by Sam Sisavath
She dove to the floor as the armchair sailed over her head and smashed into the wall, burying itself inside the Sheetrock up to where the backrest joined the seat. Before she could properly comprehend what had just happened, her mind screamed, Move your ass! Move your ass now! even as she struggled to push up from the floor. The Glock was still gripped tightly in her right hand as if her life depended on it, because at this very moment it did.
Pete was on his knees and grabbing at a nightstand by one of its skinny legs. He was very naked (And alive! How is he still alive?), but at that second all she cared about was the sight of him alive and unhurt, and all she could think was, Jesus, did he really dodge a bullet?
She was raising the gun to line up another shot when he threw the nightstand. She fired anyway, but her aim was off and she knew she had missed even as she ducked her head for the second time and the furniture zipped! past the right side of her face and shattered against the same wall that was already cratered by the armchair.
Quinn jumped to her feet and expected Pete to make a run for it, but the bastard instead dove forward and struck her chest with his shoulder. He had moved so fast and she had a flashback to Gary Ross’s nightclub when Porter had pulled the same stunt on her. Pete moved almost as fast as Porter had that night, maybe even faster, because he had come in a straight line instead of maneuvering to get behind her the way Porter had.
She gasped for breath, the full force of the impact jarring every inch of her, but it was like trying to breathe while drowning and all she was really aware of was falling, falling, then slamming into the ugly lime-green sofa she had spent most of the day on.
But at least she had managed to hold onto the Glock, and Quinn was desperately struggling to push herself off the couch and lift her gun hand for a third shot (Third time’s the charm!) at the same time when something struck her in the face and she collapsed, saw the sofa flashing by just before her head hit the floor with a loud and echoing thwump!
She tried to spin around onto her back, but she couldn’t execute the movement. Her arms wouldn’t obey and neither would her legs. Jesus, what had he hit her with? A bat? It felt like a bat. One of those heavy wooden ones. Her nose may have been broken, or maybe her entire face was on fire. She couldn’t even be sure where he had hit her, just that he had. Goddamn, he had a strong punch.
When she finally managed to pry her eyes open, it was to a pair of bare feet standing close to her. The figure crouched, and strong fingers easily pried the gun out of her numbed hand.
“If it helps, I wasn’t lying; Ben doesn’t know anything about this,” a voice said.
She thought it was slightly slurred and it didn’t really sound like Pete, but it had to be him. There was no one else in the apartment but the two of them right now. The cops would eventually show up—she had fired twice, after all—but that wasn’t going to be for a while yet.
The same fingers that had taken the gun from her traced a line along her cheek; they were cold and clammy, and she felt no comfort from them whatsoever.
“Unfortunately, that means when the combined might of the FBI and local law enforcement can’t find you, poor Ben won’t have any clue where to look for you,” Pete (or someone whose voice sounded an awful lot like Pete Ringo) was saying.
“Why are you doing this?” she managed to groan out.
He might have sighed, but her senses were so dulled that she couldn’t be one hundred percent certain.
“It’s not personal,” Pete (?) said. “I’m sorry, Quinn, but if you thought the last few days were rough, it’s going to get even tougher.”
“She’s awake.”
“What?”
“Your girl. She’s awake.”
“Shit.”
“Did you go light on the dosage?”
“No. I gave her the entire thing.”
“Then why is she already awake?”
“I don’t know.” A brief pause, then, “We had trouble putting her under at the hospital, too.”
“When she killed the others?”
“Yeah.”
“Man, you really screwed that one up.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
A short chuckle. “Give her another one.”
“I can’t. I only had the one shot stocked at the apartment.”
“You should have told me. I’d have brought extra.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know she’d pop right back up after taking a full dosage. She’s something.”
“You like her, don’t you?”
“I don’t dislike her.”
“That was your first mistake.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just keep your eyes on the road, Mr. Chauffeur.”
Her vision had cleared up enough for Quinn to make out streetlights flashing by outside a tinted window in front of her. She was inside a moving vehicle—a midsize sedan of some type, spacious enough for her to lay on her back with her legs almost completely extended. Her ankles were bound together like her hands, and she expected to have trouble breathing with the tape over her mouth, except there wasn’t any tape.
A familiar face leaned over and smiled down at her. “Don’t bother screaming,” Pete Ringo said. “There’s no one out there. Besides, we have shiny badges that say we can do whatever we want.”
“Pete,” she said. Her mouth hadn’t wanted to cooperate, and just saying the name had taken a lot of effort.
“That’s me.”
“No, not you.”
He looked momentarily confused, before he understood. “Oh, I get it. The whole two-face thing?”
She stared at him but didn’t answer.
“I should get an Oscar, right?” he said. “At least an Emmy.”
“Who the hell are you?” she asked.
“Pete Ringo. The real Pete Ringo, this time. Nice to meet you.”
“What’s so nice about it?”
The driver snorted in the front seat. “Sounds like true love to me.”
