The Enraged

by Brett Battles

  For a few seconds, they all stood there waiting—Quinn, Nate, Daeng, Misty, Howard, Lanier, Berkeley, Curson, Witten’s team, and, remotely, Helen. When the sound of the ringing phone suddenly blared from the speaker, Misty jumped. Quinn turned the volume down a few clicks, and looked around to make sure everyone could still hear. He received nods all around so he moved to the side.

  There were three rings before the line was finally answered.

  “Yes?”

  __________

  “MR. MORTEN? THIS is Central at O & O.”

  Morten looked at the clock on his desk. “Do you realize what time it is?”

  “Yes, sir, I apologize, but Mr. Griffin asked that I call you.”

  Morten paused. “Why would he do that?”

  “I’m told by our team on the scene with him that he’s interrogating a suspect at the moment.”

  “He’s using one of your teams?” Morten asked.

  “Yes, sir. We received a call from him a few hours ago requesting emergency backup. Thankfully, we had a team available and were able to dispatch it right away.”

  That actually made some sense, Morten had to admit. If Griffin found himself in need of manpower right away, O & O would have been the quick solution, despite the organization’s recent failures.

  “So why are you calling?”

  “Mr. Griffin thought that you might want to talk to the suspect. He said to tell you that…” Central paused. “I want to make sure I get this right. He said, ‘Tell Mr. Morten suspect knows all, and insists on talking to him before giving up network.’”

  Holy God. The mention of network meant there were more than just a couple other people who knew. He and Griffin needed those names, but Morten was reluctant to involve himself at this level. He dealt with the client end of things. Griffin handled the dirty work. Of course, this wouldn’t be the first time Morten would have to cross the line.

  “Mr. Griffin can’t handle this himself?” he asked.

  “I don’t have the answer to that, sir. I only got the impression this was time sensitive.”

  Indeed it was. Griffin undoubtedly could get the names on his own, but, from the sounds of it, it would take too long. If Morten making an appearance sped up the process, then so be it.

  “Where is he?”

  __________

  MORTEN LOOKED OUT the window as his driver turned the car onto the cul-de-sac. Though this was not his first time visiting one of the houses he owned there, it had been a while. They were used more for Griffin’s work.

  As expected, the street was quiet, all the houses dark. The one Griffin was using was straight back in the middle. No car was in the driveway, but Morten assumed Griffin and the O & O team had parked in the attached two-car garage to avoid being seen when they transferred the prisoner into the house.

  Morten instructed his driver to pull into the driveway.

  “I shouldn’t be long,” he told the driver, hoping he was right. He had several phone conferences planned for not long after sunrise, so whatever the prisoner had to say, he’d better say it quickly.

  Morten exited the car and walked over to the darkened porch. As he neared, the door opened.

  “Mr. Morten.” The man who greeted him was in the dark-suit uniform preferred by O & O.

  “Where is he?” Morten said.

  “Downstairs, sir. I’ll show you the way.”

  Two other O & O men were in the basement, one sitting in front of a computer station set up next to a closed door, the other standing in front of the door itself. The monitor showed a box clearly intended to display a video feed, but at the moment it was black. Below it was a second rectangular box, housing an undulating series of vertical bars.

  The man at the computer stood up the moment he saw Morten. “Good morning, sir.”

  “What’s going on? Where’s Mr. Griffin?”

  “He’s in the interrogation room, sir.” The man nodded toward the closed door, and then turned to the computer. “We’re recording the session. There’s a problem with the video at the moment, but the audio is working.”

  “You’ve been listening?” Morten asked, concerned.

  “No, sir. Our instructions were to monitor the signal only. See?” He pointed at the rising and falling bars. “It’s strong and clear. If you’d like to listen, I can plug in the headphones.”

  “Please.”

  The man plugged a set of headphones into the computer, and handed it to Morten. “You control the volume there on the side,” he said.

  Morten donned the headphones. He could hear a voice, but it was too low to understand, so he turned up the dial.

  “…took the shot through the window and hit him in the head,” a male voice said. The audio wasn’t as clear as Morten would have liked. It was full of digital distortion that he assumed was connected to the visual problem with the camera. “The car went off the side and tumbled all the way down. They were all dead. Morten showed up right after the police got there and identified the bodies.”

  Morten tensed. The prisoner was clearly talking about the incident in Turkey. He knew precisely how it had occurred.

  This was what Morten had feared. Peter had obviously talked before he was killed, and whomever he told had picked up the investigation.

  Morten started to pull off the headphones, wanting to go inside right away and find out how many more people know, but the voice stopped him.

  There was a loud digital hit, then, “…who made sure the original report disappeared. Only the doctor who performed the autopsy and the lead investigator knew. The doctor had to go, but the police officer was more open to an arrangement.”

  How the hell could the man know that much detail? Griffin had handled those matters personally. As far as Morten was aware, his enforcer was the only other person who knew.

  He ripped off the phones and marched over to the door.

