The Silenced jqt-4 Page 3

  “Our flight was delayed after we’d already boarded. If you had checked our status online, you would have known that.”

  Mikhail was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone had softened. “Where are you?”

  “We just retrieved the car from the motel.”

  “No problems?”

  “None. Anything on Moody yet?”

  “I found someone who remembered him. A neighbor. Said he thinks Moody moved to New York, but he wasn’t sure.”

  Petra frowned. “Keep looking.”

  “What do you think I’m doing? Sitting in a bar getting drunk?”

  Petra closed her eyes. “Of course not. I know you’re doing your best. But we can’t afford to lose another chance.”

  “We’ll find them.”

  “We found Chang and McKitrick and Thomas, too,” she reminded him.

  “I meant alive.”

  “Have you heard from Stepka?” Petra asked.

  “No. You want me to call him?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  She hung up. Stepka’s role in the operation was that of technical support. Dombrovski himself had ensured that Stepka got the best training available. Something the young man would undoubtedly use to make millions once their mission was finished. He was based out of a Moscow apartment. A significant amount of their funds had been used to equip the space with the best computers and communications gear.

  Petra calculated the time difference. Moscow would just be waking up, which, knowing Stepka, meant he was starting to think about going to bed. She made the call.

  “Yes?” Stepka said in typical hurried fashion.

  “It’s me,” Petra said.

  “Hold on.” The delay was only a few seconds long. “Where are you?”

  “Los Angeles. Heading to the address you found for Winters.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Have you made any progress on the other matter?” she asked.

  She had tasked Stepka with trying to find out who had been hired to erase the people she and her team had been trying to find. If they could figure that out, they might be able to get one step ahead of them. That could very well be the difference between failure and success.

  “I’m still working on it.”

  “Work faster,” she told him. “We need to know.”

  “I’m doing what I can,” he insisted.

  “If Winters and Moody are dead, too, then the only lead we’ll have left is whoever’s doing the killing.”

  “I know!”

  “We can’t afford to—”

  “Petra,” Kolya interrupted.

  She put her hand over the phone. “What?”

  “We’re almost there.”

  * * *

  Winters was home.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone.

  His house was located where Laurel Canyon began its rise into the Hollywood Hills, several blocks south of Ventura Boulevard. It was one level, and impressive: a dark wooden roof, outer walls painted creamy yellow, window frames and front door a bright, glossy white, and a wide grassy front lawn. Back in Moscow it would have been something only the very rich could afford, but by American standards, she had no idea where it fell on the monetary status scale. In the driveway were two sedans, a Mercedes and an Infiniti.

  As Kolya drove the sedan leisurely down the street, Petra took another glance at the house. Through the front window, she could see the dark shapes of several people. She told Kolya to keep driving, then instructed him to turn down the next street and park. She opened the glove compartment, but it was empty. A bit more anxious, she slipped her hand under her seat and dug around until her fingers touched a hard object wrapped in what felt like cloth. She pulled it out.

  It was a canvas bag, the kind someone would use at a grocery store. From within she pulled out the Baby Glock subcompact pistol Mikhail had arranged to be waiting with the car.

  “You think you’re going to need that?” Kolya asked.

  “I hope not,” she said, then slipped the gun into her bag and climbed out of the car. “Keep the lights off and the engine running. I’ll be back soon.” She closed the door silently behind her.

  Night had descended in full over Los Angeles. But while the lights along Ventura Boulevard had been bright enough to leave little hidden, up here in the hills the streetlamps only cut ineffectual holes in the darkness. Despite this, Petra proceeded with caution, taking the relaxed pace of someone out for an evening stroll. She noted lights on in most of the houses she passed, but she was the only one out.

  Then, two houses down and across the street from Winters’s place, she spotted a man leaning against a tree.

  He wasn’t exactly hiding, but close enough. He had positioned himself in such a way that the tree blocked the light from the nearest streetlamp, creating a dark shadow that all but enveloped him. His short height made her think that he might be a teenager, but her gut said no. In her mind, a giant sign hung above him, reading DOESN’T BELONG.

  Without missing a step, she continued down the sidewalk, one arm wrapped around her chest as if she was fighting off the cool night, the other draped at her side, her hand resting near the opening of her bag inches from the grip of the Glock.

  When she’d closed to within ten feet of the man, she glanced at the ground pretending to check her footing. She stayed that way until she was abreast of him, then looked back up, her gaze swinging to the left like one might naturally do. She stopped abruptly, her eyes wide, staring at the man.

  “My God, you scared me,” she said.

  “Sorry,” the man said, not moving from the shadow.

  Up close, the darkness did not mask him completely, and she could see he must have spent a lot of time in the weight room. No doubt, she guessed, to compensate for his lack of stature.

  “It’s okay.” Petra let out a nervous laugh. “It’s just you’re kind of hidden there.”

  The man smiled without showing his teeth, but remained otherwise silent. His attention seemed to be focused more on the house across the street than on her.

  “Nice night, huh?” Petra said.

