The Damaged Page 5

  His stomach rumbled.

  He’d give Durrie five more minutes, then he’d go in search of food.

  He was so focused on looking for his mentor that he didn’t notice the slight Asian woman walking toward him.

  “Quinn?”

  He blinked as he realized it was Orlando. “What are you doing here?” He looked around. “Where’s Durrie?”

  “He’s, um, not coming. Something came up last minute. I didn’t want to leave you without any help so I’m here to fill in.”

  The first emotion Quinn should have felt was anger, but it wasn’t. What he felt instead was relief. Ever since Peter had presented him with the task of being Durrie’s minder, Quinn had worried something would go awry, and he’d be forced to torpedo the career of the man who’d given Quinn this life. Now, knowing he wouldn’t have to constantly look over his shoulder to supervise Durrie took a massive load off his shoulders. Throw in the fact he’d be spending the next couple of days with Orlando, and the job he had been dreading was now something he was looking forward to.

  “Is he okay?” Quinn asked.

  “He…will be.”

  Quinn paused. While it was a relief Durrie had backed out, Quinn would still need to inform Peter, which would mean the end of Durrie’s career. “I’ll…need to put why in my report.”

  Orlando looked around. “How about we sit?”

  She led him over to Gate 28, where a flight had just departed, leaving the area all but empty. They took two seats facing the window.

  “I know I’m not in a position to do this, but I need to ask you for a favor,” she said.

  “Of course. What is it?” There were three people in the world he would do anything for—his estranged sister, Liz, and Orlando were two of them, and he hadn’t talked to Liz in several years. His mother came in a close third, but certain conditions were attached there.

  “I’d like you to not tell Peter,” she said.

  “I’m not…sure how I can do that. Durrie’s not here. Peter needs to know that.”

  “The only ones who need to know he didn’t make it are you and me. As far as anyone else is concerned, he’s on the job.”

  Quinn sat back, unsure how to respond.

  Orlando leaned close to him. “I realize this is a huge ask, but this could be Durrie’s last chance. I don’t know how much Peter told you, but Durrie’s on this job with you because—”

  “He told me everything.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, um, good. Then you understand. If you tell Peter, Durrie is done.” She took a breath. “This is his life. If he doesn’t have this, then I don’t know what he’ll do.”

  “He’s the one who put himself in this position.”

  “I realize that. And he probably doesn’t deserve a second chance, but I’m trying to help him through this. Get him back to where he was.”

  “Through what exactly?”

  Her shoulders sagged and her head dipped. “Whatever is going on in his head.”

  “You don’t know what’s wrong with him?”

  “I’m…not sure.” After a beat, she puffed up a bit. “But I’m going to get him through this. I promise. I just need you to do this one thing for me.” Another pause. “If you can’t, I’ll understand. I’ll still help you with this job, then Durrie and I will figure our way through whatever’s next.”

  Quinn realized if he refused her request, their relationship would never be the same. And while they might work together now and then, the closeness they’d had, the trust, would be gone. Whatever his thoughts were about helping Durrie, not having Orlando in his life anymore was not something he could live with. Though she’d probably never know it, she was everything to him.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’ll keep it between us.”

  The words were barely past his lips when she pulled him into a hug and whispered in his ear, “Thank you.”

  “If anyone else on the job finds out, or something goes wrong, I’ll have to come clean.”

  “I know. We’ll just have to make sure none of those things happen.”

  SAN DIEGO

  After a lunch of tacos from the takeout place down the block from the Tin Star, Durrie, who had yet to drink enough to cloud his mind, came down with a case of the guilts.

  Peter may have been a son of a bitch, but he had thrown Durrie a lifeline. The fact that Durrie had let go of it could be blamed on no one but himself.

  “Shit,” he said, setting down his barely touched beer. He waved at Garner, the bartender. “What do I owe you?”

  Getting his car working again was a lot easier to do since he was more sober than he’d been the previous night. When he arrived home, he was surprised to find Orlando’s car gone. Lately she’d made it a point to wait around for him. Maybe she’d finally given up. He wouldn’t blame her if she did.

  He headed to the back of the house, where he retrieved his laptop, and carried it to the dining table. His plan was to arrange for the soonest flight he could get to Mexico City from San Diego, but before he could set the computer down, he saw a piece of paper lying at his usual spot.

  He picked it up, sure it was Orlando’s long overdue Dear John letter. Only that’s not what it was.

  D—

  Have gone to LAX to take your place on the job. If I can work it so that Peter doesn’t find out, I will. That way you’ll still have another chance. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you need to pull it together. If not for yourself, do it for me. Please.

  I’ll be back in a few days. I love you.

  O.

  He stared at the paper, his eyes narrowing.

  There Orlando went again, playing the hero girlfriend. And who was she enlisting in her quest to “clear” Durrie’s name? His own ungrateful apprentice.

  Or maybe that had been her plan all along. Maybe she had counted on Durrie dropping out so she and Quinn could have an all-expenses-paid trip to Mexico.

