Chercover stopped and looked back at Peter. "Of course," he said. "Keep us informed on her condition also. We're not exactly heartless, but this is much bigger than her life, or even any one of ours."
Peter stared at them as they turned and left, his lips now closed.
The truth was Chercover was right.
CHAPTER
7
QUINN AND NATE HAD NOT RETURNED TO LOS Angeles after Ireland. They were in the States, but still thousands of miles from home. After handing off the envelope to Peter's contact at the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta, they boarded a flight north instead of west, landing several hours later in Boston.
It was another job. The new client required only some electronic and visual surveillance, no body removals. It was a gig that suited Quinn just fine for the moment. The fiasco in Ireland was still fresh in his mind, and his annoyance with Peter for forcing him to risk his life to catch the assassin had yet to abate.
Whoever that assassin was, he'd better be talking, Quinn thought.
Boston turned out to be the easiest job he'd taken all year. A big part of that was due to the fact that he was working with Orlando again. She'd flown in early while he and Nate were still across the Atlantic, and set everything up. It made the assignment go smooth and simple.
The fact that he didn't have to sleep alone anymore was a bonus.
"This is really what you wanted me here for, isn't it?" Orlando had asked him as they lay sweaty and panting beside each other on their hotel bed, the sheets and the blankets pushed to the floor. "You just wanted sex."
"That took you long enough to figure out," he said, trying not to break a smile.
Her shoulder-length black hair was draped partially over her face. With her right hand she tucked the loose strands behind her ear.
"Oh, I knew it. I just wanted to hear it from your lips."
"Don't play innocent. You want it just as much as I do."
"Oh, you think so?"
"I know you do."
"You're wrong," she said, a glimmer in her eye. "I want it more than you."
"That I'll never believe."
She pulled him to her, their lips meeting soft but urgent, their bodies crushed together as if they wanted to meld into one.
For several years, Orlando had been living in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, with her son, Garrett. Her mixed ancestry helped her to blend in—her mother Korean, her father Thai-Irish. The result was a look that allowed her the ability to claim she was from almost anywhere in Asia. But now that her relationship with Quinn had developed into more than just friendship and business, she had been spending an increasing amount of time in the U.S. at the house her aunt Jeong had left her in San Francisco the previous year. Conveniently, it was only an hour plane ride up the coast from Quinn's home in Los Angeles.
But even with this new accessibility, it had been several weeks since they'd spent any time together. Jobs and life seemed to have gotten in their way. So even though the Boston job was finished, they decided to stay on a few extra days.
Nate, on the other hand, had been able to get ahold of tickets for the Yankee-Detroit series at the new Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. So Quinn had let him go to New York, while he and Orlando remained. His only instructions were for Nate to keep his phone close, and answer if Quinn called. In this business, you had to be ready all the time.
Being with Orlando now, Quinn could feel the stress he'd been carrying drain away, if only for a night. The stress had been building since Singapore and Nate's accident, all due to guilt over what had happened to his apprentice. Guilt that he was having a hard time shedding. Guilt that, because of the amputation, Nate would never be whole. Quinn had put him in a position to be hurt, and had made the call to cut off the damaged part of his limb. He knew at the time it probably meant the end of Nate's career as a cleaner. And though he had kept Nate on, he couldn't help but feel like he was waiting for the moment he would have to let his apprentice go.
But he also couldn't hide the fact that Nate's situation wasn't the only thing that had added to his stress. It had been two weeks since he'd received the call from Liz, but he could still remember every word. It was the first time he had talked to his sister in nearly five years. She was younger than he was by eight years, so they had always traveled in different circles, and weren't close.
"First, everything is fine, okay?" she'd told him.
Instantly he was on alert. "What is it?"
"Dad went in for some tests."
"Tests? For what?"
He could hear her take a deep breath. "The doctor thought he might have had a small stroke."
"A stroke?"
"Take it easy, Jake. I said a small stroke." Jake. The nickname his father had given him. And like the name Jonathan Quinn, Jake had no relation to Quinn's real name. "Turns out it wasn't a stroke at all."
"What was it, then?"
