The Cleaner

by Brett Battles

  'This was a good trip for you,' Quinn said. 'If you're smart, you learned a lot.' Nate was about to take a drink, but stopped instead and lowered his glass. 'I'm smart.'

  'Tell me how smart?'

  'Never use your real name, first or last,' Nate said. 'Never talk if I've been told not to. Never visit the scene of an operation unless supervised.' He paused for a moment, then added, 'And never show any initiative unless you tell me I should.'

  'You're right. You are smart. Someday you can show all the initiative you want. Someday, your life will depend on it. But now?'

  'Both our lives depend on what you decided,' Nate said, repeating a maxim Quinn had been drilling into him since Nate's first day on the job.

  Before Quinn could say anything further, his cell

  phone rang. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight. Quinn walked over to the end table and picked the phone up from where he'd left it.

  'Hello?' he said.

  'I need you in D. C It was Peter.

  'You're working late.'

  'Look, we've got a big operation gearing up and it looks like we could use your help. This is top priority.'

  'Something to do with our friend in Colorado?'

  'At this point, the details are not your concern. You'll be briefed when you arrive. I have you booked on a plane leaving at seven in the morning. I've e-mailed you the details.'

  'I think we've missed a step here. I don't actually work for you. You need to ask me first. We call this the job offer.'

  'Technically, you're still on the payroll.'

  Quinn's eyes narrowed. Peter was referring to his two-week minimum on the Taggert job, of which Quinn had only really used two days. But there was an unwritten rule that the minimum applied only to the specific job he was hired for. Peter was stretching things.

  Apparently taking Quinn's silence for acceptance, Peter said, 'I'll see you in the afternoon.' The line went dead.

  'What's up?' Nate asked as Quinn put the phone back down.

  Quinn told him the basics, the whole time thinking he definitely had to reconsider the workingfor-one-client thing.

  'You're going, then?' Nate asked.

  'Yeah.' Quinn drained his drink. 'I'm going.' He glanced over at Nate, who was smiling at Quinn's annoyance. 'And you're driving me to the airport.'

  'Come on,' Nate said, his smile gone. 'I just want to go home and go to bed.' 'Sleep on the couch,' Quinn told him. 'We leave at five a.m.'

  Quinn was deep in a world of nothingness when he felt a distant shaking. It was accompanied by a voice. 'Quinn. Wake up.'

  Quinn pushed himself up, immediately awake. Nate was leaning down beside him, next to the bed. 'What?' Quinn asked.

  'Your security alarm just went off,' Nate said, his voice an urgent whisper. 'I think someone's outside.'

  Security alarm? Quinn should have heard it. He had an auxiliary panel right in his room.

  Getting out of bed, he went to the panel on the wall. A red light was blinking. It was then he realized the throbbing he felt in his head wasn't throbbing at all. It was the low-level pulsing tone of the alarm. He hadn't slept well in Colorado, and the day of investigating and traveling had been a long one. Now that he was home, he'd fallen asleep so deeply the alarm hadn't even registered on him. Sloppy, Quinn, he thought. Really, really sloppy.

  'Did you check the monitor upstairs?' Quinn asked. Nate nodded. 'It says, "Rear Fence Breach." I

  pulled up the backyard camera, but I didn't see anything. You think it might be a cat or something?'

  'Doubtful,' Quinn said. The system had been adjusted to ignore anything so small. 'What time is it?'

  'Almost three.'

  Quinn needed to go upstairs and check the security monitor himself. He'd been meaning to install an additional screen in his bedroom, but hadn't got around to it yet.

  'Are you armed?' Quinn asked.

  Nate raised his right hand. In it was a Walther P99 9mm pistol. Quinn's own SIG 9mm was sitting in his safe upstairs in the living room.

  Quinn pulled on the pair of black sweatpants he always kept sitting on top of his dresser, then headed for the stairs. When he reached the top, he stopped to listen.

  Silence.

  The only light in the house came from the muted, flickering television in the living room and from the gibbous moon filtering through the back windows. Otherwise, the entire upper floor was dark.