  He responded the same way he had before.

  After a moment, she smiled and started walking off. “Have a good evening.”

  At the next block she turned left. As soon as she was out of sight, she stopped and turned around. She almost expected to see him standing behind her, but the sidewalk was empty.

  He was a watcher, not a local. And by the bulge Petra noticed under his jacket, an armed watcher. But was he watching to make sure no one got in, or that no one got out?

  Or was he with the group inside? Standing guard in case …

  In case someone like me shows up, she thought. She closed her eyes and swore under her breath. Like the others, Winters would soon be a dead end. If they hadn’t been delayed in New York, they wouldn’t have gotten stuck in traffic, and it was possible they would have been able to get to the house first. Winters would have been theirs.

  She pulled out her phone and called Mikhail.

  “We’re too late,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  She told him what she’d found.

  “He’s still alive, though,” Mikhail said. “There’s still a chance.”

  “The only chance I see involves a high percentage of bullets aimed at my head. Is that what you want me to try?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Have you made progress on Moody?”

  “A little. I traced him from Philadelphia to an address in Manhattan, but he’s not there anymore, either. I’m trying to figure out where he went next.”

  Petra wanted to scream, but instead she said, “Get us on a flight back tonight.”

  She disconnected the call, then stood there for several moments thinking. Maybe Mikhail was right, and Winters wasn’t yet a lost cause. At the very least, pictures of those who had him could be very useful in identifying who the killers were.

  She traded her phone for the palm-size digital ca
mera in her bag, then, keeping low, moved back onto Winters’s street, crouching behind a parked car to mask her return. She was only there a few moments before the watcher stepped away from the tree and started crossing the street. He was tilting his head the way a person did when he was listening to a receiver in his ear.

  She shot off a couple of pictures, then turned the camera on the house. The front door was now open, and standing just inside was a large man in a suit that did little to hide his bulk. He stepped aside so that another man, this one only slightly smaller than the first, could pass through. Two others appeared in the doorway. Neither was in the same size class as the two behemoths. One looked to be in his late thirties or early forties. He was thin, but walked with a confidence that made Petra think he was in charge. The other man looked pale and nervous. Petra estimated that he was in his mid to late sixties, the right age to be Winters.

  The one in charge had a hold of the other guy’s arm and was helping to keep him from collapsing. Once they were outside, one of the big men took over, lifting the man so that his feet barely touched the ground as he walked him toward the Mercedes in the driveway.

  When the car door opened, the dome light came on, illuminating the older man’s face.

  Winters. Definitely.

  Even from this distance, she could see fear on the man’s face. She touched the zoom, took one more picture, then slipped the camera back into her bag.

  Once Winters was shoved into the back of the silver sedan, Petra retreated to the next street down, then sprinted back to the Buick.

  “Go!” she yelled as she jumped back into the car. “We have to follow them.”

  Kolya pulled the car onto the road. “Follow who?”

  “A silver Mercedes. They have Winters.”

  Kolya turned onto Winters’s street just in time to see the taillights of the Mercedes turning two blocks away.

  “Hurry,” Petra said. “But for God’s sake, don’t let them know we’re here.”

  * * *

  They followed the Mercedes south on the 101 freeway into Hollywood and then downtown. There it finally exited onto a side street.

  “Not too close,” Petra said. Unlike on the freeway, they could be easily spotted now.

  “I know,” Kolya shot back. “But I don’t want to lose them, either.”

  They were surrounded first by skyscrapers, then by squat storefronts with signs mostly in Spanish. After a while, these gave way to warehouses and manufacturing plants, most with no identification at all.

  It was quiet here, almost deserted. The buildings that didn’t look abandoned were shut down for the night. But it wasn’t only the buildings that looked abandoned. The roads, too, were nearly deserted. Petra was sure they would be spotted at any moment.

  “Slow down,” she said.

  “Trust me,” Kolya told her.

  He immediately turned right onto a side street. As soon as they were out of sight of the Mercedes, he flipped the Buick’s headlights off, then executed a quick one-eighty. A moment later they were back on the main road, the Mercedes’s taillights fading in the distance.

  “Don’t lose them,” she said urgently.

  “Which is it? Don’t lose them or slow down?”

  Petra didn’t answer.

  They raced forward, closing the gap by a third before Kolya eased back on the accelerator. Ahead, red brake lights shone brightly in the otherwise dark, empty night. Kolya let the Buick coast to a halt in the darkness near the curb.

  After half a minute, the brake lights dimmed as the Mercedes crept forward several feet, then turned off the road. A second later it slipped behind a building, but it didn’t completely disappear. The brake lights had come on again, and the red glow leaked back to the street. It stayed like that for half a minute, then everything went dark.

  “There was a parking lot about half a block back,” Petra said.

  “I saw it,” Kolya said.

  “Take the car there and wait. If the Mercedes comes back out, duck down and make sure they don’t see you.” Petra opened the door and climbed out.

  “How long do I wait?”

  “You have something better to do?”