Pete ignored the driver and said to her, “Just so we’re on the same page: I didn’t put tape over your mouth as a courtesy. If that ends up being a mistake, I’ll put you in the trunk. Makes no difference to me.”
“Go to hell,” Quinn said.
“Hell is convincing the locals not to go into my apartment after those gunshots of yours. Took a lot of phone calls, and I don’t even want to think about the paperwork that’s waiting for me tomorrow. Luckily they buckled, or else we’d have had to add two of Houston’s finest to your list of crimes, Quinn.”
She struggled up from the seat—it was plush and felt good, and she hated having to abandon its comfort—until she was in a sitting position. She looked down at the zip ties cinched tightly around her wrists and ankles. Her face still throbbed from being punched, and she resisted the urge to get a better look at her reflection in the closed window. Instead she focused on swimming through the vat of mud that weighed her down and made her mentally sluggish. Just processing the smallest thought took effort.
“Just a little insurance,” Pete was saying. He was leaning casually over the front passenger seat.
They were moving through a dark street in a part of town she didn’t recognize. It was very quiet outside, and they might have been the only car moving for blocks. How long had she been unconscious?
She stopped worrying about the time and what was happening outside the car and refocused on the interior instead. The driver wasn’t anyone she recognized—dark hair, a square jaw—and he only glanced up at her in the rearview mirror once.
She turned back to Pete. “I shot you.”
He grinned. “Faster than a speeding bullet, and…I forgot the other parts.”
“No one dodges a bullet from five feet.”
“Maybe you’re not as good a shot as you thought.”
“Bullshit.”
He shrugged indifferently. “I don’t know what to tell you, Quinn. You missed.”
Did I? she thought, even as memories of him falling backward and tipping over th
e armchair rushed back to her.
She squinted at him. “Who are you really?”
“You have this backwards, Quinn. We’re not here to answer your questions; it’s the other way around.”
She ignored him and pressed on: “You’re working alone, aren’t you? The FBI has no idea I’m here or that I’m in custody. Where are you taking me?”
Pete didn’t answer. Instead, he turned around in his seat.
“Where are you taking me, Pete?” she asked again.
He still didn’t answer.
“Pete…” she started to say, when her vision blurred and the throbbing came back in a tidal wave of sensations.
It was all she could do to lean back against the plush upholstery and close her eyes and attempt to push back the flood. Her concentration was slipping, the result of whatever they had given her no doubt, but it wasn’t completely beyond her reach. She could focus in small spurts if she tried hard enough, but it took a lot of effort.
Too much effort, if the two of them were just going to ignore everything she said.
“Look,” a voice said from somewhere on the other side of the planet. Pete. Or was it the other one? The driver? “She’s going back under.”
“I told you one dose was enough,” someone else said. The driver? Or was that Pete?
“You knew her?”
“Since the academy. That’s what makes this tough.”
“We gotta do what we gotta do.”
“Gee thanks, Dr. Phil.” Then, after a deep regretful sigh, “Still, what a waste. What a waste…”
Chapter 10
She opened her eyes to bright lights and gray concrete walls. Figures flitted across her peripheral vision, momentarily disrupting the sea of moving white color that had come to dominate her senses. The sound of a door opening brought out a sudden stab of fear and anxiety. Her mind demanded she take action, to make a stab at escape, but the rest of her refused to obey.
Move, goddammit, move!
Move!
But she couldn’t. She wanted to—desperately—but she remained sitting even as a hand reached into the car and grabbed her and pulled her out. It was a strong grip, and rough, and she felt like a child being bossed around by an impatient parent. She was off balance and on the verge of falling and was preparing herself for it when a new, more reassuring hand grabbed her other arm to steady her.
“Easy there,” a voice said.
Pete.
She was certain it was Pete this time, even if she couldn’t see his face or understand where he was talking to her from. It had to be nearby, and one of the hands holding her up probably belonged to him. Maybe.
There were other people around her, but they were even more impossible to decipher against the lazy euphoria that had taken over her mind, turning her into something that she’d always hated—helpless.
She remembered a voice from the past telling her to “Never be helpless. Whatever you do, never be helpless again.”
The voice might have been her own, but she couldn’t remember. She only knew that hearing it again made her wince with embarrassment.
Or she thought she winced, anyway. Her face, already bruised from Pete’s fist back at his apartment, was even more numb now, so she might not have even managed the physical reaction at all.
What had they given her? And why had it worn off only to take effect again? Or maybe the answer was obvious, if not for her current state.
They were leading her away from the car, through some kind of large open space (A warehouse? Some kind of lobby? Was she in an apartment building?) and might have been for the last few minutes. No, not really “leading,” since she couldn’t walk with her legs tied together at the ankles; they were carrying her between them like some kind of trophy.
Wait, were her legs and wrists still bound? She couldn’t tell.
“This will go a lot easier if you just answer everything they ask,” Pete was saying to her left. Or was he on her right? Despite her best efforts, it was difficult to know where everyone was.
