The Damaged Read online

  It was the kind of work any newbie, no matter his specialty, could have done. Durrie considered switching places with Ortega, but then Durrie would have been stuck on the scaffold, making sure the glass didn’t plummet to the ground. That was not his idea of a fun afternoon.

  None of this was his idea of a fun afternoon.

  Despite all his complaining, it took him only seven minutes to complete everything, including a second pass on the back of Masiar’s neck. Durrie handed his trash out to Ortega, and, more out of habit than a desire to be thorough, made a final sweep of the bedroom and bathroom. As he was walking back to the window, he heard a noise from beyond the closed door to the other room, followed by someone saying, “Mr. Masiar?”

  Durrie sprinted to the window.

  At the desk across the room, Jacko was in the middle of cloning the information off of Masiar’s laptop onto a portable drive. He looked over, surprised at Durrie’s sudden movement. Before Jacko could question it, the voice in the other room spoke again, much closer this time.

  “Mr. Masiar?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Durrie saw Jacko jump up from the desk chair, but he couldn’t have cared less about the assassin. His focus was on saving his own ass. He slipped through the window, pulled the curtain closed behind him, and said to Ortega, “The glass, now!”

  “What about—”

  “The glass!”

  Ortega grabbed the glass and started putting it back into place. As he set the bottom edge into its groove, Jacko ducked around the curtain, then jammed his hands against the inside frame to keep his momentum from sending him straight into the glass.

  “What the hell?” he whispered. “Move it.”

  Ortega pulled the glass back and Jacko climbed onto the scaffold. As soon as he was out of the way, Ortega reseated the glass, getting the final edge in place at the same moment they heard the bedroom door open.

  “Hold it still,” Jacko whispered.

  Ortega froze, his hands on the handles.

  Durrie headed toward the controls for the electric motor. “Screw that. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Don’t,” Jacko said, glaring at him.

  Durrie’s hand hovered over the start button.

  “That’s an order,” Jacko hissed.

  Durrie hesitated a moment longer before pulling his hand back. “Yes, sir.”

  “We don’t go anywhere until you secure the window.”

  Until this moment, Durrie had thought of Jacko as just another annoying—but not fatally so—operative. Now, he saw the mission leader for who he really was—yet another in a long line of people actively working against Durrie’s interests, part of a growing conspiracy to drive him out of the business or, quite possibly, to see him dead.

  If Jacko wanted the window sealed back up, then fine, Durrie would seal it up. But he wasn’t going to be stupid about it. From his bag, he withdrew a stethoscope and placed the chest piece against the window.

  He heard someone run into the room.

  “What is it?” a male voice said.

  “He’s dead,” a second replied. This voice came from closer to the bathroom and matched that of the person Durrie had heard calling for Masiar.

  “What? Dead?”

  “He’s in here.”

  Durrie heard the two men hurry into the bathroom.

  “Jesus. What happened?”

  “It…it looks like he slipped.”

  “Did you check his pulse?”

  “Yeah.”

  In the silence that followed, Durrie imagined the two men examining the body.

  Finally the first voice said, “This is way above our pay grade.”

  “Should we call Novak?”

  “Definitely. Let’s close this place up. I don’t think we should touch anything until he decides what he wants us to do.”

  The men walked out of the bedroom and closed the door.

  Durrie pulled the stethoscope off the glass. “They’re gone.”

  While Ortega held the pane in place, Durrie reattached the outside frame, and filled the gap between the glass and the frame with a fast-drying rubber compound similar in color to that used in the original construction.

  Durrie tested the rubber several times until he deemed it hard enough to hold the glass in place.

  “Pop them off,” he said to Ortega.

  Ortega removed the handles but kept them near the glass until he was sure the pane wouldn’t fall out. When it looked as though it would stay in place, he returned the handles to the bag.

  Durrie turned to Jacko. “Anything else you want to hang around here for, sir?”

  Jaw tensing, Jacko said, “Take us up.”

  Once they were on the roof, with no one to hear them, Jacko turned on Durrie, stepping in close so that their chests were almost touching.

  “You want to explain yourself?” he asked.

  “Explain what?”

  “Why you were going to leave me in there!”

  “It’s not my fault you were slow.”

  Durrie started to turn away, but Jacko grabbed his arm and spun him back around. “If they had found me in there, the whole mission would have been blown.”

  “Their interest was in the bathroom. You could have ducked under the bed until the body was taken away and hidden there.”

  “Hide under the bed? That’s your response?”

  Durrie shrugged, pried Jacko’s hand off his arm, and walked over to Ortega.

  Seething, Jacko said, “You and I are never working together again.”

  “Good. I’d rather work with someone who knew what they were doing anyway.”

  Jacko turned on his comm. “Assembly point. Three minutes. We’re pulling out.” He walked toward the roof access door without looking back.

  Durrie said to Ortega, “Good job down there.”

