The Unwanted (6 page)

"Ah . . . no. I don't. I already took a chance trying to take him here at the church. He's out in the woods now. I don't have any eyes out there."

Peter said nothing for several seconds. When he did speak, there was a tremor in his voice. He was either scared or angry as hell. "You have to find him, Quinn. You have to stop him. Jesus, at least find a way to delay him until my men get there."

Peter's insistence surprised Quinn. "It's too late, Peter. He's already got a good lead on me. Plus he's a marksman,
and
has at least two weapons on him . . . it's too much of a risk. Sorry."

Peter took a second before he spoke. "Our deal was no questions. That means you do what I need, right?"

Quinn could feel his own anger rising. The deal—made the previous year—was three jobs, no questions. It had been made when Quinn had been at a disadvantage and needed Peter's help. It had taken Peter six months to finally invoke the first of the promised "no question" assignments. If the next two were similar, they would be the last Quinn ever worked for Peter and the Office. About the only good thing was that none of them were freebies. Quinn's standard rate of thirty thousand a week with a two-week minimum still applied.

"You're losing time," Peter said.

"Fine," Quinn said. There
was
one thing he could try that was marginally safer. "Nate, get him off the line."

A second later the signal cleared up.

"He's gone," Nate said.

"I need you out on the road. You think you can do that?"

"I can do whatever you need," Nate said, immediately defensive. "We already went over this."

They had. Dozens of times over the last several months. It was just that Quinn was not yet convinced. The truth was he still wasn't sure Nate was ready to be back in the field. It had only been eight months since his apprentice had lost the lower portion of his right leg when it was crushed during a job in Singapore.
A personal job,
Quinn reminded himself. One he should have left Nate home on. But instead he'd brought Nate along, and in the end had been forced to give the go-ahead on the amputation while his apprentice was unconscious.

"Go south," Quinn said. "Listen for a car door or an engine starting. The shooter's got to have a vehicle out here somewhere. I'll go north."

"I'm on my way."

As soon as Quinn reached the road, he turned north and began a quick jog along the left edge of the blacktop. He knew there was no way he would have been able to find the assassin once he took off into the woods. But the guy had to have a way out. A car, probably parked along a dirt road that led into one of the fields lining the narrow highway. Similar to the one Quinn had used for the van. None of the roads were longer than a couple hundred yards, and their only outlet was to the highway.

The assassin had headed west, but the nearest road in that direction was at least two miles away. Since he had had to follow either Otero or the other party to the meet, there would have been no way for him to drive over to the distant road, then trek back two miles on foot in time to get set up in the tree and pick off his targets. So he must have come on the same road as everyone else. That meant even though he had run west, he would soon be turning either north or south to circle back to where he'd left his ride.

There was a little-used dirt road just ahead on the right. Quinn remembered it from his earlier recon of the area, but passed by it with just a glance. It was too close. Quinn and Nate would have noticed any car that would have turned down it, even if someone had come in slow with his lights off.

"Anything?" Quinn said into his mic.

"No," Nate said. His breath sounded a little labored. "I'm already about seventy-five yards south of the road the van's on. How far do you want me to go?"

"Until I say stop," Quinn said. "He's not going to be close."

There was another break in the brush, with two parallel ruts worn into the ground heading west. Quinn slowed this time, taking an extra hard look. Around fifty feet in, there was a solid dark shape. It was out of place among the more wispy brush.

Quinn turned cautiously down the path. After only a few steps, the shape became a car, a sedan. Dark, probably blue or black. As he neared he recognized it as a Ford Mondeo.

The kind of car Otero was supposed to arrive in,
Quinn thought. Of course, that didn't mean the man he was chasing hadn't arrived in one either.

The vehicle appeared to be empty, so he quickened his pace, stopping just short of the rear passenger door on the left side. There was still no movement from inside. He held still for a moment, listening for anyone approaching through the brush. All was quiet.

He took a step forward, then peered through the window.

No one. Only a map, half-folded and jammed between the two front seats.

Otero's car,
Quinn decided.

The evidence wasn't perfect, but the fact that the map had been stowed between the seats instead of tossed onto the passenger seat could very well have meant there had been two people riding up front. But more than that, the half-open map itself was a better indication that this wasn't the assassin's car. The assassin would have been following Otero, not worrying about how to get to the final destination. In fact, he wouldn't even have known where the final destination was.

Quinn ran back to the highway, then headed north again.

He knew he had to be close now. If Otero had been the one the assassin followed, his vehicle couldn't be too far away. He probably had been able to place a tracking bug on the Mondeo, then had sat back and followed a mile or two behind. Any closer and Otero would have noticed. But once the Mondeo had stopped moving, the assassin would have closed the distance, parking as close as he dared without drawing attention.

"Car," Nate said.

Quinn stopped instantly, and turned to the south as if he could see Nate on the road in the distance. "Is it him?"

"No," Nate said. "It's about a mile off, heading toward us. But it'll be here in a minute or two."

"Make sure whoever it is doesn't see you."

He could hear the car now, too. It wasn't as loud as the two cars earlier had been, apparently traveling at a more civil pace.

As Quinn turned back toward the north, he heard the unmistakable sound of an engine starting. It was close, maybe another fifty feet ahead of him, and off to the right, hidden by the brush.