  “Out of my way,” he barked at the man standing in front of it, but the command was unnecessary. The agent was already stepping aside.

  Morten yanked the door open and stormed inside. In his anger, all he could see was the man strapped to the chair in the middle of the floor. It didn’t even register with him that the rest of the room was empty.

  “Enough! Tell us who else…” The words died in his mouth as he neared the man.

  The prisoner hadn’t been sitting up, talking. His head was lolled forward. But it was more than that. He looked…familiar.

  Morten froze two steps away.

  “Oh, shit,” he mumbled.

  This wasn’t the prisoner. It was Griffin.

  __________

  MORTEN WHIPPED AROUND as if about to run from the room.

  “You must be Kyle,” Quinn said.

  He was standing just inside the doorway, Nate and Daeng on one side of him, Misty and Howard on the other. Behind him were Lanier, Berkeley, and Curson, and behind them, right outside the room, were Witten and his men.

  Morten jerked his head left and right, his gaze in constant motion.

  “Perhaps I should make some introductions,” Quinn said. “These three men behind me and my colleague here”—he nodded toward Nate—“were on the list with Peter. You know which one I’m talking about, of course.”

  Morten blinked several times as his right hand began to shake.

  “The lady is Misty Blake,” Quinn went on. “She’s Peter’s former assistant. So not only did you kill her boss, and her boss’s wife, you almost had our new O & O friends in the back there kill her the other day. As you can see, we’ve forgiven them, but I’m afraid I can’t extend that same amnesty to you.”

  Both of Morten’s hands were shaking now. He moved unsteadily backward, not stopping until he bumped into Griffin.

  “I’m Quinn, by the way. I was supposed to be on Duran Island, too, but Romero screwed up. Good for me, not so good for my friend here.” He patted Nate on the shoulder, careful to avoid the whip welts. “What you did to me, though, was nearly take away the woman I love.”
He paused. “You screwed with the wrong people this time.”

  Morten’s lips parted. “I…I want my lawyer.” Looking past Quinn toward Witten and in a louder voice, he repeated, “I want my lawyer!”

  No one moved.

  “I want my lawyer!”

  Quinn looked back at Witten and nodded. Witten worked his way through the others until he was standing next to Misty. In his hands was the laptop computer. On the screen, a video link to Helen Cho.

  “Mr. Morten,” she said. “Do you know who I am?”

  A hesitation, then a nod.

  “Then you know I speak for the US government. Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to stay right there until you have given a full and complete accounting of everything you’ve done. After which, you will be locked away for the rest of your life. Don’t even think that you’ll get out someday. That will not happen. If, on the other hand, you do not make a full and complete accounting, you will be put to death in a manner decided upon by the people gathered in this room with you. I can’t imagine whatever they come up with will be pleasant, but the choice is yours to make. You have ten seconds.”

  “No. You can’t do that,” Morten protested. “I’ll tell you everything, but not before we negotiate terms.”

  “Negotiate terms?” Helen sneered. “Here are the terms. Your friend Mr. Griffin, though he’s currently taking an induced nap, has already agreed to share everything he knows and, in fact, has already started to do so. You were listening to part of his confession a few minutes ago.”

  Morten’s eyes widened.

  “See, the thing is,” Helen went on, “we only need one of you. I’m letting you make the decision who it’s going to be. You have four seconds.”

  “No! I have rights! I’m an American citizen! I want my lawyer!”

  “Your time is up, Mr. Morten,” Helen said. “I leave you to these fine people here.”

  As Witten closed the computer, Morten said, “No! You can’t do that! You can’t!”

  No one said anything.

  “I’ll talk! I’ll tell you everything! Whatever you want.”

  “I’m sorry,” Misty said, “but you’re too late.”

  Quinn stepped forward, raised the gun he’d been holding at his side, and put a bullet through the center of Morten’s head.

  Once it was clear no second shot was needed, they exited the room one by one. Quinn and Misty were the last. As he turned to leave, he put his arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him, exhausted.

  “I think I could sleep for a week,” she said as he escorted her out.

  “You should,” he told her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “For Peter. For everything.”

  __________

  ONE MORE PIECE of business needed to be taken care of, but there was no need for everyone to come along. The party consisted of only Quinn, Witten, and two of Witten’s agents.

  The two agents remained in the car while Quinn and Witten walked up to the front door of the townhouse. Despite the hour, their knock was answered immediately, an earlier phone call from Helen having alerted the resident that a car was coming to take her to a meeting, one where the president might be in attendance.

  The woman, dressed in a dark gray business suit, and looking as fresh and awake as if it were ten in the morning, stepped outside and closed her door behind her.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said.

  “Assistant Secretary,” Witten said.

  Quinn merely nodded.

  They escorted the woman—Assistant Secretary of State Diane Sutton—to the waiting Suburban. While Witten took his seat up front, Quinn climbed in next to Sutton.

  The assistant secretary of state remained quiet as they drove through town, undoubtedly thinking there was nothing worth talking about with the security detail sent for her. It wasn’t until she realized they were heading into Virginia that she seemed to register something was wrong. She looked at Witten.