She wanted to answer him—maybe throw out a stinging quip or two—but her lips wouldn’t move to form words. Not that she had the presence of mind to come up with something clever anyway.
“It’s going to hurt,” Pete continued. “There’s no way around it. We have to make absolutely sure you’ve told us everything. After what happened at the hospital, we can’t take any chances you might be holding something back. I’m sorry, Quinn.”
Go to hell, Pete Ringo, she wanted to say, but when she forced her mouth to open, the only thing that came out was a quiet, pathetic wheeze.
She didn’t know how long they had been walking, but she could just barely make out the sounds of doors opening and closing. Two doors? Three? At least two, but it could have been ten, for all the alertness she had at her disposal at the moment.
“She’s tougher than she looks,” a new voice said. No, not new. The driver. He was on her left. Or was that right?
“She’s full of surprises,” Pete said.
“You sure you didn’t hit this back at the academy?”
“Against the rules.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
A chuckle…from Pete? Yes. It sounded like Pete.
“She’s different,” Pete said. “I thought I’d wait until she got out. I knew Ben was planning on getting her assigned to our unit. So I had plenty of time to work my magic.”
“Not anymore.”
A sigh of regret. “Nope. Not anymore. Time always runs out when you least expect it.”
Time? Speaking of time…
Minutes went by. Or was that seconds?
Focus!
It didn’t matter how hard she tried; time continued to slip just beyond her grasp. Whenever she thought she was about to grab ahold of it, it would move another inch, then another, until she grew tired of trying.
But she couldn’t stop, because to do so would mean giving up, and she wasn’t a quitter.
“Never be helpless. Whatever you do, never be helpless again.”
She didn’t have any choice as they carried her through—a hallway? Were they in some kind of corridor? And why were the lights so bright? She couldn’t even see what the walls looked like. They were a uniform gray color, and had been since they pulled her out of the car.
How long ago was that? A few minutes? An hour? A day?
“This is her?” a new voice asked.
Not Pete. Not the driver, either. She was sure this was someone new this time.
“Yes,” Pete said to her left.
Her eyes were closed—because the effort necessary to pry them open was too much—as they lowered her sagging body into a waiting chair. It was hard and cold, but she welcomed the strong sensations because it meant she could feel something again.
Which meant the drugs they had given her were starting to wear off.
“Her bindings,” the new voice said.
Bindings? Did she still have the zip ties around her wrists and ankles after all? Why couldn’t she feel them? She should have been able to feel them by now.
Goddammit, the drugs weren’t leaving her system nearly fast enough…
“Are you sure?” Pete was asking.
“This works better if they’re not restrained,” the new voice said. “The mind tends to default into a state of self-preservation when it feels it’s in danger.”
“If you say so.”
“She looks pretty gone. How much did you give her?”
“One full dose.”
“One full dose?”
“Uh huh.”
“How is she even still awake?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter.” A sharp prick of pain along the side of her neck, there one heartbeat and gone the next.
“What was that?” Pete asked.
“A paralyzing agent. It’ll relax her body and allow her mind to open up for questioning. The mind needs serenity before it can
sing.”
A pair of hands cut away the binds around her wrists and legs, and as soon as her hands separated, her mind screamed, Now! Here’s your chance! Quickly, before they realize their mistake!
But she was wrong—her captors hadn’t made any mistakes. Her mind was screaming but her body didn’t respond, just as it hadn’t when they carried her out of the sedan and through however many corridors and doors to get to this place.
The pervading cold from the chair dominated her senses, but she found that the longer she sat the less she minded. At least she wasn’t being carried around like a piece of meat.
“All this trouble from such a small package,” the new voice said. “Hard to believe.”
“She’s a tough one,” Pete said.
She was having an easier time recognizing his voice. Was that a sign that whatever Pete had given her at his apartment was wearing off? What about whatever the stranger had just jabbed into her system?
“I would be careful with her, if I were you,” Pete was saying.
“Noted,” the stranger said.
“What about the other one? Did he tell you anything?”
Other one? she thought. Was there someone else in the room with them?
“He told me everything,” the stranger said.
“About Porter?” Pete asked.
“He doesn’t know where Porter is.”
“I thought you said he told you everything?”
“He can’t reveal something he doesn’t know, can he? Porter’s location is one of them. They haven’t seen each other since that night. He really was just a courier.”
“Too bad. I was hoping he might know something useful. This whole thing with Porter is making people nervous. No one knows why he came back after five years.”
“I’m sure we’ll find him,” the man said. “Though I have to admit, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Old Men this nervous.”
Old Men?
“You talked to them?” Pete asked.
“No, but that’s the feeling through the grapevine,” the stranger said.
Something sweaty and cold touched her cheeks and straightened her head (had it always been lolled to one side?), and sticky fingers pried at her eyelids. She didn’t fight it—she didn’t know if she could even if she wanted to—and allowed her eyes to be opened so that she could, finally, see where they had brought her.