The Destroyed

by Brett Battles

  As soon as she knew which way he was going, she altered her course, and less than a minute later was walking about two dozen feet behind him. As usual, he headed for the T-Bana station—Stockholm’s subway—only a few minutes’ walk from his front door.

  She descended into the station a few seconds after him, used the seventy-two-hour pass she’d bought her first day there, and took up a position at the far end of the platform from where he waited. A train arrived three minutes later. She remained where she was as Hagen got on and the doors closed. Once the train started to speed away, she returned to the street.

  She knew from the beginning that breaking into his place would not be easy. He was a pro, after all, and one who had more than a passing familiarity with technology. But even pros had weaknesses, especially geeky ones with obvious money to burn. Hagen’s weakness was named Eva Stahl.

  Mila had uncovered the woman while researching Hagen as she’d been waiting in the airport before leaving Dar es Salaam. The first night in Stockholm she confirmed Hagen’s relationship with Eva. Knowing today would be the day she made her move, she had paid the woman a visit twelve hours earlier.

  Getting into Eva’s apartment had been a snap. Mila moved quickly through the flat to the bedroom where she found the woman deep asleep. A quick blast of a gaseous anesthetic ensured she’d stay that way for at least a few minutes longer. Then it was a simple matter of administering the shot at the back of the woman’s knee where she’d never notice the mark.

  Mila gave the drug five minutes, then tapped Eva on her cheeks until she opened her eyes. The drug had three effects: it removed any resistance to answering questions; the recipient would remember the episode as no more than a fading dream, if at all; and the unlucky person would feel ill for the next twelve hours, and more than likely spend the day in bed.

  It took Mila less than three minutes to learn what she needed to know. She left the woman’s apartment with the two keys and the security codes she would need to get into Hagen’s place.

  Now, as she approached his building, she donned a wide-brimmed hat that had been in her bag, a pair of sunglasses, and thin rubber gloves. Though she hadn’t been able to spot it, she knew that Hagen would have installed a security camera somewhere out front. What she really wished she had was a disrupter that would scramble the camera’s signal, but she’d been unable to get her hands on one. The disguise would have to do.

  Keeping her head down, she walked up to the front door, punched one of the codes Eva had given her, and entered. There were three doors in the small lobby: two in front of her, and one to the right. The one on the right led to the ground-floor apartment. The other two opened onto private staircases, one leading to the second-floor residence, and one to Hagen’s place. According to Eva, his door was the one on the left.

  She found the hidden keypad, input the appropriate code, and entered. The staircase doubled back twice before reaching another door at the top. A third code plus the use of the keys and she was in.

  As soon as she saw the place, she rolled her eyes. No way Hagen had done the decorating. She distinctly remembered him having no sense of style. His apartment looked like it had jumped out of a featured article in Kick-Ass Homes Monthly—metal and leather and wood and granite all blended together by someone who knew what they were doing. It was a guy’s place, though not too “guy,” the kind of apartment someone like Hagen probably thought would surely get him laid. Given his relationship with Eva, it had apparently worked.

  Mila did a quick search through all the third-floor rooms, already knowing there was nothing on this level that interested her. What she wanted was in his private office, one floor up. The stairs were tucked out of sight behind a faux wall between the living room and the guest bedroom. The keypad where the final code needed to be entered was located behind a small panel in the hallway closet. Mila punched in the sequence, and went up the stairs.

  Apparently, the designer who’d done the living space below had not been allowed to touch the upper floor. The space was one large room that extended the length and width of the building. One wall was covered with metal shelving units filled with computer parts—some small, some whole systems stretching back God only knew how long in computer history. At the front end of the room was a workbench, with all the tools and accessories necessary to build pretty much anything electronic Hagen might need.

  Scattered throughout the space were several desks, each with a different type of computer on it. Piles of magazines, files, and manuals were spread across the floor. She counted three trashcans filled to the brim with empty Coke cans and food wrappers. Tucked in the back corner beside the stairs was a low-slung couch and a television monitor hooked up to every type of gaming console imaginable.

  A geek’s heaven.

  She examined each of the computer stations, then picked the one she was most familiar with and sat down. Before waking it up, she removed a thumb drive from her pocket and stuck it into an open port. Though the monitor remained dark, she could hear the computer come to life, as the program that would hide her presence inserted itself into the machine’s operating system.

  Once it had taken charge, the computer dinged and the monitor faded on. She was now connected to the rest of the world in a way few people had ever been.

  She navigated through several different restricted networks, finally discovering the picture of someone she remembered. A few minutes later, she had his name. From there, she was able to find a current address, and was surprised it was closer than she’d expected. Even more interesting was the fact he’d been involved in not just one aspect of what had happened to her, but two. As she was about to dive back in and see what else she could dig up, her phone vibrated once. She looked at the screen.

  Oh, crap!

  Hagen was standing at the outside door, holding a bag in one hand, and punching in the door code with the other. She checked the time. He hadn’t even been gone forty-five minutes. What the hell?

