The Damaged Page 4

  Setting it on the desk so Quinn could see it, he said, “Felix Ruiz.”

  The picture was a professional headshot of a man in his late forties or early fifties. He had well-groomed salt-and-pepper hair, and a you-can-trust-me smile.

  “Don’t tell me,” Quinn said. “A lawyer?”

  Peter grinned. “Dead on. You’re getting good at this.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Ruiz works out of Mexico City. Small office, small cases. But that’s on purpose, to disguise how he makes his real money.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Laundering cash for the Martinez Cartel in Monterrey.”

  “Wonderful,” Quinn said, frowning. He was a former police officer, and few things pissed him off more than drugs and cartels.

  “Mexican authorities caught up to him about six months ago, but instead of putting him away, he agreed to turn informant.”

  “Oh, okay. That’s useful.”

  Peter winced. “Not as much as you might think. Let’s just say he wasn’t as sincere as he should have been after he took the deal. Two weeks ago, a pair of undercover agents went missing. Their bodies showed up last weekend. Well, enough of their bodies to be identified, anyway. My client was able to tie their deaths directly to information Ruiz passed on to his employers.”

  “So, this is a termination mission? Why not just arrest him?”

  “As soon as word got out, the cartel would eliminate him. The client would rather be the one directly responsible for Ruiz’s demise.”

  “Demise. Nice word choice. When is this going to happen?”

  “You’ll leave in four days.”

  “Okay. Sounds good. But, you know, we could have talked about this over the phone.”

  Peter tapped the file. “This? This is just background for what I really need to talk to you about.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I know you prefer to choose your own team, but I’m assigning you your assistant this time.”

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  “Durrie.”

  Quinn stared at Peter, not sure he had heard correctly. “Durrie as in my mentor, Durrie?”

  “Do you know any others? Because I don’t.”

  “No. So why him?”

  Peter sighed then told Quinn about Durrie’s behavior as of late, and how Peter had offered him this last chance to get on track.

  Quinn was aware something was going on with Durrie. He’d picked it up from conversations with Orlando, though she’d never said as much directly. It was little things pieced together, and things left unsaid. And then there were the rumors from other operatives. But this was the first confirmation he’d received.

  “And he’s agreed to take the assist position?” Quinn asked.

  “He has.”

  That was a shock. “Does he realize I’m going to lead?”

  “He does.”

  “And he still said yes?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  This was even more surprising. “In essence, you’re asking me to be his babysitter, right?”

  “I need someone there who can keep things on track.”

  “And if he screws up again?”

  “Then he’ll never work for the Office again.”

  Which meant Durrie would likely be done working for anyone of consequence.

  “What if he doesn’t screw up?” Quinn asked.

  “I’ll try him on another job. With you as lead again.”

  “Do I have any say in this?”

  “You can say no. And if you do, I’ll call him and tell him the deal’s off. He’s done.”

  Son of a bitch. Quinn understood Peter’s reasoning in making Quinn’s involvement a requirement, but he hated being put in the middle of this. What was he going to do, though—turn his back on his mentor? He owed Durrie too much to do that.

  “All right, fine. I’ll do it.”

  “Good. I’ll send you the information, and I look forward to reading your end-of-mission report.”

  Chapter Seven

  SAN DIEGO

  The tension had returned.

  It’d started the morning after Durrie came back from Hawaii. He’d risen before Orlando, and when she wandered into the kitchen twenty minutes later, she’d found him sitting at the dining table, already in a mood.

  She’d filled cups of coffee for both of them, set his on the table near him, and headed back to the master bathroom to take a shower, all without saying a word. Sometimes it was better to let him stew for a while and work out whatever was bothering him. Sometimes that didn’t even work.

  When she returned, he looked at her and said, “Well, I’m not fired,” and that was when she realized he’d finally called Peter.

  “Of course you’re not. He would have been a fool to let you go.”

  A grunt was his only response.

  Over the remainder of the day, he revealed bits and pieces of his conversation with the Office’s director. Orlando was careful not to ask any questions that would reveal she’d known about Peter’s offer ahead of time. She merely acted the supportive girlfriend, happy he still had work, and sympathetic with his annoyance at the restrictions placed on him.

  The next day hadn’t been any better, making her concerned that if he didn’t get his head straightened out, he would screw up again. Try as she might, though, her efforts to soothe his resentment had met with little success.

  On the third day, Quinn called her.

  “I’ve been trying to reach Durrie,” he said. “He’s not answering.”

  “Oh, um, he probably just has his phone off,” she said. “He does that sometimes.”

  Durrie had left that morning with little more than “I’ll be back later.” And while it was true he did sometimes switch off his phone, she had a feeling that wasn’t the reason he’d failed to pick up when Quinn called.

  “I need to talk to him. We’re doing a job together.” A pause. “You know about that, right?”

  “Yeah. He mentioned it the other day.”

  “We leave in two days and I need to brief him.”

