Flight 12: A Jonathan Quinn Thriller: Flight 12 Begins Series Book

by Brett Battles

  But Fischer had taken the courier’s bag without searching it or the woman first, assuming the chip was inside. Morgan had gone through the bag while Fischer was driving them back to the hotel.

  When they realized the chip wasn’t there, they had rushed back to the park, hoping the body hadn’t been discovered yet. Morgan was, at first, pleased not to find a battalion of police swarming through the area, but what he spotted a moment later was worse.

  A couple of pros were watching the park. If Morgan hadn’t taken the time to do a drive-by first, Fischer would have likely blundered right in and been shot dead by now. How someone could be so talented with a weapon and yet so clueless when it came to spycraft, Morgan had never been able to figure out. If not for Fischer’s skills, Morgan would have let the assassin walk into an early grave years ago.

  After parking on a neighboring street, they worked their way onto the roof of a building a few hundred feet away from the body so they could get a better idea of what was going on. Not long after they settled in, one of the two pros left the park and picked the lock of a nearby restaurant.

  “Must be hungry,” Fischer had said.

  Morgan knew better.

  A little more than thirty minutes later, a man walked onto the street below them and headed for the restaurant. From the way he seemed to take everything in, Morgan knew he was another pro.

  The door was locked when he tried it, but as he walked away the guy who’d hidden inside came out. Two more men crossed the street to join them, then the guy from the restaurant led the three newcomers to the park. Though the trees blocked much of what was happening from Morgan’s view, it became apparent when the two original men left that some kind of shift change was on.

  Morgan didn’t think the new men were there just to watch, though. Why send three to do a job two or even one could handle? Body removers, he thought. It was the only thing that made sense.

  One of the trio—the Asian guy—left, while the other two stayed with the body.

  Morgan pulled out his phone.

  “What are you doing?” Fischer asked.

  “Lighting a little fire.”

  He dialed 911, special software in his phone scrambling his caller ID.

  “Nine-one-one, where’s the emergency?”

  Morgan gave the operator the address of the building across the street. “There’s a Japanese place on the first floor. Some men just broke in.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. The doors are open now.”

  “How many people?”

  “Four, I think.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  Morgan purposely said nothing.

  “Sir, can you describe the men who went into the restaurant?”

  Morgan waited another beat before saying, “Hello? Can you hear me? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here, sir. Can you describe—”

  “Hello? Hello?”

  He disconnected the call.

  “What good is that going to do?” Fischer asked.

  “Just watch.”

  A few minutes later, an SUV pulled onto the street. A quick check through the binoculars revealed the driver was the Asian guy, but he barely made it half a block before a police car turned onto the road behind him. Something about the SUV must have caught the cops’ attention because their lights flashed on. Suddenly, what the police probably thought would be a routine traffic stop turned into a chase, and within seconds, both cars were gone.

  That hadn’t gone exactly as Morgan had envisioned. Still, one of the men was out of the picture now, which was definitely a good thing. Morgan was contemplating calling the police again when a second squad car showed up. This time the cops searched the street, though they stopped short of going all the way to the park. As soon as they left, the two men who were with the courier’s body made their move.

  That was the fire Morgan had been hoping to light.

  He tapped Fischer on the shoulder and headed quickly for the fire escape.

  Less than a minute later, they rounded the corner in their Mercedes, headlights off, just in time to see the other vehicle pull away from the park.

  I got you, Morgan thought.

  CHAPTER 4

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  “I’M SORRY, MA’AM,” the man on the other end of the line said. “But Director Cho is not in the office. I would suggest trying again during regular business hours.”

  “Get her now.” Orlando spoke no louder than the man had, but the underlining threat in her tone was impossible to miss.

  “Ma’am, there is nothing—”

  “Indigo seven slash B.”

  A pause. “Please hold.”

  Using the emergency code Helen had given them should have been unnecessary. Orlando’s name alone should have been enough to get her straight through. Clearly there were still some glitches to be ironed out in their budding relationship.

  A series of soft modulating tones came over the line, followed by a second of silence, then Helen’s voice. “Orlando?”

  “Good morning, Helen. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Is everything all right? Have you heard from Quinn?”

  “Yeah, about that. I understand we’re doing a job for you.”

  A beat. “It was a last-minute thing and there was no time to waste.”

  “Waste?” Orlando said.

  “I didn’t mean talking to you would have—” Helen paused. “Look, the job’s time critical, that’s all. I know I should have called you first, but I knew Quinn was in New York so it made more sense to go direct.”

  “Okay, A—our working relationship depends on consistency. You want to use us, follow the protocols or we’ll find work elsewhere.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And B—I’m going to table for now how you knew Quinn was in New York, but we will be coming back to it in the future.”

  “It was just—”

  “Stop. I said later. Right now I have a few job-related questions for you.”

  “Right. Of course. What do you need to know?”

  “For starters, the name of your dead courier.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I’m not asking the question out of curiosity.”

