on to, a grimace of pain on his face.

"You all right?" Quinn asked.