The Collected (A Jonathan Quinn Novel)

by Brett Battles

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  With a nod, Nate took off.

  Quinn put Peter over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold, lugged him back to the others, and transferred him to Daeng’s shoulder.

  “Get the others out,” he said. “Take everyone to the room downstairs and lock yourselves in. Nate and I are on cleanup.”

  “You two can’t do it alone,” Orlando said.

  “If we need help, I’ll let you know.” He took off down the hall.

  __________

  NATE KNEW THERE was no way he would catch Janus in time. The son of a bitch had too much of a head start, but he had to try.

  He grabbed the wall just before he reached the stairs so he could propel himself around the corner and up. The around-the-corner part worked. The up, not so much.

  Janus was standing three steps above him, waiting. Nate smashed into the man’s chest and fell back onto the ground, his gun skittering off to the side.

  The welts on his back screamed again, but he ignored them.

  Janus jumped down, his feet heading straight for Nate’s ribs. As Nate rolled to the side, Janus kicked out in an attempt to change direction, but Nate slammed his elbow back, hitting the big man in the calf.

  Janus toppled over, his arm slamming the stone floor with a giant thwack. As the big man lay there, momentarily stunned, Nate popped up onto his feet and scanned the ground for his gun. He tensed when he finally spotted it five feet to Janus’s right. All Janus had to do was turn his head to see it, then reach out and grab the barrel.

  “Get up!” he yelled at his former tormentor, egging him on. “What are you, scared of me?”

  Focus returned to Janus’s face. His gaze narrowed, and he pushed himself up. “You big problem.”

  Nate moved to his right. “Yeah, I am.”

  Countering him, Janus went left. Perfect.

  “I take care of problems,” Janus said. “That is my specialty.”

  “Well, you haven’t taken care of this problem yet, have you?”

  “No. But I am not done yet.”

  The gun was only a few feet behind Nate now. If Janus had seen it, there had been no indication.

  “I don’t know. You seem kind of done to me.”

  Janus smiled. “You try to provoke. I provoke not so easy.”

  Nate took a half step backward. “It was worth a try, wasn’t it?”

  “Trying is for the weak. I never try. I do.”

  “I don’t believe that’s how the quote goes,” Nate said as he slid back a little more.

  “What?”

  “Yoda.”

  “Huh?”

  Nate’s foot touched the end of the barrel. “Never mind.”

  What he really needed was for Janus to take a swing at him, so he could duck down and grab the gun without being obvious. If Janus knew what he was doing, he could put a stop to it before Nate would be able to get the muzzle trained on him.

  “You problem. But now I make you not.”

  Nate urged him forward with a Bruce Lee-style wave of his fingers.

  Instead of taking a swing at him, though, Janus charged, roaring. Nate dropped anyway, one hand hugging his chest to his knees, while the other searched for the gun. As his fingertips touched the suppressor, Janus’s massive thigh whacked into his shoulder.

  Nate tumbled onto his side, the gun under him and digging into his ribcage. Janus stumbled over him, then twisted back around and lashed out with his foot. His instep connected with the rear of Nate’s skull, sending a shockwave of blinding pain through Nate’s head.

  “What’s going on down here?” The voice came from behind them somewhere.

  Nate forced his eyes open. A soldier was standing near the base of the stairs. Nate guessed he was one of the watchmen from the wall.

  “Help me with him,” Janus said.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said.

  The moment Janus looked toward the other man, Nate wrapped his hand around the grip of the gun and yanked it out from under him. The soldier was the first in his sights. He pulled the trigger and his bullet hit center mass, neutralizing Janus’s would-be helper.

  Janus twisted around and tried to grab the gun from him, turning Nate’s hand back and forth, but Nate wouldn’t let go. When the barrel started arcing toward Janus, Nate let off another shot.

  Janus yelled angrily as a splotch of blood appeared in his upper right chest. He made another try for the gun, and Nate pulled the trigger again. This time the bullet only grazed the other man’s ear.

  Someone was running down the hall from the direction of the cells. Janus looked over, shoved himself away from Nate, and sprinted for the stairs. Nate got off another shot just before Janus moved up out of sight, but missed.

  As he started to stand, Quinn ran up and held out a hand. “Here.”

  Back to his feet, Nate said, “He’s mine.”

  CHAPTER 59

  “I KNOW WHERE Harris is,” Daeng told Orlando.

  They had just finished moving everyone to the room at the bottom of the wall. The three op agents were in pretty bad shape, but were at least able to walk. Peter, on the other hand, was still unconscious and had to be carried, though he was showing signs of coming out of it.

  “What about Romero?” she asked.

  “Him, I’m not sure, but he’s probably in the same area.”

  She thought for a moment. Her concern was that while Quinn and Nate went after Janus, Harris and Romero might escape.

  “I don’t want them to get away,” she said.

  “No. That would not make me happy.”

  She looked around the room. If the men they’d just rescued were civilians, no way would she and Daeng leave them. But they weren’t. They were professionals. Damaged professionals, yes, but that didn’t mean they’d forgotten how to fight.

  She pointed at the dark-haired man sitting on the floor next to Peter. “You. Lanier, right?”

