The Damaged Page 11

  Markoff smirked. “Oh, yeah. I’ve been hating life down here.”

  Quinn plucked one of the towels off the lounge and tossed it to his friend.

  Markoff snagged it out of the air, said, “Thanks,” and started to dry himself off. “I suppose you’re going to want to stay here, too.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “It is, but I think I can fit you in.” Markoff picked up his beer and downed what remained. “You hungry? There’s a great seafood place not far down the road.”

  Quinn owed his life to Markoff.

  A few years earlier, not long after Quinn had begun working on his own, Markoff had rescued him from having his throat cut by a Polish arms dealer. That was the first time they’d ever met.

  Markoff was a field operative for the CIA, and after that first encounter, their paths had crossed again and again. Despite the fact Markoff was considerably more extroverted than Quinn—or maybe because of it—they had hit it off. They’d even taken a few vacations together and had a trip to Madagascar planned for later in the year.

  When Markoff had headed to Costa Rica earlier in the month, on one of his frequent sabbaticals, he’d invited Quinn to join him. Quinn had thanked him, but his schedule had been too up in the air and he’d had to pass. But then this small window had opened.

  Quinn had thought about letting his friend know he was on the way but decided to surprise him. If Markoff was busy, so be it; Quinn would have found someplace else to stay. But as he’d hoped, bunking at Markoff’s place wouldn’t be a problem.

  They spent dinner reminiscing about jobs they’d worked together and people they knew in common. Not once did Markoff mention Durrie, a fact that in itself was telling. Markoff must’ve known Quinn’s mentor was a delicate subject. Which meant he knew about the rumors swirling around Durrie. Markoff, more than anyone other than Orlando, was well aware of the complicated relationship Quinn had with his mentor.

  After dinner, they walked back through town to Markoff’s place, grabbed several beers from the fridge, and went out to the deck, where the stars blazed overhead.

  “It’s worth the trip just for this,” Quinn said, staring at the Milky Way.

  “Dude, why do you think I came down here?”

  Quinn smiled.

  “If you tell anyone about this place, though, I’ll kill you,” Markoff said. “You know I can.”

  “I know you can try.”

  They fell into several moments of comfortable silence.

  “So, this job you’re on,” Markoff said. “Anything I should know about?”

  Quinn shook his head. “It’s not happening in Costa Rica, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Good,” Markoff said, sounding relieved. “I wouldn’t have been happy about that.”

  “I’m just meeting my team at the airport and we’re flying on from here.”

  “Interesting. And you chose Costa Rica to stage from because….”

  “Because I needed a little time on the beach.”

  “There are plenty of beaches in the world.”

  “But only one where I can get free room and board.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but that dinner is the only meal I’m paying for.”

  Quinn laughed and raised his glass. Markoff tapped it with his and they drank.

  This time the quiet lasted for a good five minutes.

  “Have you, um, seen Orlando lately?” Markoff asked.

  Quinn kept his eyes aimed at the ocean as he lifted his beer back to his lips.

  When he hadn’t replied after several seconds, Markoff said, “Quinn, I know you. You don’t drop in on people out of the blue. I’m guessing you came to talk. And usually that means you want to talk about her.”

  Markoff was the only one Quinn had ever told about his true feelings for Orlando. Quinn’s friend was good at seeing through him, because Quinn, whether he wanted to admit it or not, had come here because of her.

  “We did a job together a couple weeks ago, in Mexico City,” Quinn said.

  “Just the two of you?”

  “On the clean team, yeah.” Quinn hesitated. “It was supposed to be Durrie with me, but he…well, he couldn’t make it at the last moment. You can’t tell anyone that, though. Peter thinks he was with me the whole time.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  Markoff was waiting for Quinn to go on, but Quinn said nothing.

  “Let’s revisit that part later,” Markoff said. “Tell me how things went with Orlando.”

  “Good. Nice and smooth.”

  “I’m not talking about the job.”

  Quinn snorted. “Also good. Great, even. It was like…before.”

  “Before?”

  “Easy.”

  With Markoff’s urging, Quinn told him about the mission and his time with Orlando, leaving out no details.

  When he finished, Markoff shook his head, smirking.

  “What?” Quinn asked.

  “You’re a good guy, Quinn.”

  “Um, thanks?”

  “I didn’t mean it as a compliment. You’re the kind of good that gets in its own way.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Markoff looked at him for a moment, then out at the sea. “You kept the sheet between you.”

  “Well, yeah. What else was I supposed to do?”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. Let me ask you—what was the sheet supposed to block?”

  “Something from happening.”

  “Between you.”

  “Obviously.”

  “So, if you hadn’t put anything between you, are you saying you would have made a move on her?”

  “What? No. Of course not.”

  “So then you’re saying, she would have made a move on you.”

  “That’s not what I meant, either. It’s just…” Quinn trailed off, not sure what he meant.

  “The point I’m trying make is that even if you didn’t use the sheet as a wall, nothing would have happened.”

  “Well, okay. Yeah.”