"They're not sure. Maybe a virus. He's fine now. Well, his blood pressure is high, so he's taking some medication for that. But otherwise he's fine."
Quinn wasn't sure how to feel. His relationship with his father was an odd one. They had never been close, even when Quinn was a child. It wasn't from lack of trying on either of their parts. They just didn't have anything in common. Quinn knew the real answer why, but he never spoke it out loud. His dad was the only father he had ever known, but genetically they weren't related. So their core points of references for life were different, and neither could really understand the other. Still, he cared about his father, because he knew his father loved his mother deeply.
"How's Mom?"
His sister—technically his half-sister—sighed. "How do you think she is? She's glad he's better, but she's still concerned. She keeps checking on him to make sure he's all right."
"I was just asking, Liz."
There was silence for a moment. "She tells me you haven't visited them for a long time. You need to come out here."
At the time, he was just getting ready to leave for Ireland. "I can't come right now."
"Of course not."
"But I will come soon. In a few weeks."
"Whatever. Do what you need to do, Jake. I just thought you'd want to know."
Before he could say anything else, she'd hung up. He'd called his mother next, but she was evasive, doing her best, as always, not to burden Quinn with anything she felt he didn't need to worry about.
Now that the jobs in both Ireland and Boston were complete, he knew he had to go see his parents. They'd be in Minnesota now, summering in the home Quinn had grown up in. He'd stop by on the way back to L.A.
"What are you thinking about?" Orlando asked.
"Nothing," he said as they stepped out of Strega, an Italian restaurant in Boston's North End. He hadn't told her about the call from his sister.
There was a slight chill in the air. Quinn could feel Orlando shiver under his arm, so he pulled her small frame closer to help warm her up.
"Thanks," she said.
She tilted her head up, and he leaned down and kissed her.
"Well, I was thinking about something," he said as they walked down the street with no specific destination in mind.
"Thought so," she said, an eyebrow raised. "I assume it hurt. Maybe you should leave the thinking to me."
It was a playful argument they'd had often, each claiming to be the more intelligent one.
"I've been thinking," he said again, "about our location problem."
"What location problem?"
"The fact that you're not geographically available to me when I need you."
"Wait," Orlando said, the hint of a wicked smile on her face. "You need me?"
"Shut up," he said. "You know what I mean."
"We're a hell of a lot closer than we used to be," she said.
"True enough," he said. "But I was just—"
"Hold on." She pulled away a little. "We're not moving in together. Not yet. We've already talked about that."
"I know that."
>
He eased her back against him. But as he was about to explain what he meant, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Annoyed, he pulled it out and looked at the display, then glanced at Orlando.
"It's Peter," he said.
Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe you should just let him go to voice-mail."
It was a good idea. Quinn tapped the Reject prompt on the phone's touch screen, then put the device back in his pocket.
"I didn't mean move in together," Quinn said. "But I thought maybe I could get a place up there. I don't have to be there all the time. I mean I'd definitely not be there when you're in Vietnam, but when you're in town . . . you know, I could, I could be up there, too. Close by. It'll make things easier for us."
He looked down at her, expecting some resistance. What he'd learned since they'd become involved was that she had a fierce independent streak, and was very protective of her own space. A product, perhaps, of her previous relationship experience with Quinn's late mentor, Durrie.
But both her lips and her eyes were smiling. "I like that idea."
"You do?"
"Yeah. What? You thought I wouldn't?"
"I . . . eh . . . I don't know what I thought."
Quinn's phone began vibrating again.
"Dammit," he said. He pulled it back out. "Peter again."
"Let him leave a message."
"That won't work," Quinn said. "He'll just keep calling until I finally answer. He's done that before."
"Then whatever he wants, just tell him no."
"Like that's an option."
Quinn touched Accept on the screen.
"What?" Quinn said.
"I need you in New York," Peter said. "I have something for you tonight."
"I can't make it there tonight. I'm not even close."
There was a second of silence. "You're in Boston, Quinn. I have a plane waiting. You can be here within an hour and a half."
Quinn could feel his tension returning. "How do you know where I am?"
"Does it really matter? Remember our deal. No questions."