  He looked over. “Yeah.”

  “Think you can handle a gun?”

  “I’m not dead, am I?” he said.

  __________

  QUINN WAS FIVE steps from the top, Nate just in front of him, when they heard Janus yell.

  “Intruders inside! Coming up the stairs now. They have taken the prisoners! Someone call back men who are out searching!” Then, not quite as loudly as before, he said, “Give me your gun.”

  Son of a bitch! It was exactly what they wanted to avoid.

  At the top of the stairs were a stone room with two windows and an open doorway on either side. Through the far doorway, Quinn could see Janus and four other men on top of the wall. Janus had a rifle, taken, no doubt, from the now unarmed man standing behind him.

  The rifle was trained on the stone room, and as soon as Quinn and Nate stepped out of the shadows of the staircase, it barked to life.

  The bullet whizzed between the two of them, sending them both diving to the side. They crawled through the room to either edge of the outside door.

  There were several more shots, the bullets smashing into the building, both outside the room and in.

  Quinn motioned for Nate to stay where he was. He pointed at himself and the window that overlooked the beach. Next, he pointed at Nate and mimicked shooting.

  Nate gave a nod.

  “On my signal,” Quinn mouthed. He went over to the window and looked out. There wasn’t much of a ledge there, but it was enough.

  It took him ten seconds to work his way along the outside of the room to the front corner. Once he was set, he gently tapped the wall with the butt of his gun.

  From inside came the thup-thup-thup of bullets passing through Nate’s suppressor. Four rifles returned fire. Quinn gauged their position, and as soon as Nate started firing again, he peeked around the corner and let off four rapid shots.

  Two were direct hits, sending a pair of soldiers tumbling backward over the wall. The third shot went wide, and the fourth hit Janus in the arm, knocking the rifle out of his hands. Instead
of picking the gun back up, Janus lowered himself over the courtyard side of the wall.

  While the man was now mostly out of sight, Quinn could still see one hand holding on to the top.

  He took two shots at it, but both missed by a few inches.

  A bullet hit the wall six inches from Quinn’s face, forcing him to focus on the remaining armed soldier. Make that two. The man that Janus had taken the rifle from had reclaimed it.

  Quinn took a quick shot, readjusted his targeting point, and shot again. This time he got his man.

  There was another shot from inside the room, and the remaining soldier went down.

  Quinn looked back to where Janus had been hanging on, but the hand was gone.

  He leaped around the corner of the room onto the walkway, and looked down into the courtyard. Janus wasn’t there, either.

  “Where is he?” Nate said, coming up beside Quinn.

  “Don’t know.”

  Nate turned back toward the stairs and began to run.

  __________

  HARRIS LOOKED UP from his desk.

  Someone was yelling, the sound coming down the hallway and through the door to his room. With a spark of hope, he rose to his feet, thinking the search party had finally returned with Quinn. He started across the room, anticipating a knock on his door from a messenger sent to tell him just that.

  But it wasn’t a knock he heard next. It was the boom of a rifle. As he jerked to a stop, another shot went off.

  Unraveling.

  He glanced at the bag next to the door holding his money. Was it time?

  Perhaps the watch had spotted Quinn beyond the wall and they were shooting at him. That could have been—

  More gunfire. Not just from one weapon, but several.

  Run!

  He sprinted toward the bag, and was reaching for the strap when someone knocked on his door.

  “Yes?” he said without opening it.

  A pause. “Sir, we have a report.”

  “Come back later. I’m busy.”

  “We were told to give it to you now.”

  He stared at the bag for a moment, then left it where it was and turned for the door. He had to get rid of whoever it was. He couldn’t have anyone see him leave and try to get to the boat before him.

  He pulled the door open. “What is it?”

  The soldier standing on the other side smiled oddly at him. “Told you I knew where he was.”

  Harris had never seen this man before. He was Asian, not Latin, and though there was something familiar about him, he definitely was not on Romero’s payroll.

  Harris shoved the door shut in the man’s face, dropped next to the bag, and pulled at the zipper so he could get at the gun inside.

  Behind him, the door banged loudly as it was thrust back open.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” the soldier who wasn’t a soldier said.

  Harris glanced back, the zipper half open.

  The man had a gun aimed at his Harris’s head.

  Harris had waited too long. He should have left the moment things had started to go wrong. Hell, he should have left years ago.

  A small, Asian woman walked in behind the man. She was also armed, her weapon also aimed at Harris. Her gaze moved down to the satchel at his feet. She smiled.

  “Do I see a bag full of money?”

  __________

  “HERE?” DAENG ASKED.

  It was the fourth room they’d come to since hauling Harris out of his suite. Though Daeng had asked the same question every time, Harris had yet to give him an answer.

  While Daeng pulled the man out of the way, Orlando tapped on the door with her gun. “Mr. Romero?”

  Nothing.

  Staying to the side, she undid the latch and let it swing open.

  Storage room filled with cardboard boxes.

  “This one?” Daeng asked when they reached the next door.

  “Go to hell,” Harris said.