  “Thank you,” Ortega said. He looked toward Jacko’s receding back. “What’s that guy’s problem?”

  “An ego that doesn’t match up to his abilities. Grab the stuff. Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter Three

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  Durrie flew to LAX the next morning, where he grabbed a connector to San Diego, and arrived home just after seven p.m.

  He had spent a good portion of the trip stewing about Jacko, and coming up with devious ways to screw with the operative’s life. He found himself doing that a lot recently, with many different people. He’d even taken action on several similar fantasies over the past eighteen months, with no regrets, only satisfaction. After all, each and every one of them had wronged him in one way or another and deserved what they got.

  Durrie was a legend in the business, the best damn cleaner the secret world had ever seen. Would ever see, in fact. At one time, respect from his “peers” had been automatic. It still should have been, but no, people treated him like a child now, questioning his every move, and getting in his face like Jacko had, when they really should have been bowing down in thanks that they had the chance to work with him.

  He could pinpoint the moment when the wolves had turned on him.

  It had been after a job to take out a low-level Iranian agent, in Mumbai, India, twenty months earlier. A car accident on the way to the mission location, a few minutes of unconsciousness, and then recriminations from both the ops leader and the client that the job had gone south because Durrie hadn’t been able to make it to the site on time.

  None of it was his fault. Not the accident, not the bump on his head, not someone finding the body before he could get there. But that didn’t matter. It’s what the others chose to believe that became reality.

  Durrie had always been jaded to a certain extent. He’d long ago told himself it was what helped him be so good at his job. But after Mumbai, his contempt for the world he worked in grew exponentially. Alongside this, an anger at his unfair treatment began to build inside him.

  And as if his colleagues turning against him wasn’t enough, not long after the Mumbai job,
he started experiencing migraines once or twice a month. These served to heighten his resentment of those out to get him. Thankfully, he was able to hide the headaches from everyone, including Orlando. If his enemies had known, he knew they would’ve used the migraines as another means of discrediting him. And if Orlando had known, she would have insisted he see a doctor. He didn’t need a doctor. He actually liked the pain. It was one of the few things he could really feel.

  In the months that followed, he’d wondered if he should even care anymore. If there were forces out to destroy him, why should he worry about how good of a job he did, when all he really needed to do was just enough? The answer, he soon realized, was he shouldn’t care.

  To hell with everyone else, he’d decided. From that point onward, he would care only about himself.

  He had no doubt Jacko was one of the bastards who wanted Durrie kicked to the curb, and that the ops leader’s mission report to Peter—head of the Office, and the client on the Honolulu job—would reflect this.

  Durrie had been freelancing for the Office for a lot longer than most operatives had even been in the business, and he had built up a considerable amount of trust. He could count on Peter, and Peter could count on Durrie.

  Several months ago, however, Peter had begun questioning Durrie’s performances, even going as far as accusing him—more than once—of failing to live up to his abilities. That was when Durrie realized Peter had started to buy into the rumors about Durrie. During Durrie’s last conversation with the Office’s director, Peter had said, “You keep screwing up like this and you can look for work elsewhere.”

  And now, Jacko could torpedo Durrie’s career.

  I should probably get ahead of this, Durrie thought. Submit my own version of events before Peter has time to digest Jacko’s drivel.

  Durrie’s would be the correct version, naturally, where he would explain how he had thought Jacko was already on the scaffolding, and when he realized the assassin wasn’t, it was with extreme reluctance that he had ordered Ortega to seal the window. No one was happier than he was when Jacko had appeared before it was too late. Durrie would even suggest Peter talk to Ortega. Ortega would back him up. The guy owed everything he had in the business to Durrie.

  But every time Durrie thought about what he should write, he became angrier and angrier. Why should he have to justify himself to Peter? Their history was long and deep. If Peter had questions, he could ask Durrie. And if Peter couldn’t see through the garbage Jacko was spewing, so be it. The Office wouldn’t deserve Durrie’s talents, and he’d find work elsewhere.

  What he conveniently chose not to dwell on was the fact that work from other agencies had all but dried up over the last year.

  Those were just bumps in the road, caused by extenuating circumstances he had no control over.

  The jobs would come.

  They always did.

  He picked up his car from long-term parking and drove to the house he shared with his girlfriend, Orlando. For a few minutes, he was happy to be headed home, but soon his mind began churning again, devolving his mood once more.

  He could see his arrival in his mind.

  Orlando would be waiting for him, smiling.

  She would hug him and kiss him and tell him to have a seat while she grabbed him a beer.

  As he settled on the couch and took a drink, she would massage his shoulders.

  Then, at some point, she would ask the magic question: “How did it go?”

  Only that’s not really what she would be asking. Hidden within her innocuous words would be other questions like “Were there any problems?” and “Did you piss anyone off again?” and “When’s the next job?”

  A man should be happy to return to his home. He should be able to walk in, sit down, and not talk if he didn’t want to. He shouldn’t have to explain himself to the woman who was supposed to love him.

