The Enraged jqt-7 Read online

  “You need to move out of the way,” Daeng said calmly.

  Quinn snapped his head around, ready to shove his friend away, but stopped when he saw Liz and Nate running up with the first-aid gear from the plane that had come to take them off the island. Nate skidded to a halt and fell to his knees, then ripped open the Velcro seam of the bag he was carrying.

  Quinn’s sister, on the other hand, froze when she caught sight of Orlando. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Give me that,” Daeng said to Liz, grabbing her bag. He motioned at Quinn. “Get him out of the way.”

  Liz tore her eyes away from Orlando and put an arm around her brother. “We need to give them some room.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Quinn said, twisting away from her.

  “Don’t be stupid. You’ll only make things harder.”

  He glared at her, then looked down at Orlando.

  “Come on. Please,” Liz said.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay,” he whispered.

  Liz guided him off to the side.

  Working at skill levels equal to that of seasoned EMTs, Nate and Daeng ripped away the clothes covering Orlando’s wounds, and set to work stopping the bleeding. Once they’d done what they could, Daeng pulled a transfusion kit out of the bag.

  “What’s her blood type?” he asked.

  Before Quinn could think of the answer, Nate said, “B positive.”

  “I’m B negative,” Daeng said. “She can take from me.”

  As he set up the transfusion line, two of the men they had just rescued — Lanier and Berkeley — jogged up with a stretcher from the plane. Once blood was flowing out of Daeng’s veins and into hers, they moved Orlando onto the stretcher, lifted her, and, with Daeng jogging alongside, headed quickly toward the aircraft.

  Quinn started to follow, but caught sight of Peter’s crumpled form and slowed, unsure what to do.

  Nate came up behind him, carrying the first-aid kit. “I know,” he said. “But we don’t have time.”

  Leaving Peter’s body seemed wrong. He deserved more than just being part of the carnage they were leaving behind on the island, but Nate was right. Orlando was in critical shape, and if she didn’t get medical attention soon, she would also die.

  Liz put a hand on Quinn’s arm and pulled. “Let’s go.”

  He took one last look at Peter before running with Nate and his sister toward the small jet.

  The moment the last person had climbed aboard, Nate yelled toward the cockpit, “Go!”

  In the back of the plane, Quinn knelt beside Orlando, took her hand in his, and gently squeezed it.

  “I’m right here,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He searched her face for some sign that she’d heard him, but saw nothing.

  Moments after the plane’s wheels left the runway, Nate tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Sorry,” Quinn’s former apprentice said. “I don’t want to disturb you, but, well, it’s just that I’m not sure where to tell the pilot to go.”

  Nate had been held captive for several days on Duran Island, arriving there with a black bag over his head, while Quinn had come open-eyed, intent on rescuing Nate and the other men who’d been taken by Javier Romero.

  There was only one choice.

  “Isla de Cervantes,” Quinn said. The island was a short flight from Duran.

  “Okay.” Nate headed toward the cockpit, fighting against the incline of their assent.

  Under any other circumstances, Isla de Cervantes would have been out of the question. The events at Duran Island were deeply interwoven with Isla de Cervantes’s political history. Who knew how the authorities were going to react when they discovered what had happened on Duran? If they somehow learned Quinn and the others had been involved, and were still around, there would undoubtedly be questions.

  Hard, difficult questions.

  What Quinn and the others really needed was assistance from someone in the area, someone who could help cover their tracks. Quinn’s closest contact was Veronique Lucas, based an hour away in Puerto Rico. She had already proved incredibly useful by arranging for the plane they were now using. Maybe she had resources on Isla de Cervantes, too.

  The plane was equipped with several satellite phones. The nearest was in a small cabinet next to the bathroom. Quinn retrieved it and made the call.

  “Yes?” Veronique answered cautiously.

  “It’s Quinn.”

  “Quinn?” she said, happily surprised. “Is it martini time al—”

  “Veronique, I need your help.”

  “More?”

  “Orlando’s been shot.”

  The playful tone in her voice vanished. “What?”

  “We’re flying to Isla de Cervantes now. We need help. Fast.”

  “Can you bring her here?”

  “Too far. She’s…she’s not doing well.”

  “You’re flying into St. Renard’s?” The island’s main airport.

  “Unless there’s another place that would be better,” he said.

  “No, that’ll be fine. How soon?”

  “Fifteen minutes or so, I think. Not much more than that.”

  “I’ll have an ambulance waiting.”

  Quinn’s gaze flicked to Nate and the three other freed prisoners. “We have others who need medical attention, too.”

  “How many?”

  “Four, but none are as bad off as Orlando.”

  “Understood. So they could wait a little if they had to.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Let me—”

  “One other thing,” he said. “No one can know we’re there. It could get…problematic.”

  “You might want to tell me why.”

  Quinn hesitated for a moment, but knew if he really wanted her help, she needed to know. “Do you remember a man named Javier Romero?”

  “Hell, yeah. Kind of hard to forget.”

  He gave her the CliffsNotes version of what had happened on Duran.

  “Virgen Santa,” she said when he was done.