  “I’ll-I’ll make sure he gives you a call back.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.” The line fell silent for a moment. “How are you doing?”

  “Me? Oh, um, I’m fine,” she replied, trying to match her tone to her words. “How about you?”

  “Everything’s good here. Have you been working?”

  “You know, on and off.” Her assignments had been spotty, but not because the offers hadn’t come. As Durrie seemed to be getting worse, she took only jobs that allowed her to be home when he was, so she could help him through what she hoped was only a temporary rough patch.

  “We should, uh, get together sometime,” Quinn said. “Maybe after this job? You know, catch up?”

  “That sounds great.” It did. Quinn was her best friend, even more so than Durrie. But since she and Durrie had moved to San Diego, the opportunities to hang out with Quinn had decreased dramatically.

  “Cool.”

  An awkward silence. It was all Orlando could to do to keep from confiding in Quinn about everything that was going on. He knew a little, of course, from previous conversations, but she had never revealed the true depth of Durrie’s issues.

  In the end, she did what she always did—keep the pain to herself. “I’ll, uh, see if I can track down Durrie and get him to call you.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Talk to you later.”

  “Definitely.”

  She tried calling Durrie, but after two rings was sent to voice mail.

  Though he hadn’t told her where he was going, she had a pretty good idea of where that was.

  The drive to the Tin Star Bar in Oceanside took her thirty minutes. Sure enough, Durrie’s car was parked in the dirt lot beside the cinderblock building. She pulled in next to it and called his cell again. This time it didn’t even ring before the prerecorded message kicked in.

  She sat
in her car, staring at the building. She didn’t want to go inside. It would only rile him up. But what choice did she have? If she didn’t go get him, he’d stay at the bar all day and not even think about contacting Quinn. And if that happened, Quinn would be forced to let Peter know.

  Then that would be that. Durrie would be out for good.

  She took several deep breaths to psyche herself up and climbed out of her car.

  The Tin Star was a dive bar, frequented by retired marine vets who lived in Oceanside to be close to Camp Pendleton. No officers, enlisted men only. Like Durrie had been right out of high school over three decades ago. Occasionally there were a few females around, but not often. It was a boys’ bar, where boys came to tell tales of their youth, give voice to the offenses done to them, and expound on what they would do if they had the power. Not exactly a pleasant place for someone like her.

  Thankfully, the front door led into a vestibule and not directly into the bar, so she was able to take a few moments to let her eyes adjust to the low lighting before anyone noticed her. When she was ready, she slipped into the main room and stood just inside, searching for Durrie.

  Though it was midday on a Thursday, at least two dozen people were spread throughout the room. Seating at the bar was full, while the rest of the day drinkers were scattered among the tables.

  It didn’t take long for her to spot her boyfriend. He sat at the bar between two fat, gray-haired men, all three of them nursing beers and not talking to one another.

  She’d taken only ten steps into the room when the first patron noticed her.

  “This day just got a lot better,” the guy said from his table.

  She kept walking without a glance in his direction. She expected him to follow it up with a crude remark, but he said nothing else.

  Others were not quite as kind. Once they realized a woman was in their midst, out came the offers of free drinks and available chairs.

  While it was annoying, she didn’t respond. All that would do was encourage them. Besides, she’d heard worse in her life. All women had. She did allow herself, however, to fantasize about how long it would take her to beat the crap out of every single person in the room.

  Two minutes. Tops.

  Durrie didn’t turn and look at her until she was standing beside him. He sighed and said, “You want a drink?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a bar, babe. That’s what people come here for.”

  She was trying very hard to keep her anger in check, but a little leaked into her voice. “You’re not answering your phone.”

  “Because I’m busy.”

  “Quinn needs to talk to you.”

  He turned back to the bar, picked up his beer, and took a drink without saying anything.

  Orlando leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “He needs to brief you about Saturday.”

  “Are you not listening to me? I’m busy.”

  “You agreed to do this job.”

  “So what?”

  “What do you mean, so what? Are you backing out?”

  “Did you hear me say that? No, you didn’t.” He took another swallow. “All I said was that I’m busy right now.”

  She leaned back. “And how long will you be busy?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t say. A while, I suppose. Now, if you’re not going to drink with me, you can go back home.”

  She had never been so close to telling him she was leaving him. She barely recognized him anymore. Something was seriously wrong, but as much as her anger was telling her to walk away, she wasn’t ready to give up on him.

  Not yet.

  “Give me your keys,” she said.

  “What?” he said, brow furrowing.

  She held out her hand. “Your keys. If you’re going to drink all day, you’re not driving home. You can call me when you’re done and I’ll come pick you up.”

  He stared across the bar for a few seconds, then pulled out his keys and dumped them in her hand. “Don’t wait up. I’ll get a cab.”

  “Hi, it’s me,” Orlando said into her phone. She was still in her car but back in San Diego, parked in her garage.