  There were many details a cleaner didn’t need to be given to do his job. Knowledge of more than the necessary facts could potentially cloud a mission. More times than not, the target’s name would be one of those unneeded items. But it wasn’t always the case.

  Helen said nothing for several moments. “Jenna Tate.”

  “And she was working for you?”

  A briefer pause. “Yes.”

  “Who killed her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must have some idea.” When Helen didn’t answer, Orlando said, “I assume they were interested in what she was transporting.”

  “Now we’re definitely into something you don’t need to know about,” Helen said.

  “If that’s the case, then I guess you’re saying the chip my guys found on her was not what her killers were looking for and therefore unimportant.”

  “What chip?”

  “The one she still had on her. Black, about the size of a penny and maybe twice as thick. The letters E-slash-K on the case.”

  Silence again.

  “She still had it?” Helen finally said.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “I need to see it. I need to know for sure.”

  “I’ll be happy to have Nate send you a picture, but let’s assume it’s what you think it is. I hope you can see now how knowing who terminated your messenger could be important to my team. If the assailants figure out they don’t have the chip, they could try again. Now, who killed her?”

  “There are several groups who would be interested in the…package.”

  “Are any more credible than others?”

  A brief pause, then, “Nicholas Loban.”

  The na
me tickled the back of Orlando’s mind. She’d either heard it or seen it somewhere before. She was reaching for her computer to do a search when it came to her. “The Russian mob?”

  “One and the same.”

  “I take it they wouldn’t be working just for themselves.”

  “No, they would not.”

  The Russian mafia had a symbiotic relationship with certain members of the Russian government, which made the situation even more sensitive than Orlando had first thought.

  “Quinn cannot let the chip fall into their hands,” Helen said. “It’s the only one left.”

  “Only one?”

  Helen hesitated before saying, “The other was destroyed during a grab attempt.”

  “What’s the chip do?” Orlando asked.

  “There will never be a reason for you to know.”

  MANHATTAN

  DAENG KNEW HIS time was running short. He had three cop cars behind him, and surely more trying to work their way in front.

  If it had been any other time of day, he would have long ago become entangled in traffic and been captured. Now, while there were many delivery trucks out and a fair number of taxis, the roads were basically open. Within minutes of leaving Tribeca, he was already passing the Hudson Yards north of Chelsea. It still wasn’t enough, however, to put distance between him and the cars following him. The drivers of the police vehicles were more than up to the task of staying on his tail.

  Quinn could probably get Daeng out of jail if he allowed himself to be captured, but he wasn’t keen on testing the theory. Sure, stateside jails were a lot nicer than those back in his native Thailand, but there was something about having bars between him and freedom that didn’t agree with his disposition.

  Daeng had been to Manhattan several times and had a decent grasp of the city, but he was in an area he was less familiar with so every turn he took was more guesswork than anything else. He did know the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel was around here somewhere. That was one road he wanted to avoid at all costs. Trapping him inside the tunnel would be child’s play.

  He turned left onto W 35th Street, and immediately saw that the road ended only two blocks ahead where it T-boned into what should be 11th Avenue, but with the police cars making the turn behind him, he had no choice but to keep going. Where the street would have continued was a large glass building—a convention-center type by the looks of it.

  Right, he thought. The J-something…J…J…J…

  Javits.

  The Javits Convention Center. If he remembered correctly, it was only a block or two from the Hudson River.

  A sign at the corner of 11th warned drivers not to turn right since it was a one-way street heading south. Daeng started to go left, but as his SUV moved into the intersection, he spotted three police cars blocking the road fifty yards away. He swung the wheel right, and his tires screamed as the vehicle fishtailed on the asphalt before he gained full control again.

  Driving the wrong way, he raced north on 11th, knowing exactly what he would do now. Passing W 37th, the road became two-way again, but this lasted for only two blocks. At W 40th, five large orange-and-white-striped cones prevented northbound drivers from continuing onward. Daeng was done with 11th anyway, so he turned left on W 40th.

  The road was two lanes squished between what looked like warehouse buildings on either side. Two delivery trucks were lumbering down the street ahead of him. Daeng whipped by the first, but had to slow before reaching the second one as another truck was passing it in the eastbound lane. This allowed the closest police car to move in right behind him.

  “Pull over, now!” a voice announced over a speaker.

  The driver of the truck in front of Daeng slammed on his brakes, while the truck in the other lane did the same. Daeng jerked the wheel to the right and sped the SUV onto the sidewalk, hoping there was enough room. His passenger-side mirror shattered against the building, but he was able to squeeze past the delivery truck and juke back onto the street.

  At 12th Avenue, he skidded around the corner to the sound of a horn and the scream of brakes from an oncoming sedan.

  Daeng’s phone vibrated but he was in no position to answer.

  A block ahead to the right was W 41st Street, leading back into the city. To the left, a driveway led to Pier 81.

  Daeng went left.