  He could feel a burning at the base of his skull, a burning that told him his suspicions might very well be correct.

  No. Were correct.

  Slowly he wadded up the lying piece of paper and tossed it in the trash can. He headed out to his car, his guilt no longer an issue.

  EN ROUTE TO MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

  Quinn stared at the open book in his hand. He had no idea how many times he’d tried to read the same page. Four? Five? More? Every time, after only a few lines, his thoughts had wandered to the head resting against his shoulder.

  “Tired?” he’d asked, when Orlando yawned after he’d agreed to her plan.

  “No. Just had to get up a little early, to take care of a few things before I left.”

  The denial was a lie. Exhaustion lay heavy across her eyes, her lids sagging as if their new position had become permanent.

  Five minutes after their flight reached cruising altitude, she had passed out. And not long after that, her body slid sideways against his, where it had remained ever since.

  He had done his best to ignore her presence and not think about her. He’d actually succeeded for a while. Now that they were nearing Mexico City and she would soon be waking, he gave up even trying.

  More than anything, he wanted to reach over and stroke her cheek. He wanted to push up the armrest separating them and let her lie in his lap. He wanted to put his arms around her and tell her it was all going to be okay.

  But none of those options were open to him. All he could do was stare at his book, unable to understand a word.

  He had loved her for years, and yet she was not his to love. That honor belonged to the man responsible for her exhaustion.

  Quinn grimaced.

  Obviously Durrie was taking out his issues on her. Quinn couldn’t understand how in God’s name Durrie could do that. Orlando had done nothing but defend Durrie. She had even roped in Quinn to cover up Durrie’s absence. She deserved Durrie’s deep appreciation and thanks, not whatever psychological BS he was radiating.

  Maybe I should have refused to g
o along with her plan, he thought. Maybe what Durrie needed was to finally crash and burn. He could either rise from the ashes a reborn man or disappear into the debris, never to be seen again. Either way, it would give Orlando a chance to start anew.

  But even if Quinn could have said no to her—which was doubtful—it was too late to say it now. They were in this together, charter members of Team Rescue Durrie from Himself.

  Crap.

  The lights in the cabin brightened, and a dong rang out over the intercom system.

  Over the speaker, a flight attendant announced, first in Spanish and then in English, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to begin our descent into Mexico City. At this time, please stow your tray tables and return your chairs to their upright position.”

  Orlando took a deep breath and slowly opened her eyes. When she realized she was leaning against him, she didn’t immediately pull away, but lingered there for a few moments before leaning back into her own seat.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to knock out like that.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

  “I take it you slept, too, huh?”

  “What?”

  She nodded at his book. “Doesn’t look like you got very far.”

  His finger held a place only a handful of pages from the beginning of the book. “Yeah, a little, I guess,” he lied.

  The plane landed without incident. Because of the time change between California and Mexico City, by the time they were through Customs and Immigration and climbing into a taxi, it was almost midnight.

  Peter had arranged for a studio apartment, not for its comfort but due to its location, close to the mission site but not too close—a vital factor given the notorious Mexico City traffic. The single room was filled with a small table, two chairs, a pullout sofa, and one full-sized bed. The only privacy was the small attached bathroom.

  The place would have been fine if Durrie had been with Quinn, but not so much now. They couldn’t change locations, though. That would mean coming up with another lie to tell Peter.

  “You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch,” Quinn said.

  She walked over to the sofa, pulled off one of the cushions, and checked the mattress. “This thing’s only a few inches thick. You’ll be up all night.”

  “I can sleep on the cushions. It’ll be fine.”

  She snorted. “You’re about a half foot too tall.”

  “Okay, fine. You take the couch.”

  “Oh, hell, no. I’m not sleeping on this, and neither are you.”

  He blinked. “I, um, I guess I could sleep on the floor.”

  “For God’s sake. And how is that going to give you a decent night’s sleep?” She shook her head, looking at him as if he were an idiot. “We’ve got work tomorrow. We both have to be on top of our game. We can share the bed.”

  “Really, you don’t need to—”

  “I’m not arguing about this with you anymore. If it helps with your moral dilemma, choirboy, I trust you. Okay?”

  “Well, um, okay, sure.”

  Technically, this wasn’t the first time they’d slept together. It wasn’t even the second or third. Back when they were both apprentices working on the same gig, they’d catch a few winks when they could, wherever they could. The major difference was, none of those other times had ever been on a bed.

  At Orlando’s insistence, Quinn used the bathroom first. After he came out and she went in, he pulled on his running shorts and a clean T-shirt, and climbed into bed on the side farthest from the bathroom.

  When she came out, she too was wearing a T-shirt, only hers fit like a loose dress that came down to her thighs. She turned off the light and made her way to the bed by the glow of the streetlights outside the window.

  As she crawled in beside him, she said, “If I kick you, don’t take it personally. It just means you’re hogging too much space and you need to move.”

  Quinn and Orlando had spent years joking with each other so he knew she was being funny, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, he couldn’t come up with a better comeback than “Yes, ma’am.”