  “Hey,” Quinn said. “What’s up?”

  “So, um, I think there must be something wrong with Durrie’s phone. We’ll make sure it gets taken care of before he meets up with you, but I thought maybe it would save time if you gave me the download and I filled him in when he got back.”

  She knew what she was asking was a breach of protocol, but it was the only thing she could think of doing to ensure Durrie was ready to travel on Saturday.

  Quinn didn’t say anything for a moment, making her think he wasn’t willing to step over the line. She instantly regretted asking him. She was putting him in a terrible place.

  Maybe…it would be better if she let Durrie fail. It seemed inevitable, anyway.

  “I guess that would be okay,” Quinn said.

  And like that, Orlando’s despair turned back to hope.

  He gave her a basic outline of the mission, ending with, “On Saturday, we fly out of LAX. Aeromexico at 5:25 p.m. I need him there by three.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure of it. Anything else?”

  “No, that should do it.”

  “Thanks, Quinn. I appreciate it.”

  A slight pause, then, “You know I’m always here for you.”

  Durrie didn’t get home until one a.m. There was no sense in telling him then what Quinn had said.

  After he passed out, Orlando lay awake for another hour, her mind racing. Historically, Durrie was not a heavy drinker. Sure, there had been some hard nights out in his past, but since she had moved in with him, his pattern had been a beer or two, maybe a glass of wine a few times a week. Even his visits to the Tin Star had occurred only once or twice a month at most, and wouldn’t go beyond three beers.

  Recently, however, those trips to the bar had increased to several times a week, with a definite uptick in the number of drinks. Even by those standards, tonight’s incident was unprecedented. He had been there for over twelve hours, and God only knew how many beers he had drunk. She hoped it was an aberration but feared it was the new norm.

  Let him get through this job. If things go well, he’ll find his way back to normal.

  I know he will.

  When Orlando woke the next morning, she was alone.

  She raced through the house, looking everywhere for him. When she couldn’t find him, she checked the garage, thinking he had taken her car. But it was still there.

  She told herself he had probably gone out for a walk. A little exercise after a day of drinking. She purposely didn’t check the drawer where she’d put his keys, wanting to believe they were still there. But when ninety minutes had passed and he hadn’t shown up, she could no longer put it off.

  The keys were gone. Which meant he must have taken a cab back to the Tin Star.

  She drove there, still dressed in the gym shorts and T-shirt she’d thrown on when she woke. His car sat in the same spot it had been in the previous day. She went inside, but this time she didn’t go past the entry hall. A peek around the corner allowed her to see him, sitting in the same seat, downing another beer.

  Not wanting to make a scene, she went back outside and disabled his car, by cutting the wires to the fuel pump.

  She spent the afternoon at home, researching rehab facilities. She knew there was little chance he would agree to enter one, but she wanted to be ready in the unlikely chance he said yes.

  That evening, as she sat at the dining table, waiting for Durrie to return, Quinn called.

  “Just wanted to make sure Durrie didn’t have any questions,” he said.

  “Nope. He’s all good.”

  Quinn paused. “Should I be looking for a backup?”

  “No, of course not. He’ll be there. You can count on it.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  Another pause, then, “Okay. Tell him I’ll meet him at the gate.�
�

  “Quinn, thank you.”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “You have. And I appreciate it. Safe travels.”

  Midnight came, and no Durrie.

  One a.m.

  Then two.

  It was ten minutes to three when lights lit up the front of their house. Orlando hurried to the door and opened it. She knew she should wait but couldn’t help herself.

  In the driveway, Durrie was slowly extracting himself from a taxi. Once out, he weaved his way along the stone path to the front door, not noticing her standing on the porch until he was a few feet away. He jerked in surprise.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He pushed past her into the house.

  “You do realize you have a flight leaving for LAX in eight hours, don’t you?”

  As he headed across the living room toward the hallway, he said, “I’m not going.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He paused and looked back. “You heard me. Tell Quinn I’m…I don’t know, sick or something. I don’t care, whatever. I have plans tomorrow.”

  “You have plans to go to Mexico City!”

  “Not gonna happen, baby.” He turned to walk away.

  “Goddammit, I promised him you’d be there!”

  Without stopping, he said, “Did I tell you to do that? No, I didn’t, did I? You should have asked me first.”

  The bedroom door slammed shut, leaving Orlando staring at the space where Durrie had been.

  Chapter Eight

  SATURDAY

  LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  Quinn checked his watch again. It was almost 3:30 p.m. and no sign of Durrie.

  He’d tried calling his mentor, but like in the past few days, his calls went straight to voice mail. He’d tried Orlando, too, but was also shuffled off to message land.

  “Dammit,” he muttered.

  He should have listened to his instincts and put someone else on hold. Hopefully, there was an op in the Mexico City area who could jump in on a moment’s notice. If not, Quinn would have to do the gig by himself. A difficult task, but not impossible.