  Maybe she’s not home, he thought.

  He hadn’t told her specifically when he would return, just sometime that evening. Perhaps she assumed he wouldn’t be arriving until nine or ten or, please God, even eleven, and had gone to a movie. A few hours in the house alone would do wonders for him.

  He imagined their place, empty and quiet, and held tightly to the thought as he turned onto their street.

  The sun had yet to set, so he couldn’t tell if any lights were on in the house. Still hopeful, he turned into the driveway and activated the remote to open the two-car garage.

  Before the door had moved more than a third of the way up, his stomach clenched.

  Parked inside was Orlando’s car.

  “She could have gone out with a friend who picked her up,” he mumbled.

  He pulled into his spot and sat for a moment in the cooling car, wanting to calm down before he went inside. He was, at best, marginally successful, but if he didn’t go in soon, she would come looking for him. And if that happened, it would only inflame him.

  He climbed out, retrieved his bag from the backseat, and entered the house.

  Orlando was not in the dining area, waiting. She wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room, either. The sliding glass door to the backyard was open, and he could hear familiar, rhythmic thuds.

  He walked over and stepped outside.

  Orlando was at the other end of their covered porch, decked out in workout clothes, and kicking the heavy punching bag that hung from the ceiling.

  She looked over and smiled. “Welcome home.”

  After giving the bag one more kick, she jogged over, hugged him, and kissed him softly on the lips.

  When she let go, she asked, “How was the flight?”

  “Fine.”

  They moved back in the house.

  “Tired?”

  “No more than usual.”

  She smiled again, and while it looked innocent, he wondered what she was really thinking.

  She picked up his suitcase and carried it toward their bedroom in the back of the house. “There’s beer in the fridge,” she called as she disappeared.

  “Now I have to get it myself?” he muttered.

  He found a Sam Adams in the refrigerator and popped the top. What he needed was the burn that came from crappy whiskey, but the beer would have to do.

  He took a swig, not bothering to pour it into a glass, and closed his eyes as the liquid rushed down his throat. When he opened them again, Orlando was standing a few feet away, her brow furrowed.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Whatever small amount of relief the beer had given him vanished. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  “It’s just…you looked…. Never mind.”

  “I looked what?”

  “Nothing. Forget about it.”

  “No. Tell me what you were going to say. I looked what?”

  She frowned. “You looked…unhappy.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be unhappy? I come in here after a long trip and you start grilling me.”

  “What are you talking about? I just asked if you were—”

  “I know what you asked!”

  He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath.

  He knew deep down that out of everyone in his life, Orlando was the one still on his side. Not Peter, not any of the bastards he’d worked with. Not even his apprentice—check that, former apprentice—Quinn.

  He couldn’t afford to push Orlando away, but he wasn’t particularly fond of apologizing, so he did the best he could. “I…I’m just tired.”

  She walked over and put a hand against his cheek. The anger he’d been feeling faded. At least for now. He leaned into her palm, drawing in the love she was giving as if it were the answer to all his problems.

  “Peter called,” she said.

  Durrie’s eyes snapped open. “What did he want?”

  “Said he wanted you to call him when you got home.”

  He pulled away from her hand. “That’s it? Nothing else?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He didn’t mention th
e job?”

  “No. Why? Did something happen?”

  He searched her face, looking for any indication that Peter had told her. Jacko’s version, anyway. But Durrie could see only confusion in her eyes. She was a good actor, though. One of the best. It was one of the qualities that made her an excellent operative in her own right.

  “I’m just glad you’re back and safe,” she said when he didn’t respond. “Nothing else matters. Whatever happened, you don’t even have to tell—”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Okay, good. Nothing happened.” She smiled. “Why don’t you go take a shower? I’ll make some dinner. Chicken and penne sound good?”

  He took a moment before answering. “Yeah. Fine.”

  He headed back to their bedroom, closed the door, and tossed his phone on the bed, having no intention of calling Peter.

  If the head of the Office wanted to talk to him, he could call again.

  Orlando waited until she heard their bedroom door close before she pulled out her phone and typed a text to Peter.

  He just got home. And I passed on your message.

  She moved her thumb to the SEND button, but hesitated. Sure, she’d promised Peter she’d let him know when Durrie got back. But given Durrie’s mood, she wasn’t sure how long it would be before he returned Peter’s call. She didn’t want to risk Peter growing angry as he waited for Durrie to call.

  She hit DELETE.

  To distract herself, she filled a pot with water and put it on the stove. While it heated up, she prepared the vegetables and chicken.

  In her chest, the ball of worry that had become her constant companion of late felt as though it had doubled in size since she’d talked to Peter that morning.

  He’d told her how Durrie had disregarded the life of another team member and put the mission in jeopardy. She’d wanted to say she didn’t believe it, but she couldn’t muster the words because she knew he was telling the truth.