Quinn raced forward, his SIG in his right hand. In seconds, he saw the path the car had taken into the brush. It was another old rutted road that probably hadn't been used in years.

"It just passed me," Nate said. "Delivery van. One guy up front. Didn't see anyone else."

Quinn could hear the van on the road behind him approaching. And ahead, he could also hear the assassin's car. Its engine was only marginally louder than the van's.

Almost at once there was light in front and behind him. The van was cresting a small hill and soon would be completely visible to Quinn. And on the rutted path ahead of him, reverse lights, bright in the dark night, and warning all that the assassin was about to back out.

Quinn slipped behind a tree five feet from where the dirt road met the highway. He glanced to the south. The van had come into view and was traveling down the blacktop, showing no signs of having noticed the lights from the assassin's car.

And on the dirt road just ahead of him, Quinn could hear the tires of the assassin's car begin to move along the ruts toward the highway.

The timing was horrible. If they didn't run into each other, then it would be damn close. And any kind of incident would bring out the local officials. Quinn couldn't have that.

He moved around the tree and pushed through a couple of bushes until he was standing at the edge of the rutted road. The highway was fifteen feet to his left, and the assassin's car was only five to his right.

Quinn raised the SIG and pulled the trigger without any further thought.

There was the all too familiar
thup
as his bullet passed through the suppressor, followed instantaneously by the crunch of the rear window safety glass as it was ripped from its frame. Red lights flashed as the assassin stomped on the brakes.

On the highway behind them, there was the double tap of a horn, a friendly "Hey, I'm out here" from the van, then a second later the sound of the larger vehicle as it passed by and continued on in the night.

Quinn stayed focused on the assassin's car. It was a four-door hatchback that could have been picked up at any rental place on the island. Only the good people at Hertz weren't going to be too happy with the blown-out window and whatever other damage Quinn's shot had caused.

The assassin had ducked out of sight below seat level. Going for his gun, Quinn knew. But he had no idea how many people he was facing, or where they were positioned. Any defense he would put up would be a guess.

Quinn took four quick silent steps through the brush parallel to the car. This being Ireland, the driver's seat was on the right, the side nearest him. As he drew level with the driver's side door, he could see the assassin hunched low. The man was checking his gun to make sure there was a round in the chamber.

Quinn squeezed the trigger of his SIG again, a warning shot through the driver's side window. It ripped the air only inches above the assassin, then exited through the window on the other side.

The man froze.

Quinn motioned for him to put the gun down.

Though they killed for a living, he knew of no assassin who had a death wish. When pushed into a corner, they would bide their time, and wait for an opportunity to use their skills in an attempt to extract themselves from a bad situation.

Quinn's new friend, though, seemed to be working from a different handbook.

At first he pretended to set the gun down, but as he did, the barrel turned toward Quinn.

Before the man could get a shot off, Quinn pulled his SIG's trigger for a third time. This time it was no warning. The bullet smashed through the man's palm and grazed the bottom edge of the pistol's grip, sending it spinning to the floor, out of the man's reach.

"I've gone almost a mile and haven't found anything," Nate said in Quinn's ear. "I don't think he's out this way. I mean, I would have seen him by now, right?"

CHAPTER
4

QUINN WAITED UNTIL NATE GOT THERE BEFORE
doing anything about the wounded man's hand. He had Nate search the trunk for something that might work as a bandage.

"He's got an overnight bag in here," Nate said.

There was the sound of a zipper, then a few moments later Nate held up an expensive-looking black shirt.

"Hugo Boss," he said. "That work?"

"Perfect," Quinn said.

Nate tossed the shirt through the window at the assassin.

"Wrap that around your palm," Quinn said. "Probably should make it tight. You're quite a bleeder."

The man did as Quinn suggested. It wasn't easy, and he had to start over more than once, but no one was about to give him any help.

Quinn glanced at Nate, then looked back into the car. "You all right?" he asked.

Nate's face was sweaty, and even in the low light Quinn thought he could see red splotches on his apprentice's neck.

"I'm fine," Nate said.

Quinn looked over again, this time his gaze moving momentarily down toward Nate's legs.

"It's fine," Nate said, noticing Quinn's line of sight. "No problems. I just ran over a mile to get back here, for God's sake. You'd be sweating, too."

Maybe,
Quinn thought. But he said nothing. He'd only allowed Nate to accompany him this time because he was tired of saying no. That, and Orlando had argued it was time.

"If you keep putting it off," she had said, "you'll never know what he can do. And after a while, you're going to start hurting his confidence."

A cleaner without confidence was either working in some other field or more likely dead. So Quinn had reluctantly agreed to let Nate come along, all the time wondering if his missing lower leg, replaced now by a man-made prosthesis—albeit state-of-the-art—would be a hindrance or just an annoyance. So far, much to Quinn's surprise, it had been neither.

"Clear his weapons," Quinn said, nodding toward the bleeding man in the car.

Nate nodded, then walked around to the other side of the vehicle. Within a few seconds, he'd removed both the man's pistol and the sniper rifle, and had patted the man down in case he was carrying anything else.

"Clear," Nate said. He then pulled himself out of the car and brought the weapons back around, setting them against a tree ten feet away.

"You should let me go," the assassin said. They were the first words he had spoken. His accent was American. Midwest. Not Chicago, more like Kansas. Of course, it could have been just a put-on. "My client won't be pleased."