  A guard shack stood at the entrance, just off 12th Avenue. Beyond it, the road ran under a large sign reading WORLD YACHT and continued onto the pier. The man sitting in the shack barely had time to look up as the SUV raced past.

  Daeng slowed the truck as he passed under the sign. Straight ahead off the end of the pier would be the easiest choice and the one most people would make, but Daeng knew it was also the most likely to get him caught. The area was completely exposed, and though the cops had been delayed by the jam back up on W 40th, they’d still arrive in plenty of time to see him swimming back to the dock.

  Tied up along either side of the pier were several large ships used for river dinner cruises. The moment he saw the opening between two of them, he hit the brakes and turned the wheel so he was aimed directly at the gap. It was wider than the space he’d sneaked through on the sidewalk but not by much.

  Back at the pier’s entrance, flashing lights lit up the passageway under the WORLD YACHT sign. In his pocket, his phone vibrated again and once more he ignored it.

  With one hand on the wheel and the other lowering the driver’s-side window, he released the brake and hit the gas. As the SUV flew off the dock, his side of the vehicle came within a few inches of hitting the ship.

  The moment the truck struck the water, the vehicle’s airbags popped open. Daeng had the seatbelt undone as they were deflating. He shoved the bags out of his away and pushed through the incoming water into the river.

  Though his lungs screamed for air, he stayed below the surface and swam back toward the pier, not stopping until he reached one of the boats. Tilting his head, he raised his face above the water just enough so he could take in a deep breath, then went under again and did not surface until he was under the pier.

  When he slipped his head above the waterline, he could hear several people running on the dock and shouting. A flashlight beam hit the water where only the very back end of the SUV was still visible. Within seconds, two more beams joined it.

  Daeng knew the attention wouldn’t stay focused for long on where the truck had gone in, so as quietly as possible, he made his way through the dark and slimy water under the pier to the other side. From there, he swam underneath open water to a smaller pier a couple hundred feet away, taking care each time he came up for air not to create any noise. When he reached the dock, he looked back at Pier 81. At least a dozen police cars were parked, lights blazing, with more still pulling onto the dock.

  Well, Quinn had wanted him to get the cops as far away from the park as possible.

  He took a breath, and slipped back under the water.

  SAN FRANCISCO

  USING THE TRACKING software installed on each team member’s phone, Orlando located Daeng driving through Manhattan. From the speed he was traveling, there was no doubt he was being chased.

  On her second screen, she accessed the NYPD dispatch database and learned a pursuit was indeed in progress. Other cars had been called in to join the chase. She noted their locations and then called Daeng so she could help guide him through the city, but he didn’t answer.

  When he suddenly turned onto Pier 81, she called again to find out what he was planning. The blip on her screen sailed off the dock, over the water, and winked out.

  She scrambled to find a satellite feed that would give her a live image, but the best one she could locate was southeast of the city and its view of the pier was skewed.

  She knew, however, that Daeng wouldn’t have driven into the river just to take a ride to the bottom. She tried pinging Daeng’s phone but got no response. The device was waterproof, so it must have been damaged in the crash.

  She’d have to
wait until he made contact with either her or Quinn, and could only hope he’d been able to stay free.

  CHAPTER 5

  MANHATTAN

  QUINN CHECKED THE rearview mirror again.

  “Still there?” Nate asked, his phone to his ear.

  “Yeah,” Quinn said.

  Quinn had long ago mastered the ability to spot a tail in a crowded city, but in the quiet, early-morning streets of New York, even an amateur would notice if he was being followed. The driver of the other car, though, clearly knew what he was doing, and it had taken Quinn several minutes before he noticed him. Once he had, he’d made a few simple maneuvers—nothing that should tip off the other car—to make sure.

  They were definitely being followed.

  The vehicle wasn’t a police car, not of the marked variety, anyway. So the only other logical possibility was that it was being driven by the people who’d killed the messenger.

  Nate frowned as he lowered his phone. “Voice mail, again. We could just show up.”

  Quinn wasn’t keen on that idea, but they didn’t have much of a choice. If there’d been time to prepare, he would have had multiple options lined up for disposing the body.

  At the top of his short list of trusted local contacts was one Barry Alvarez, sole owner of Eternal Grace Mortuary in Yonkers. Given the right financial considerations, Barry would look the other way while Quinn made use of his crematorium. But Barry wasn’t answering his phone. And if they showed up out of the blue, Barry might not be as willing to help. Unfortunately, the other contacts on Quinn’s list were all much farther away, and driving around longer than absolutely necessary with a body in the trunk was not an activity Quinn wanted to partake in.

  “Keep trying him,” he said to Nate.

  Before heading too far north, Quinn needed to deal with their tail.

  The other car, a dark Mercedes sedan, was consistently keeping half a block between them. If Quinn took a corner and shoved the accelerator to the floor, he might be able to make it to the next intersection before the car made the turn, but it would be close at best. What he needed was some help.