  Daeng slammed Harris against the wall and wrapped a hand around the man’s neck. “That’s not very polite.” He locked eyes with Harris. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You cared enough to trick me into going back to Bangkok by killing two people I knew.”

  Harris’s eyes widened.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Daeng said. “I guess you couldn’t keep me away, though.” Daeng let go of the man’s neck and pushed him down the hallway. “I will kill you before this is over. Count on it.”

  Orlando knocked, then opened the door when no one responded. It was an empty room.

  They came to another door and stopped.

  “So?” Daeng asked.

  Harris was back to his silent game.

  This time when Orlando knocked, they heard someone on the other side. The door opened a foot, and a young man wearing hospital scrubs looked out.

  “Can I help you?” he asked in Spanish.

  Answering in kind, Orlando said, “We need to see Señor Romero.”

  “I’m sorry, but he’s taking a nap.

  “Oh, what a shame.”

  She pushed the door open.

  “Hey! You can’t—”

  His words died in his mouth as he caught sight of the gun in her hand.

  “I’m sorry. You were saying?” she asked.

  He backed a few feet away. “Please. I’m only a nurse. I don’t know anything. I’m just here to monitor Señor Romero’s health. Please. Please don’t hurt me.”

  “If that’s true, then we won’t have any problems.”

  They joined him inside. The room was large, with a desk and work area at the near end, and hospital bed at the other. In between was a living area, with a couch, chairs, and tables.

  Her eyes on the nurse, Orlando motioned to the couch with her gun. “Sit over there.”

  He immediately complied.

  “And don’t move,” she told him. “If you do, I’ll assume you’re a problem. Trust me, you don’t want that to happen. Tell me you understand.”

  “I won’t move. I swear.”

  Orlando, Daeng, and Harris walked across the room to the bed.

  Romero was indeed asleep. Though it had been only four years since the assassination attempt, he looked decades older than the picture of him in the file Misty sent.

  “Time to get up, Mr. Romero,” Orlando said in English.

  The old man didn’t move.

  Orlando pinched his nose and covered his mouth with her palm. It took only a second for Romero’s eyes to fly open as he gasped for air. She held on for another second, then let go.

  He took in several rapid breaths. “¿Quién demonios es usted?”

  “I’m afraid we’re the bearers of bad news,” Orlando said, still using English. “Your little torture fest is canceled.”

  “What are you talking about? Who are you?” He looked at Harris. “Who are these people?”

  __________

  HARRIS KNEW HE had to forget about the money bag now. It was strung across the woman’s shoulders, and there was no way he could get it without taking a bullet first. The only thing he needed to concentrate on was getting out of the fort and off the island.

  He’d remained hyper-alert as they led him down the hall, searching for Romero’s room. But then the man in the fatigues had revealed his identity, causing Harris’s mind to spin yet again.

  Daeng. The man from Thailand. Quinn’s preferred assistant.

  Harris had thought he played that one so well, and that he’d effectively taken Daeng out of the picture. How in hell was he here?

  The next thing he knew, they were standing in Romero’s room next to the old man’s bed.

  Focus! he scolded himself. Get out of here and get to the boat.

  “I’m afraid we’re the bearers of bad news,” the woman said to Romero, Harris’s money bag still hanging over her shoulder. “Your little torture fest is canceled.”

  Romero looked both annoyed and confused. “What are you talking about
? Who are you?” He focused on Harris. “Who are these people?”

  Harris hesitated, then said, “These, Señor Romero, are associates of Quinn’s.”

  As the cleaner’s name left his mouth, he could see that Daeng’s and the woman’s attention was fully on Romero.

  His inner voice screamed, Now!

  __________

  BOTH ORLANDO AND Daeng knew it wasn’t a matter of if, but when Harris would try something.

  The man must have thought it was a surprise move when he swung his elbow at Daeng. If he hadn’t telegraphed it by tensing his shoulders, it might have worked. But by the time his elbow reached the point where Daeng’s gun had been, Daeng had already taken a step back, out of the way.

  Harris didn’t give up, though. He whirled around, his fist flying out and catching the tip of Daeng’s chin. Leading with his shoulder, he knocked Daeng to the side and started running for the door.

  Orlando’s shot went wide but Daeng’s flew true, his bullet puncturing Harris’s back before exiting the other side.

  Momentum carried Harris forward another few feet before he toppled to the floor.

  “¡Dios mio!” the nurse cried out.

  Orlando gave him a quick look. “Remember what I said about moving.”

  The nurse nodded rapidly as he pulled his arms and legs toward his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible.

  Daeng reached Harris first and shoved him over onto his back. The man’s breathing was ragged, but his eyes were open.

  “That’s a nasty wound,” Orlando said as she moved in next to Daeng. “Good thing we don’t need him for anything else, because he’s not going to be around much longer.”

  “Still too long, I think,” Daeng said.

  “True.”

  “May I?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Daeng stepped closer so that he was looking directly down at Harris. “Look at me.”

  Harris’s gaze jumped around.

  “Here,” Daeng said, pointing to his own face. “Look at me!”

  The man did so.

  “You killed my friends and have been torturing another. That’s why you are on the floor now. That’s why you can barely breathe. And that’s why I am the last thing you will ever see.”