  “You could also do us a favor and have their navy pick up the boat of Romero’s soldiers that got away. Someone should go to the island pretty soon, too. We left Romero alive, but who knows what Janus did before he came after us.”

  “Okay. I need to get working.”

  “Thanks, Vee.”

  * * *

  As Veronique promised, an ambulance was waiting for them when they taxied to a stop.

  A doctor, nurse, and two EMTs rushed on board the moment the stairs were in place. Quinn tried to stay nearby as they examined Orlando, but one of the EMTs motioned for him and the others to get off the plane. The only one who was allowed to stay was Lanier. He had O-negative blood, which made him a universal donor, and had taken over transfusion duty from Daeng mid-flight.

  As the EMTs carried Orlando off the plane, Quinn caught Lanier’s eye, silently asking how the examination had gone. Grim-faced, Lanier tried to smile, but couldn’t pull it off. Once he and Orlando were in the ambulance, Quinn moved to climb on board with them.

  “No room,” the doctor said, motioning for Quinn to stop.

  “Make some,” Quinn growled.

  After the nurse and doctor exchanged a glance, the nurse scooted over so Quinn could squeeze in next to her.

  The ambulance raced from the airport, sirens blaring. Quinn figured they would probably head to Cristo de los Milagros Hospital. It was the largest on the island, and the same hospital he and Orlando had been in less than twenty-four hours before as they’d tried to track down information on Nate’s abductor. But instead of driving into the city where the hospital was, they turned onto a highway that circled around the edge.

  The neighborhood they ended up in was a quieter one just south of the capital, composed mainly of what appeared to be industrial businesses and warehouses. A few streets in, they passed through the gate of a walled compound, and stopped in front of a three-story, windowless struct
ure near a double door entrance. Within seconds, the doors swung open and several people ran out, pushing a gurney.

  Since Quinn was jammed in at the very back, he opened the ambulance door and hopped out first. Lanier exited next. The EMTs had removed him from the transfusion tube during the ride.

  “Háganse a un lado,” a woman next to the gurney said.

  Quinn pulled Lanier to the side so they wouldn’t impede the others. Working in concert, the EMTs in the ambulance and the personnel outside carefully transferred Orlando from the vehicle onto the rolling bed. Once straps were secured across her torso, she was pushed into the building.

  Quinn grabbed one of the orderlies. “He needs help, too,” he said, motioning to Lanier before taking off after Orlando.

  He followed the gurney all the way to the surgical room door, but the staff would let him go no farther. Knowing it was useless to fight, he allowed himself to be escorted to a waiting room, where he pulled out his phone and called Veronique again.

  “How is she?” she asked.

  “They’ve just taken her into surgery.”

  “Did they give you any indication on her chances?”

  “No one’s saying anything.” He paused. “Who owns this place?”

  “No one you would know.”

  “Government run?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “They must know about it.”

  “They probably do,” she said. “But it’s a money generator. Most of the clients are from off island. You know, they come to get procedures done they’d rather their friends back home didn’t know about. So as long as the government receives its cut, it keeps its hands off.”

  “You’re sure we’re safe here?”

  “You’re safe. Trust me,” she said. “But I’ve gotta say, even if the authorities do find out who you are and what you did, they’re more likely to pin a medal on your chest than throw you in jail.”

  * * *

  Nate, Lanier, Berkeley, and Curson were all admitted to the nameless hospital and taken to individual rooms. They’d been whipped, electroshocked, and beaten while held prisoner by Romero. Though their wounds were not life threatening, the men were in serious need of treatment and rest. So only Daeng and Liz were able to keep Quinn company while he waited for word on Orlando’s condition.

  Two hours passed.

  Then three.

  Then four.

  Every scenario that ran through Quinn’s mind ended with “I’m sorry. We did all we could.” Not knowing what was happening was driving him crazy. More than once, Daeng and Liz had to stop him from leaving the room in search of answers.

  “They’ll let us know as soon as they can,” Liz told him. “You’ll only get in the way otherwise.”

  When Orlando’s surgeon finally did walk into the waiting room, Quinn braced himself.

  “I’m Dr. Montero,” the man said, speaking in nearly unaccented English. “Your friend is very lucky. There is no question she would have died without the transfusion you gave her.”

  Quinn stared at him. “She’s alive?” he finally managed to whisper.

  The doctor nodded. “At the moment.”

  “What do you mean? Are you saying she’s not going to make it?”

  The doctor held up a hand, palm out. “It is far too early to know. Your friend was shot three times. One of her kidneys is destroyed, and her left lung was punctured. The third bullet hit her knee. There’s a lot of damage there, but we haven’t had time to fully assess it. We concentrated more on the life-threatening injuries. And even with the transfusions, her blood loss was significant.” He paused. “We believe we’ve removed all the bullet fragments, and she’s stable for now. If she stays that way and is strong enough, she’ll have to go back into surgery in a few days. The next twenty-four hours are critical.”

  She’s alive. She’s alive. Quinn grabbed on to that thought and held it tight. “I want to see her.”

  The doctor looked as if he was about to say no.

  “Please,” Quinn pleaded.