  “Is the president not at the White House?” she asked.

  “As far as I know, he is,” Witten said.

  “Then is he going to meet us somewhere?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  She looked from him to Quinn to the fourth man sitting in the row behind her. “I was led to believe I was meeting with him.”

  Quinn responded this time. “I believe, ma’am, you were told no such thing. While it might have been unclear, no one actually said who you would be meeting with.”

  “How would you know? You weren’t the one I talked to.”

  “No, ma’am, but I was listening in on the conversation.”

  “You were what?” she said.

  Quinn turned in his seat to face her. “I don’t appreciate the tone, ma’am.”

  “Excuse me? I am the assistant secretary of state. You are aware of that, aren’t you?”

  “I’m very aware of who you are. We all are.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Miranda Keyes.”

  “Stop the car,” she ordered.

  There was no change in their speed.

  “Stop the car! Did you hear me? Stop it!”

  “That’s not going to happen, ma’am,” Quinn said.

  “You all have no idea the trouble you’re in.”

  Quinn pulled his phone out of his pocket, and started the recording that was waiting to be played.

  Out of the speaker came Griffin’s voice. “She hired us.”

  Quinn: “Who hired you?”

  “Diane Sutton.”

  “The assistant secretary of state?”

  “Now, but not then.”

  “What did she hire you to do?”

  “Clear things out of her way.”

  “What exactly did that mean?”

  “Eliminate Miranda Keyes.”

  “By eliminate—”

  “Kill her. She hired us to kill Miranda.”

  Quinn switched off the recording.

  “Lies,” Sutton said. “Whoever that is is simply trying to undermine me.”

  “Except that it isn’t a lie. You know it. I know it. The secretary of Homeland Security knows it.”

  “The secretary?”

  “Darvot Consulting is no longer in business. Mr. Morten and Mr. Griffin are now in the custody of the US government.”

  Her eyes lost focus momentarily as she processed what it all meant. “I want to speak to the secretary…no, to the president. I want to speak to him now.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s not an option.”

  “It damn well is if he wants to avoid a scandal!” she retorted. “Can you imagine the kind of circus there’s going to be if you put an assistant secretary of state on trial for this?”

  “You mean for conspiracy to commit murder?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Quinn smiled. “I see where the miscommunication is coming in here. You see, Ms. Sutton, there will be no circus because there will be no trial.”

  “So what? I’m supposed to resign? Is that it? No way in hell I’m going down without a fight.”

  “No, ma’am. No one’s asking for your resignation.”

  “Then what? Why this power play?”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but in about an hour’s time, there’s going to be a horrible, tragic car accident.”

  CHAPTER 37

  7 DAYS LATER

  WASHINGTON, DC

  MISTY CHECKED HERSELF in her mirror once more. Everything looked as it should—her hair, her makeup, her conservative black dress. She’d thought about wearing a hat, but that wasn’t really her style. Satisfied, she headed out into the living room.

  On the table near the door was the urn Helen Cho had sent her the day before. Inside were Peter’s ashes.

  She had offered to wait until Quinn could come out, but he had said, “I don’t know when I’ll be free. And I kind of think this is something you should do yourself.” />
  It was actually a relief.

  This was something she wanted to do on her own.

  The drive to the cemetery went surprisingly fast, and before she knew it, she was standing in the lobby of the facility’s main building.

  “Miss Blake,” William Samuels said as he crossed the room. “Would you like me to carry that?”

  Misty pulled the urn tight to her chest. “No, I’m fine.”

  “Very well. This way, then.”

  He led her back outside to the mausoleum, and down several rows before stopping in front of a small, open crypt.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He gave her a sedate smile. “I’ll be in my office when you’re done.” With that, he walked back the way they’d come.

  Misty stood in front of the open door, unmoving. After several minutes, she whispered, “I wish I knew what to say. I wish I didn’t have to say anything, and you were still here.” She could feel the tears starting to build, but she pushed them back. She’d cried enough already. Now was the time to move on. “There’s so much I need to thank you for. Everything, really.” She raised the urn. “Rest in peace, Peter.”

  She moved the vessel into the crypt, setting it next to the one that was already there, the one containing Miranda’s ashes.

  “Rest in peace.”

  IN FLIGHT OVER TEXAS

  QUINN SAT NEXT to Orlando, not once leaving her side since the private jet had taken off from Isla de Cervantes. She’d been drifting in and out of sleep. Sometimes she’d wake long enough to talk for a few minutes, sometimes only long enough to give him a smile. Through it all, she kept her fingers entwined in his, gripping as if she would never let go again.

  “How long now?” she asked, her eyes barely open.

  “Still a few hours.”

  “Ugh. It’s like the longest flight ever.”

  “Not even close,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll be home soon.”

  She squeezed his hand and smiled. “Home. That sounds good.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  For a second he thought she was going to say something else, but her eyelids slipped shut again as the pain medicine she was on pulled her back under.