"You're a son of a bitch sometimes, you know that?"
"I'll text you with the plane info as soon as I get off."
"What if I'm busy?"
"You're not."
Quinn started to tighten his hand around the phone, but made himself stop. "This is number two," he said, knowing this would mean delaying the trip to see his parents for a few more days. But getting Peter that much closer to being off his back would be worth it. "That leaves one and we're through."
"I can count," Peter said. The line went dead.
"So," Orlando said as Quinn slipped the phone back into his pocket. "We're going somewhere?"
Quinn and Nate stood in the hallway of an abandoned apartment building in New York, a few feet away from a doorway that had been blown out by some kind of explosion. There was debris everywhere: splintered chunks of wood, a twisted metal door frame, and bits and pieces of plaster. The room beyond the gaping doorway was a pit. A nub that had once been the concrete landing stuck out no more than a foot and a half into the room, but beyond that there was nothing.
Shining his flashlight inside, Quinn was just able to make out a pile of wood and concrete approximately twenty feet down. It wasn't an entire floor's worth of wreckage, but it was enough for a staircase.
"It looks like the best places to attach the ropes are there and there," Nate said, pointing up at the ceiling.
Quinn looked up at the spots his apprentice had indicated, happy that Nate was talking about something other than the Yankee game Quinn's phone call had pulled him away from.
Nate had found a couple of large gaps in the ceiling that exposed some of the building's support structure. The damage looked old, perhaps caused by water, or vandals, or neglect.
"Do it," Quinn said.
Nate picked up the end of one of the ropes. "I need a boost."
Quinn laced his fingers together and moved up next to the hallway wall. Nate put his free hand on Quinn's shoulder, then raised his left foot and put it into Quinn's palms.
"One, two, three," Nate said, then pushed himself up, straightening his left leg—his good leg—so that his head almost reached the ceiling. "Good. Hold me steady."
Quinn tilted his head up and watched as his apprentice looped the rope through the gap and around one of the beams before tying it off. As Nate stepped down, he tried to hide a wince, but Quinn noticed.
"I'm fine," Nate said.
"That's not what it looked like to me," Quinn said but immediately regretted it.
"I'm fine. A cramp." Nate's face was tense, serious. "We all get them."
As if to emphasize his point, he reached down and picked up the end of the second rope.
"I'm ready, let's go," Nate said.
Quinn moved three feet to his left and made another cradle with his hands. Nate repeated the task with the new rope. When he stepped down this time, he stared Quinn in the face and didn't wince. But it didn't matter. Quinn couldn't help remembering Nate lying unconscious on a Singapore street, his foot mangled by a car that had purposely rammed into him. It had been Quinn's call to remove the foot. It had been the right decision, but that didn't make Quinn feel any less responsible.
"Shall I unroll it?" Nate asked.
"Please," Quinn said.
The end of each security line was attached to a rope ladder sitting next to the empty doorway, waiting. Nate walked over and maneuvered the ladder so that it was centered in the opening, ready to roll over the edge into the darkness.
Another hour, two tops, and they'd be done, Quinn thought. And even more important, one more job would be ticked off the Peter payback list.
So far this one had been easy, if not a little unusual. Peter had arranged for a sedan to be waiting for them at the airport, complete with a trunk full of the equipment he thought they might need: flashlights, gloves, crowbars, the rope ladder, and handguns for each of them.
Peter hadn't been the one to greet them, though. Quinn wasn't even sure if he was in the city. It had been one of his agents, a woman named Ida. Quinn had met her briefly once before. She gave Quinn and Orlando the brief as they drove into Manhattan. It basically boiled down to a mop-up job in an apartment building, with a little recon work thrown in. Apparently an agent had run into a little trouble. While the agent had been extracted, there was the possibility that evidence had been left that could link the agent to the building. Peter wanted Quinn to make sure any link was severed. While they were at it, they were also to keep their eyes open for anything unusual.
"The agent was interrupted before the recon was complete," Ida had said, just before they'd dropped her off near Columbus Circle.
"Recon is not one of our normal services," Quinn told her.
The Unwanted Page 8