  The man hesitated for several seconds, and finally said, “Follow me.”

  “We’re coming with you,” Liz said.

  The doctor held up his hand again. “Better only one.”

  “It’s not open for discussion,” Liz told him.

  Apparently realizing it would be useless to argue, the doctor led them to a room on the second floor. Quinn was allowed to enter first. The hospital bed was all but hidden from view by four nurses, some monitoring equipment, and a couple IV stands.

  One of the nurses turned as he approached. “No deberia estar aqui,” she said.

  “It’s all right,” the doctor told her, also speaking Spanish. “Let him see her.”

  The nurse’s eyes narrowed in disapproval as if some sacred law had been broken, but she stepped to the side.

  Quinn moved all the way to the bed and looked down at Orlando.

  She looks so small, he thought.

  She wasn’t big to begin with — five feet tall and barely a hundred pounds on her heaviest days, but now she looked…diminished, like she would float away if a breeze blew through the room.

  “Hey,” he whispered as he touched the hair above her ear. “You’re going to make it, but you need to fight, and be strong like you always are.” He skimmed her cheek with the back of his finger, her skin so pale and soft, and then leaned down and kissed her on the lips. “I love you. You better damn well come back to me. Understand?”

  CHAPTER 4

  EIGHT DAYS LATER

  SEPTEMBER 1st

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Misty Blake stared out the window of her apartment. She’d been there since a little before five a.m., when she’d given up trying to sleep. In front of her sat yet another untouched cup of coffee, cold and forgotten. She was dressed in the same T-shirt and gym shorts she’d gone to bed in, the same clothes she’d worn the day before. The same clothes she’d worn since the day Quinn had called her and told her Peter was dead.

  Misty had been Peter’s last assistant at the Office, working with him right up to the end of the organization as they’d closed everything down and were then transferred in different directions. Their relationship had continued even after she started her mindless job at the Labor Board. To Misty he was still her boss, and anytime he needed help, she was there.

  When she’d gone to Peter’s house at Quinn’s request almost two weeks earlier and discovered the signs of Peter’s kidnapping, she had been terrified she might never see him again. But Quinn was one of the few other people in the world Peter fully trusted, and Quinn had said he would do all he could to bring Peter back. She had taken hope in that.

  But days had passed without any news, and the terror had returned, eating her up and turning her into a nervous wreck. When she finally heard Quinn’s voice, for a second — just a second — she allowed herself to hope again.

  “Misty, I’m sorry. He…he…”

  Silence.

  “He’s dead,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  In that instant, her terror was replaced by a deep dark hole that seemed to go on forever. She remembered asking a few questions, remembered hearing answers, too, but what she didn’t remember were the words. All that stuck in her head was that Peter was gone.

  The fact that there was no funeral made it worse. There was no closure to her grief, no outlet to pay tribute to the man who had not only been her boss, but often a second father. So she’d taken bereavement leave from her work for an unspecified relative’s death, locked herself in her apartment, and mourned in solitude.

  Now, when the doorbell rang, she didn’t move.

  It rang again, this time followed by a knock.

  She looked up at the kitchen clock—9:18 a.m. Go away, she thought.

  There was no knock after the third ring, only the quick sound of whoever it was rubbing something against wood below her peephole.

  She almost let it go, but pulling off what had been left there — an
advertisement, most likely — and dumping it in the trash would at least get her out of the chair.

  She forced herself up, and shuffled through her apartment to the door. When she opened it, she found no one there. Not a surprise. She’d assumed the person had moved on. Was glad, in fact. The surprise came when she looked at what had been left behind. It wasn’t an advertisement at all, but a notification from the post office.

  She pulled it off and took a closer look. It was for a certified letter that she had to sign for. She stuck her head into the corridor and looked both ways. The postal worker who’d left the note was nowhere in sight.

  Couldn’t be far, though. If she could catch him, it would save her a trip to the post office, something she hated doing even when she wasn’t mourning a friend’s death.

  She slipped on her gym shoes, grabbed her keys off the little table by the door, and went in search of her letter. She found the postman on the first floor, filling the mailboxes.

  “You left this on my door.” She held out the notification.

  The postman kept stuffing the boxes. “Let me finish this first, then I can help you.”

  She watched him move slowly from box to box — two letters here, four there, mailers from the neighborhood grocery store, catalogs — and had to stifle the urge to take his bag from him. When he finally finished, he shut the main door, locked it in place, and turned to her.

  “Let me see that, please.”

  She handed him the notice.

  He read it, and said, “Right. This is you? Misty Blake?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  He handed it back. “You’re going to have to sign it.”

  “Oh, um, I don’t have a pen.”

  He rolled his eyes and pulled a pen out of his pocket. “Don’t you walk off with that when you’re done.”

  “I won’t.”

  She signed the slip, and held it and the pen out to the postman.

  “Just hold on to it for a second.” He pulled an envelope out of his bag. “Gotta sign this, too.”

  There was a green card attached to the front. As she signed it, she glanced at the return address. It was typed — address only, no sender’s name.

  Raleigh, North Carolina. She’d never been there, and, as far as she could remember, knew no one who lived there.