  She squirmed a little, getting comfortable, and moved the pillow around until it was just right.

  “Did you set an alarm?” she asked.

  “Six a.m.”

  “Ugh, that’s going to come quick. All right. Good night, honey.”

  Before he could stop himself, he let out a surprised “What?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you prefer sweetheart? How about lover? Sounds so romance novel-y, doesn’t it? Lover.” She laughed. “Good night, lover.”

  Her over-the-top delivery helped lessen the stress of the situation. Stifling his own laugh, Quinn said, “I prefer sir or lord and master. You may choose between the two.”

  “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” She turned on her side, facing away from him. “Good night, Quinn.”

  “Good night, Orlando.”

  Orlando had been wrong in her assessment. If he’d curled up on the hard floor, he would have had a better night’s sleep.

  After they said good night, he lay awake for what must have been a couple of hours, her mere presence a magnet, pulling at every inch of him. She was so close. All he would have to do was slide his arm a few centimeters to touch her. But he knew he couldn’t allow himself to do that. Contact might eat away at his resistance, until slipping an arm around her would seem like a good idea.

  Then pulling her close.

  Nuzzling her neck.

  Kissing her shoulder.

  The sense of her nearness finally grew so great that he had to retreat to the bathroom to prevent himself from shouting in frustration. Once he had calmed down, he returned to bed. This time, he lay above the top sheet so that it could act as a barrier, albeit a thin one, between them. The trick worked, and he was able to finally fall asleep. It did not, however, prevent him from waking several times, needlessly worried he’d unconsciously crawled back under.

  By the time his alarm went off, stirring Orlando from her slumber, he was sitting at the table, drinking a second cup of coffee.

  She stretched, sat up, and looked at him, her sleep-mussed hair dangling over one eye. “Is that coffee?”

  “It’s instant.”

  “Make me two cups, then.”

  He smiled. “At your service.”

  Sunday, their first full day in Mexico City, was prep day.

  They spent the morning walking the streets around the mission’s location, familiarizing themselves with the multiple ways in and out of the area.

  “That’s the door we’re using?” Orlando asked as they walked down the alley behind the building where the event would take place.

  “Yeah.”

  She looked around. “You can’t leave a car here.”

  The alley was narrow, no place for a vehicle to be stowed for any length of time.

  “There’s a parking garage around the corner. We’ll leave it there.”

  She nodded, and headed over to where several large pipes and a few metal boxes were attached to the outside of the structure. This was where the power entered the building. After studying everything, she looked around and pulled out a set of lockpicks.

  “Keep an eye out,” she said.

  Quinn scanned the alley while she worked on a lock to one of the metal boxes. There were two cameras on the back of the building, but Orlando had created loops of the empty alley on her computer before they headed this way. Anyone watching the feeds would think all was quiet.

  Quinn heard a click and a thunk as the box door swung open. After a few moments, he glanced over his shoulder. “Well?”

  “It’s a bit of a rat’s nest but should be easy enough. When the time comes, it shouldn’t take me more than ten minutes to set things up.”

  She shut the case, and they continued walking to the end of the alley. There, Orlando pulled her laptop from her backpack and switched the cameras back to a live view.

  After
a quick lunch of street tacos and aguas frescas de horchata, they took a taxi to an auto service garage several kilometers east of the mission site.

  Even though this was Sunday, the sounds of work echoed from inside the building. Quinn and Orlando entered the main garage area, and walked over to where a young mechanic had his head under the hood of a Chevy Tornado truck.

  After a few moments, the guy looked over and said in Spanish, “Can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for Denis Aguilar,” Quinn responded in kind. “Is he around?”

  The man twisted around and looked toward the other cars being worked on. “Denis! Customer!”

  A man ducked out from under a Volkswagen Clasico that was jacked in the air on a hydraulic lift two bays away. Bald with a bushy black moustache, he appeared to be north of thirty-five. He reminded Quinn of a Latin version of Peter, with just a bit more height.

  Upon seeing Quinn and Orlando, Aguilar pulled a rag off the top of a rolling tool table, wiped his hands, and walked over.

  “What can I do for you?” the man said, a hint of irritation at the edge of his helpful expression.

  “Roberto Ortiz sent us,” Quinn said.

  The man’s annoyance vanished upon hearing the recognition code. “Roberto, yes. I talked to him this morning. Said you needed to borrow a truck for a day or two?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “This way. Please.”

  Aguilar led them into the front office, where he removed a set of keys from a desk, and then escorted Quinn and Orlando out a side door into the lot surrounding the shop.

  “It’s right back here,” he said.

  A blue Nissan Frontier pickup truck sat directly behind the building. The model put it at about four years old, and while it showed some wear, no one would ever call it rundown. Just the kind of vehicle that would blend into the city. And, as requested, the bed was covered by a hard plastic lid.

  Aguilar opened the passenger door. “As you can see, it is nice and clean,” he said, acting like they were normal customers borrowing the truck.