  She closed everything, forced the screen to go dark, and headed for the stairs. Her only chance was to reach the living area before he did and find someplace to hide until he went up to his office.

  She was halfway across the room when she remembered the thumb drive. It was still in the back of the computer. She raced back, pulled it out, then checked her phone as she ran for the stairs. Hagen was no longer outside. Which meant he was heading up to the third floor at that very second.

  She jumped onto the staircase, bypassing the first two steps, and raced toward the bottom. As she ran, she tried to recall if there was anyplace on the floor below where she could hide. She had a vague sense of a couple of locations that might work, but nothing solid.

  When she reached the bottom, a part of her screamed for her to stop and listen to find out if Hagen was in the apartment yet, but she ignored it. If he’d come in already, so be it. She’d take him by surprise, then get the hell out of there before he could do anything. If he hadn’t entered, she still had the chance to escape without him ever knowing she was there.

  Pushing the door open, she prepared herself to hear Hagen yell in surprise, but there was nothing, no sound at all, just the dead air that had been there when she’d passed through earlier.

  She looked left and right for anything she could crawl under or hide behind. There was a dark wooden cabinet in the corner that looked as if it had a little space behind it. But it would be tight—very tight—and if she didn’t fit, she’d be caught in the direct sightline from the door.

  Kitchen? No, the bag probably had food, so he might head straight there.

  Outside the main door, she heard someone climb the last step and stop.

  No!

  Whipping around once more, her gaze fell on a door under the staircase to Hagen’s office. It was flush to the wall, designed not to be noticed.

  As silently as she could, she hurried over, and pulled on the recessed handle. A closet, stuffed with jackets and a few boxes and bags. She jammed herself between the clothing
, and pulled the door closed behind her. Two or three seconds later, she heard the front door open and Hagen’s footsteps.

  She’d made it. If she played it right, he’d never even—

  Wait, was he wearing a jacket when he left? she wondered. If he was, would he put it in the closet?

  She tried to recall what he’d been wearing as she followed him down the street to the T-Bana, but she couldn’t remember.

  Relax, it’s a beautiful day. Plus, he’s a Swede. If he doesn’t have to wear a jacket, he won’t.

  She concentrated on the sounds coming from the other side of the door. Hagen seemed to be moving around near the kitchen. Then the noise faded, and for a few minutes she picked up nothing. With each passing second, her tension grew.

  What are you doing?

  Another half minute passed, then the sound of footsteps returned. Only this time, they were heading her way.

  They became so loud, he had to have been passing right outside the closet. A second later a door opened, then steps again, but these rose above her as Hagen ascended the stairs to his office.

  The same voice that had urged her earlier to wait did it again, but the part of her that still retained some of her previous training knew that the time to leave was before he got settled. For a minute or so, he would be moving around and less likely to hear any noise she might make.

  The latter voice won out.

  Just over a minute later, she was on the sidewalk, her pace a leisurely stroll, something that would not draw attention.

  Something that took every ounce of her will to maintain.

  CHAPTER 5

  WAT DOI THONG, THAILAND

  AS NATE CLIMBED to his feet, Quinn turned and walked away.

  “Truce?”

  Nate looked back. The monk he’d been fighting was holding out his hand.

  “You’re not going to yank me back to the ground, are you?” Nate asked.

  “Apparently we’re fools, so no. I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  Nate shook the man’s hand.

  “I’m Daeng.”

  “Nate.”

  “I’ve heard about you.”

  “Can’t say the same.” Nate looked toward the spot where he’d last seen Quinn. “Where did he go?”

  “I can show you,” Daeng said.

  “So now it’s all right?”

  With a shrug, Daeng said, “Apparently,” then started walking down the path.

  The main temple was at least three stories high. Through the large open door in front, Nate could see a partial view of a gigantic Buddha at the far end. Instead of going inside, though, Daeng led him around the building toward a much less assuming one set back amongst some trees.

  As they walked, Daeng asked casually, “Which is the leg you lost?”

  Nate kept his expression blank, but couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable with the fact that the monk apparently knew a lot about him. After a second, he said, “The right.”

  “How far down?”

  “Just south of the knee.”

  “And everything below that is man-made. Amazing. The way you moved, I would have never guessed.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll never forget.”

  They walked the rest of the way in silence. Along the wall of the smaller building was an open door. Daeng went through first, and Nate followed.

  The room they entered was obviously used for teaching. There was a portable blackboard at the front, and several rows of chairs with attached desks through the middle portion. At the back was a desk where Quinn sat, writing something in a black ledger-sized notebook.

  While Daeng seemed content to remain near the door, Nate strode across the room, and stopped a few feet in front of the desk.

  Always trim, Quinn looked even thinner than usual, but that, by far, wasn’t the only change Nate could see. Quinn’s hair had grown out, too, falling an inch or two below his ears. Nate guessed it had also been at least a week since his boss—or perhaps former boss, that was still unclear—had picked up a razor.

  Without taking his eyes off what he was doing, Quinn said, “You shouldn’t have come, Nate.”