  “No. I was just … I mean, what if you need help?”

  “I won’t.” Petra hesitated in the opening. “If I’m not back in two hours, go to the airport and call Mikhail.”

  “What about you?”

  “If I’m not back by then, I’m dead.”

  Chapter 5

  Quinn and his apprentice, Nate, had been waiting for almost two hours. But waiting was part of the job, and they were both experts at it. They sat quietly, saying very little, their minds wandering but their senses alert. When their handheld radio came to life, neither of them even flinched.

  “Give us five to clear out, then you’re on,” a male voice said on the other end.

  Quinn clicked the Talk button. “Copy.”

  He had no idea who the prime op was on this job. Wills had supplied Quinn with all the instructions he would need, so there had been no face-to-face with the other team. Sometimes you knew who you were working with, sometimes you didn’t. It was the world they lived in.

  As far as his own team was concerned, after reading through the job specs, Quinn had determined there would be no need for more than the two people. So after Minnesota, Orlando had gone home to San Francisco to be with Garrett.

  “Be careful,” she’d said. “If you need me, I can be there in a couple hours.”

  “We won’t need you.”

  “That warms my heart.”

  “I need you, but not for this. Is that better?” he asked.

  “It’s a start.”

  Quinn and Nate waited quietly for five minutes to pass. The room they were in had served as an office at one time, but it had been years since it was last used. They had brought two folding chairs, a thermos of coffee, and a couple Styrofoam cups, but otherwise the room was empty.

  “Time,” Quinn said without looking at his watch.

  He tossed the walkie-talkie to Nate, who bagged it up with the thermos and cups. They then folded the chairs and set everything in the hallway to be picked up on their way out.

  A wipe-down was unnecessary. They’d been wearing gloves since before they’d gotten out of the van. They’d also taken the additional steps of wearing hairnets and garments that covered everything except their faces. Unless their DNA could be pulled out of the air, no one would ever know they’d been there. Quinn was always careful, but the fact they were doing this job in the same city he and Nate called home made him want to cut the risks down even more.

  The op room was on the other side of the building, one floor down. Nate walked past the door and continued on toward the nearest building exit to make sure that the others had left and no one else had shown up.

  While Nate did that, Quinn approached the op room door and pushed it open. A mixed odor of gunpowder and blood wafted out. Both were familiar smells, so were no more than background noise to him. There, but easy to tune out.

  The floor revealed what he expected to see. One body. Male.

  The man was on his back, a bullet hole just a little off center in his forehead.

  Quinn frowned. The shooter had used a 9mm by the looks of it. A.22 would have been better. It was a close-in job, so no need for more power than a.22 could provide, and, most important to Quinn, a.22 would have left less mess.

  But being prepared was something he took very seriously. So, from the start, Quinn assumed the ops team wouldn’t care about what they left behind. That’s why he and Nate had draped the entire room in a double layer of plastic when they first arrived. Just in case. As expected, the sheeting had contained the blood splatter. Now all they had to do was wrap everything up, carry the package out to the van, account for the bullet, then do a final sweep to make sure they hadn’t missed anything.

  Ten minutes tops.

  Nate walked up behind Quinn. “Building’s secure.”

  “Good.” Qu
inn motioned into the room. “After you.”

  The dead man looked to be in his mid-sixties. He had a bit of a spread around the waist, but was otherwise in decent shape. His hair was more salt than pepper. Visually, there was nothing particularly remarkable about him. Whatever sins had necessitated his removal ran deeper than his appearance.

  It wasn’t Quinn’s job to stand in judgment. He was only there to make the condemned disappear. It wasn’t that he was amoral, but he’d learned over the years that it was often hard to tell where the line between right and wrong was drawn, and sometimes there didn’t seem to be a line at all. The best Quinn could do was align himself with organizations he trusted, whose work was usually on the up-and-up.

  That had become harder after an organization known as the Office had been dismantled. They’d been his de facto employer for years, and for the most part he had always been confident where they stood. He felt he could trust them, and not constantly question their motives. Up until the end, they had given Quinn a steady stream of work, which meant he seldom had to deal with other clients.

  Now it was different. In a span of several weeks, he could work with multiple organizations whose motivations were often harder to discern. He did his best, doing what front-end investigation he could and trusting his gut when he had to. It kept things interesting, and made him realize just how easy he used to have it.

  In less than five minutes, they had the body wrapped and ready to go. At Quinn’s direction, Nate was probing the small bullet hole in the exterior wall. “Went all the way through,” he said.

  “We’ll make a quick sweep of the perimeter. If we can’t find it right away, we’ll forget it.”

  Their van was parked in back next to an old loading dock. The dock itself was sealed off by a chain-link fence, but a few feet away was an unimpeded double door.

  The first thing they did was load their equipment and the stuff they’d left upstairs into the vehicle. Once that was done, they only had the plastic-wrapped body left.

  They expertly carried the package out of the room and down the hall. At the exit, Nate had to lean it against his chest as he opened the door so they could pass through.