  Quinn padded over to the security panel near the front door and touched the upper right corner of the screen with his left thumb, bringing the monitor to life. The first thing he did was turn the alarm off. Then, in quick succession, he worked through the feeds from the cameras that kept watch over his property. There was no one in the backyard – not by the back fence nor against the house. If someone had hopped the fence, it would be recorded on the system's hard drive. Quinn could go back and review it later if he needed to.

  Nate was watching from over his shoulder. 'Maybe it was just a cat,' he suggested.

  'Maybe.'

  Quinn switched to a view of the front, then tapped the monitor again, zooming the camera in for a tight shot of his house. He began a pan from left to right, moving the camera slowly so that he wouldn't miss anything. About two thirds of the way across he stopped and studied the monitor.

  'Not a cat,' Quinn said.

  An intruder was crouched on the porch below the bathroom window. Nate started to say something, but Quinn held up a finger for quiet. The bathroom was just around the corner from where they were standing. There was a chance, though slight, that they might be overheard. Quinn quickly dialed through the remaining cameras to make sure the intruder was alone. When he was satisfied there was no one else, he returned to the original image. The intruder hadn't moved.

  Quinn motioned for Nate to hand over his gun. No need to break out his own pistol, the Walther would do. Nate handed him the weapon.

  'Suppressor?' Quinn whispered.

  Nate nodded, then hurried over to the couch where his leather jacket was draped over the arm. From a pocket, he extracted a long cylinder. He brought it back to Quinn, who attached it to the barrel of the gun.

  Quinn leaned toward Nate. 'Stay here,' he whispered. 'When you hear a single knock on the front door, open it.'

  'What if he gets you first?' Quinn scowled. 'When you hear a single knock on the front door,' he repeated, 'open it.' Nate nodded. 'Okay.'

  Chapter 7

  From outside, it appeared that the only exits to Quinn's house were through the front door or the attached three-car garage. But there was another way, hidden on the west side of the building. Quinn thought of it as his 'escape hatch.' It was a small door that blended in almost perfectly with the surrounding wall. Quinn had built it himself, but this was the first time he had needed to use it.

  The door swung inward silently on oiled hinges. Quinn paused for a moment, listening. All was quiet. He eased through the opening and into the night.

  He crept along the side of the house, stopping just before reaching the front corner. Carefully, he peered around the edge.

  The intruder was still on the porch but was no longer kneeling below the bathroom window. He'd moved to the other side of the front door, just below the window to the entrance hall. Since the interior wooden shutters were closed, the intruder couldn't see in.

  Quinn was about to step around the corner of the house when his unwanted visitor pulled what looked like a small black box out of a cloth bag at his side. Quinn stopped to watch. The intruder pressed the device gently against the window, where it stuck easily. He then pulled a set of earphones out of his pocket, plugging it into the box. He put one of the earpieces into his left ear.

  This guy's not some random burglar, Quinn thought. He's a pro.

  Quinn had seen the black box before. In fact, he owned one himself. It was an echo box, a listening device that amplified sounds from inside a building when placed against a window. It was held in position against the glass by a quick-release suction device
. For the moment, the intruder would be able to hear almost anything that was said inside.

  Keeping low, Quinn moved away from the house, over to where his BMW was parked in the driveway. The move didn't get him any closer to the intruder, but it did put Quinn behind the son of a bitch. He checked the Walther to make sure the sound suppressor was firmly attached, then moved toward the house.

  The intruder had removed the listening device from his ear and was now pulling something else out of his bag. Quinn moved silently forward, not stopping until he was only six feet away from his uninvited guest.

  'Put it down,' Quinn said in a calm, even voice.

  The man froze, then lowered his hands. In one was a thin, ropelike substance. Quinn recognized it immediately. Incendiary cord. He wasn't quite sure what the guy had in mind, but there was no mistaking the ultimate objective.

  'Drop it,' Quinn said.

  The intruder did as he was told.

  'Now turn around and stand up. Slowly,' Quinn cautioned. 'Hands in the air.'

  The intruder followed Quinn's instructions. The man was about five foot ten and wiry. He couldn't have been more than a hundred and fifty pounds. He was dressed all in black. Even his face, which was smeared with something like grease or shoe polish, was black.