  “But there’s also this. Say Orlando might actually have been ready to, I don’t know, move your relationship in a new direction. The sheet took that choice away from her, denying something I’m pretty sure you would have welcomed. That’s what I mean by you’re so good you can’t get out of your own way.”

  Quinn frowned and finished off his beer. He hated his friend for confusing him like this.

  Markoff let him cool off for a few minutes before saying, “Things between you two are…?”

  “Good. You know, same as always.”

  Markoff laughed. “Which is it? Good, or same as always? It can’t be both.”

  “Sure it can. She’s my best friend.”

  “Who you love.”

  “Of course.”

  “As more than just a friend.”

  Quinn grabbed one of the unopened bottles, popped the top, and poured the beer in his glass.

  “You still have never told her, have you?” Markoff asked.

  “Are you crazy? Of course I haven’t. She’s in a relationship. That would be unfair. And probably the last time she talks to me.”

  Markoff shook his head again, then reached over and clapped Quinn on the back. “I do not envy you, my friend.”

  Both men took drinks, Quinn polishing off a good third of his glass in one go.

  “You know, he’s going on this job with me,” Quinn said, his voice low.

  “Who?” Markoff asked, then his eyes widened. “You mean Durrie?”

  “He’s my number two.”

  “Are you crazy? He flaked on you on the last job. And I’m sure you know that no one else is using him anymore.”

  “I owe him.”

  “Enough to risk getting yourself killed?”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  Markoff rolled his eyes. “Admit it. You’re r
eally doing this for her.”

  “No. Not just for her. For both of them.”

  Markoff sighed. “You are a goddamn idiot, you know that? He was on a job for one of my contractors about nine months ago. Two people died because of his ineptness. Civilians, Quinn. Two civilians.”

  Quinn’s brow furrowed. This was news to him. “What happened?”

  “He was transporting the body to wherever the hell he was going to dump it and rushed a light. Unfortunately, there was a motorcycle cop waiting on the intersecting street, so naturally the cop pulled Durrie over. All Durrie had to do was act contrite, take his ticket, and be on his way. Instead, when the cop walked up to his window, Durrie shoved his van into reverse, backed into the cop’s motorcycle, and then took off again. Since he wasn’t sure if he disabled the bike or not, he laid on the speed and tried to get lost in the surrounding streets. One of his turns brought him face-to-face with a sedan coming in the other direction. The other driver swerved to miss Durrie, but that sent him straight into a bus stop on the corner. One of the people waiting there died on impact, another a few hours later in the hospital. Four additional people, including the driver, were seriously injured.

  “Durrie is a walking disaster. If you’re smart, you’d cancel him right now. Look, I still have a week of vacation left, but if you need someone to replace him, I’ll do it. Free of charge.”

  Quinn stared into his beer. After a few moments, he said, “I appreciate the offer. Really.”

  “But you’re not going to take me up on it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I hate to sound like a broken record, but if you wanted another example of being too good to get out of your own way, this is it.”

  “I’d be nothing if not for him.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “No. It is. Literally. I’d be dead.”

  “You’d be dead if not for me, too.”

  “Exactly. And I’d do whatever I needed to help you, too.”

  Now it was Markoff’s turn to fall silent. Finally he said, “He could very well get you killed. Which would mean he didn’t really save your life before. He just put off your termination date for a few years.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Quinn didn’t reply.

  Taking a more conciliatory tone, Markoff said, “I know I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this. Just promise me you’ll keep a sharp eye on him, and you won’t give him anything important to do.”

  Quinn took a breath. “I promise.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  MONDAY

  THREE DAYS UNTIL OPERATION REDEEMER

  Quinn woke to the smell of frying bacon. He wandered out of the guest bedroom and found Markoff sipping coffee in the kitchen.

  “Hungry?” Markoff asked.

  “Not really.” A significant portion of last night’s dinner still sat in Quinn’s stomach.

  “Come on. You’re on vacation.”

  “For one day.”

  “Your loss,” Markoff said as he removed the bacon from the pan. “Thought maybe we’d head out in thirty minutes. Okay by you?”

  “Head out where?”

  Markoff smiled. “You’ll see.”

  “You know how I love surprises,” Quinn said, deadpan.

  After grabbing some clothes from his bag, he went into the guest bath and took a shower. When he came back out, Markoff had retreated to his own room to get ready. While Quinn waited, he opened his computer to make sure Peter hadn’t sent any changes to the job.

  There was a handful of messages, but none from Peter. One, however, was from Trevor Hart. Quinn clicked on it.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “What was that?” Markoff called from the other room.

  “What? Oh, nothing.”

  It wasn’t nothing.

  Quinn,

  I hate to be so last minute with this, but I’m not going to be able to make the job tomorrow. My parents were in an accident. Nothing life threatening, but they’re both in the hospital. I need to go help them. I hope you understand.

  I’m so sorry.

  Trevor

  As annoying as it was to lose a team member the day before a mission, he couldn’t be mad at Trevor. Under similar circumstances, Quinn would have done the same thing. Well, for his mom, anyway. His stepdad would have been a different matter.