  “I’m sure my showing up like this isn’t a surprise,” Nate said. “That woman, Christina—she must have told you.”

  “And I told her to tell you to stay away.”

  “Yeah. I got that message.”

  “And yet you’re here.”

  “I’m here.”

  Quinn finally looked at him. “Okay, you’ve seen me. I’m alive. Now you can get back on your boat and go home.”

  “I didn’t come here just to check if you were okay.”

  “I don’t care why you came,” Quinn said. “Please, Nate, leave. I don’t want you here.”

  “Look, I’ve only come because—”

  “Aren’t you listening to me? I said, I don’t care!” Quinn closed his eyes and seemed to be trying to get himself back under control. When he opened them and spoke again, his tone was level and calm. “I have work to do. Please respect that.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Nate could see Daeng approaching.

  “I’m not here out of disrespect,” Nate said. “In fact, it’s just the opposite.”

  Quinn let out a breath and shook his head. He looked at his watch and glanced over at Daeng. “Please escort him back to his boat. I’m late, or I’d do it myself.”

  “No problem,” Daeng said.

  Quinn headed for the door. Nate started to follow, but Daeng stepped in his way.

  “I’m not leaving until you hear what I have to say!” Nate called out as he grabbed Daeng’s shoulder and tried to shove the man to the side.

  Daeng stood his ground. “Let him be.”

  Across the room, Quinn had just reached the door and was stepping outside.

  “Mila Voss!” Nate yelled.

  Quinn froze.

  “She’s why I’m here.”

  In a near whisper, Quinn said, “Mila Voss is dead.”

  “Then I guess someone needs to tell her that.”

  Quinn looked back into the classroom, his eyes fixed on Nate. After a few seconds, he shifted his gaze to Daeng. “Get him something to eat. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  He resumed walking away.

  “We should talk now,” Nate insisted.

  “Relax, buddy,” Daeng said. “Be happy he’s not kicking you out. He’ll be back. You can talk to him then.”

  Beyond the doorway, Quinn veered off to the right and out of sight.

  As much as Nate hated to admit it, Daeng was right. At least now he knew Quinn would listen.

  Daeng smiled, and slapped Nate on the shoulder. “You hungry?”

  __________

  DAENG TOOK NATE to another building, where they found a kitchen manned by two older women and a girl who was probably no more than ten. The two men were each served a plate with rice and stir-fried vegetables.

  Nate had been sure he’d have only a few bites, but quickly realized he was hungrier than he thought, and finished his meal before Daeng was even halfway done with his.

  “You want more?” the man asked.

  “No. This was fine.”

  For several seconds, the only sound was that of Daeng’s spoon scraping across his plate.

  “Where did he go?” Nate asked.

  At first it seemed as if Daeng hadn’t heard him, then the monk finished off the last of his vegetables and looked over. “You want to see?”

  “Please.”

  __________

  THEY WALKED DOWN a road that led away from the river and into a countryside dotted with small fields. Though evening was approaching, in several of the fields families tended their crops. There were no big farm machines here. It was mostly bent backs and handheld tools and the occasional ox pulling heavier equipment. Scattered among the fields, some close to the road and others much farther away, were small houses where the farmers lived and kept whatever livestock they might have.

  After the two me
n had walked for about ten minutes, Daeng moved to the side of the road and stopped.

  “There,” he said, pointing across the fields to the right.

  For a few seconds, Nate wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking at. The fields were no different than those they’d passed. Then he saw two figures standing together a couple hundred yards away. Nate couldn’t make out any faces, but one looked to be a teenage boy, his brown skin darkened by his time spent under the sun. The other’s face Nate didn’t need to see. The hair, the clothes, the posture—Quinn.

  Nate wasn’t sure what they were doing, but it had something to do with working the field.

  “Two weeks ago, the man who owns that farm broke his leg in two places and injured his back in a motorcycle accident,” Daeng said. “The people here aren’t rich. He couldn’t afford to hire anyone to take care of his crops, not if he wanted to feed his family, too. So it fell to his son, but the boy is fourteen and can only do so much. Every day for the last week, as soon as your friend finishes teaching his English lessons at the temple, he comes out here and gives the boy a hand.”

  They watched Quinn and the boy work.

  “We should go back,” Daeng said. “Better if he doesn’t notice that we’re here.”

  Nate nodded, though he was sure there was little chance Quinn hadn’t already seen them. Nate was an expert at picking up small details, but he was nowhere near as good as his mentor.

  As they walked back to the temple, Nate asked, “Why isn’t your head shaved? Aren’t all monks supposed to do that?”

  “I’m not a monk,” Daeng said.

  Nate looked at him, confused.

  Daeng smiled. “I was, but that was a long time ago. The other monks here allow me this honor when I visit.”

  “So you’re kind of a pseudo monk.”

  “I guess you could call it that.”

  They walked quietly for a moment, the temple coming into view just ahead.

  Nate said, “I’m guessing you’ve spent some time in the States.”

  “Have I?”

  “Your English. You speak it like a native, and your accent is Middle America.”