  'Five steps,' Quinn said. 'Two away from the window and three toward the front door.'

  He watched as the intruder stepped away from his bag and toward the entrance. So far the guy was following orders. Quinn took a step forward, keeping a wary eye on the man. 'Turn around and face the wall,' Quinn said.

  When the intruder's back was to him, Quinn shoved the man between the shoulder blades, forcing him hard against the building. Because of the angle, most of the guy's weight was now on his hands, making it nearly impossible for him to make any kind of move on Quinn.

  Quinn did a quick body search. The man was carrying a Glock in a shoulder holster, and a seven-inch Ka-Bar fighting knife in a leather sheath on his belt. Quinn took the weapons, then reached over and knocked once on the front door.

  Nate opened it instantly. 'I was wondering when the hell you were going to –' He stopped, staring.

  'Hands behind you,' Quinn said to the intruder. 'We're going inside.'

  ** *

  'Kitchen,' Quinn told Nate once the front door was closed again.

  Nate led the way. As they passed the living room, Quinn dropped the Glock and the knife on the couch.

  The kitchen was a work of art – exposed wood, stainless steel, and a floor covered by light brown tiles imported from Spain. It was almost like one of those kitchens you'd see in a magazine: spacious, functional, with a large island in the center. Off to one side was a breakfast nook, complete with a nineteenth-century wooden table and an eclectic mix of chairs. Nate pulled one of the chairs out from the table, and Quinn pushed the intruder onto it.

  'Turn on the light,' Quinn said to Nate.

  Nate walked over to the wall and flipped a switch. The light gave Quinn his first chance to get a good look at his prisoner. Even with the black face paint, he wasn't surprised he recognized the man.

  'Hello, Gibson,' Quinn said.

  'Quinn,' Gibson replied mildly. 'How've you been?'

  Quinn pulled a roll of paper towels off a dowel on the counter. 'Here.' He tossed the roll at his captive. 'You can wipe that crap off your face.'

  Gibson smiled, but didn't move.The paper towels bounced harmlessly off his lap and onto the floor.

  'Your choice,' Quinn said. He retrieved a bottle of water from inside the refrigerator, then returned his attention to Gibson. 'What are you doing here?'

  'I was bored.'

  'So this was some kind of random house call?'

  'Sure. Why not?' Gibson said.

  'I didn't realize you knew where I lived.'

  'I looked you up in the phone book.'

  Quinn smiled, then took a sip of the water. 'Who sent you?' Gibson snorted. 'Right.' Quinn calmly raised the Walther and aimed it at Gibson's head. 'Who sent you?'

  'You going to kill me, Quinn? That's not like you.'

  'One last time. Who sent you?' Quinn repeated.

  'Go ahead. Pull the trigger. Kill me, and someone else will do the job.'

  Quinn held the gun in place for a moment, then, still smiling, he lowered it, leaving his finger resting on the trigger guard. 'Are you saying there's a contract out on me?'

  Gibson shrugged.

  'Who's paying the bills?' Quinn asked.

  'Like I'd tell you even if I knew. Which I don't. So it doesn't matter, does it?' Quinn looked at Nate. 'Do you remember the

  procedure for getting ahold of Peter?'

  Nate nodded.

  'Call him. My cell's in the living room,' Quinn said. 'See if he can get a pickup team out here. Somebody local. I don't want this asshole hanging around my house any longer than necessary.'

  Nate started to turn away when Gibson spoke again. 'I think Peter's probably got his hands full at the moment.'

  When Nate hesitated, Quinn said to him, 'Go.' Then he turned back to his prisoner. 'I've never much liked you.'

  'I can't see any reason why I'd care,' Gibson said.

  'I guess that's probably part of the problem.' Quinn took a long drink from the bottle, then set it on the counter. 'What I hear is that you're sloppy. Apparently that info's right.'

  'Fuck you,' Gibson spat.

  'You can't even handle an easy solo job.'

  Gibson's brow furrowed. 'I know what I'm doing.'

  'Really?' Quinn asked. 'If you're so good, why was I able to catch you?'

  'I've been at this almost as long as you have. I'd have been dead long ago if I didn't know what I was doing.'

  'Given the circumstances, I'd call that dumb luck.'