  Now he had to find a replacement, and quick.

  Orlando was the obvious choice. But what if he had to reprimand Durrie in front of her? Durrie would not take that well, and who knows how Orlando would react. And how would they work together? What if there was tension for some reason?

  No, Orlando was not an option.

  What about Markoff? He had offered to fill in for Durrie but having him take Trevor’s spot was a bad idea, too. If Orlando working beside Durrie was the last thing Quinn wanted, then Markoff doing the same was the second to last. Quinn knew Markoff well enough to realize his friend would have an extremely difficult time not calling Durrie out on his bullshit, no matter how small. And that could send the mission south in a heartbeat. If Durrie caused any problems, Quinn wanted to be the one who dealt with it, no one else.

  He started going down his list of preferred operatives, texting each and asking about his or her availability.

  Markoff walked into the living room, wearing board shorts and an unbuttoned yellow cotton shirt. “Ready?”

  Quinn glanced up from his phone. “I’m going to need just a bit.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “A minor hiccup.”

  “The job?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  Quinn shook his head. “Just waiting to hear back.”

  “Which you could do anywhere.”

  Quinn looked at him and laughed. “You’re right.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  It turned out the man who had rented the house to Markoff owned a speedboat called the Belle Michelle that Markoff had access to.

  Quinn and Markoff cruised into the Gulf of Nicoya, where they sped around for a couple of hours before heading over to the peninsula across the way for lunch.

  Everyone at the restaurant seemed to know Markoff. He was that kind of guy.

  Sometimes Quinn wished he could be more relaxed and easier to talk to, like his friend. Relaxing for Quinn took work, which kind of defeated the purpose. And as far as being easy to talk to, he was fine with people he knew, not so great with those he didn’t. When he was being himself, he was too self-conscious. The only time he could escape a tied-up tongue was on a job requiring him to play the role of someone else.

  They were led to a table overlooking the dock where the Belle Michelle was secured.

  “The usual?” the waiter asked in Spanish.

  “Yes, Ramon. For each of us,” Markoff replied in kind. He looked at Quinn as the waiter walked off. “You’re going to love this. Best ceviche I’ve ever had.”

  “High praise, coming from you.” Quinn looked around. “Is there a toilet here?”

  Markoff point toward the entrance. “Back around the bar. You’ll see it.”

  “Thanks,” Quinn said as he stood up.

  He had felt the first of the replies to his text come in not long after he and Markoff first headed into the bay, and vibrating notifications had been trickling in ever since. He’d been hesitant to check them in front of Markoff, knowing his friend would again offer his services. So, he’d decided to wait until he could get a moment alone.

  Not surprisingly, the majority of his contacts were already out on other jobs. He’d been prepared for that, which was why he’d cast his net wider than usual. What he hadn’t been prepared for was that those who weren’t working had been put on hold for one project or another, preventing them from taking Quinn’s gig.

  Dammit.

  What the hell was he going to do now?

  He looked back toward the restaurant. He might h
ave to ask Markoff after all. He checked his email to see if Peter had sent the final go/no-go yet. But the only email he’d received since he last checked was from Durrie.

  Wanted to let you know I’ll be flying from San Diego to LAX at 7 p.m., so will have no problem making the midnight flight. After last time, didn’t want you to think I wouldn’t be there.

  It was unexpectedly responsible, and made Quinn wonder if that intense moment they’d had in front of Leonetti’s had been an aberration, and that maybe his initial feeling that Durrie was starting to turn a corner was accurate.

  He exited the bathroom, but instead of returning to the table, he slipped out the front door onto the quiet street, walked a dozen meters away to where he wouldn’t be overheard by anyone, and called Peter.

  “What is it?” Peter asked. “Is there a problem?”

  “Just wondering where we are on the mission. My people are scheduled to start moving out tonight, but I haven’t received the final go from you yet.”

  “Because I don’t know it yet. Intelligence indicates everything’s still on track, but it’s the kind of thing that could change at any moment. You and your team should head down, though. If we have to cancel once you’re there, so be it.”

  “All right. Then I’ll consider us on.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s it.”

  After they said their goodbyes, Quinn started walking back to the restaurant, racking his brain on how he was going to fill Hart’s spot. After a few meters, he stopped.

  Durrie had mentioned an operative he’d worked with. Something Ortega. Quinn thought for a moment. Angel. Angel Ortega. Quinn didn’t know the guy, but Ortega shouldn’t be too hard to check out.

  He emailed an info broker he knew and asked for a background check on Durrie’s friend, saying he would pay extra for a rush. He then called Durrie.

  “Your friend Ortega, can you give me his number?”

  “Sure,” Durrie said, sounding surprised. “Are you thinking about hiring him?”

  “Thinking about it. Nothing definite.”

  “Peter letting us have a fourth man?”

  Quinn hesitated before saying, “Hart can’t make it.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that. Well, if you do call Angel, I’m sure you’ll like him.” He gave Quinn the number. “If that doesn’t work, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow.”