  Quinn could hear Nate talking to someone on the phone in the other room. A moment later, Nate was back.

  'Well?' Quinn asked.

  Nate looked at Gibson, then at Quinn. 'Peter couldn't come to the phone.' 'Told you,' Gibson said. He was smiling now. Quinn turned back to his prisoner. 'Did I ask

  you a question?'

  Gibson shrugged.

  'Then shut up.' Quinn looked at Nate. 'Who did you talk to?'

  'Misty.' She was Peter's main assistant.

  'Did you tell her what we needed?'

  'I tried to, but she cut me off.'

  'So no one's coming?' Quinn asked.

  Nate shook his head.

  Quinn closed his eyes for a moment in thought.

  When he opened them, he handed the pistol to Nate. 'Don't let him move,' he said. 'If he does, shoot him.'

  Nate had left the phone on the arm of the couch. Quinn picked it up and hit Redial. Fifteen seconds later, Misty answered. 'Yes?'

  'It's Quinn.' 'He doesn't have time right now, Quinn. Things

  are a bit crazy here.' 'Things are a bit crazy here, too,' Quinn said. He could hear her sigh on the other end. 'What's

  the problem?' 'You mean, other than someone trying to kill me?' 'You, too?' 'What do you mean "you, too"?' 'Hold on,' she said quickly. 'Let me see if I can

  get Peter.'

  It was almost a full minute before Peter came on the line. Without preamble, he asked, 'What happened?'

  'I just found Martin Gibson lurking outside my

  front door. And it wasn't a social call.' 'Where is he now?' Peter asked. 'In my kitchen.' 'Is he dead?' 'No,' Quinn said. 'That's something at least.' 'Jesus Christ, Peter. Who would want to kill me?'

  Quinn asked.

  'It's not just you,' Peter said. 'Others have received visitors tonight, also. Unfortunately, most of them . . .'

  Peter let the sentence hang.

  'Others?' Quinn said. 'Is there a pattern?'

  Peter seemed to hesitate, then said, 'They appear to be hitting only members of the Office.' 'No other agency?' Another pause. 'No.' Quinn suddenly went cold. 'A disruption?' 'We don't know anything yet,' Peter said, but

  there was doubt in his voice.

&nb
sp; 'Who's behind it?'

  'If I wasn't talking to you, I might be able to get a few answers.' Peter took a deep breath. 'Even if I did know something, this is an Office matter. It's our business, not –'

  There was a loud noise from the kitchen, followed immediately by the spit of a bullet passing through a suppressor. A second later Quinn heard the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh. He dropped the phone and grabbed Gibson's weapons off the couch.

  'Nate?' he called out.

  No answer.

  Quinn hurried toward the kitchen, using the partial wall that divided the two rooms as cover. He was only a few feet away when a bullet slammed into the wall just behind him.

  Without thinking, he dove to the floor. A second later two more bullets raced over his head. Remaining on his belly, he snaked his way to the edge of the wall and peered into the kitchen. Nate was there, on the floor. The chair Gibson had been sitting in was on top of him. From where Quinn was, he couldn't tell if his apprentice was still breathing or not. He looked left, then right. Gibson was gone.

  Staying low, Quinn turned around and headed back into the living room. This time his only cover was his leather couch. He stopped for a moment and listened intently.

  Nothing.

  Wherever Gibson had gone, it wasn't far. And though Gibson had Nate's gun, Quinn had both a Glock and a knife. He also knew the layout of his house better than anyone. He knew all the hiding places, all the exits. Gibson had only experienced the walk from the front door to the kitchen. Every move he might make would be a guess.

  Outside, the moon had moved below one of the nearby ridges. The only illumination now came from the flicker of the television and the light that was still on in the kitchen.

  Quinn ventured a peek around the side of the couch. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He scanned the room a second time just to be sure. This time his eyes paused on the leather recliner that sat facing the couch about ten feet away. Something wasn't quite right. It was the shadow cast by the stuffed chair. As it changed with the flickering of the light from the TV, there were moments when the shadow seemed larger than it should have been.

  He watched it for a moment, almost dismissing it as an optical illusion. Then the shadow moved.