The Silenced Page 7

  “How about Stacy McKitrick? Or David Thomas?”

  Nothing for a second, then the latch clicked and the door opened an inch. It was dark inside, but the light from the porch was enough to see the shadowy form of someone standing a few feet back from the gap.

  “What do you want?”

  Petra focused on where she thought Moody’s eyes were. “They’re dead, Mr. Moody.”

  It was as if all the wind had been knocked out of him. “Dead? All of them?”

  “Yes. And if you don’t let us help you, you’ll be dead, too.”

  “Positions?” Donovan asked over the walkie-talkie.

  One by one, each of his men replied “Set” in the same order they had answered earlier. And again, Quinn and Nate remained silent.

  “Close in.”

  “Leave me alone,” Moody said. “I don’t need your help.” He paused. “Maybe you’re the ones who killed them, and you’ve come to kill me, too!”

  “We’re not here to hurt you.” Petra put her hand on the door. “We’re here to help.”

  “You’re lying. Get the hell off—”

  There was a faint thup followed by the crunch of glass. Mikhail spun back toward the car, but Petra grabbed his arm and pulled him forward just as something whizzed through the air and smashed into the side of the house.

  “Inside! Inside!” she said.

  Moody tried to shut them out, but Petra jammed her foot into the opening before he could. Half a second later Mikhail drove his shoulder into the door, sending Moody flying back into the house.

  They raced inside. Moody was sprawled on the floor, a look of bewilderment on his face.

  “Gunshots,” Mikhail said.

  Petra kicked the door closed. “I think the first hit the car.”

  Mikhail gave her a look that told her they were both thinking the same thing. Kolya. In the driver’s seat. Nowhere to hide.

  From outside they heard the shattering of glass as the porch light went out. But Petra ignored it. They had come for information. She couldn’t chance blowing it this time, worrying about something she could do nothing about. Reaching down, she grabbed the old man by the front of his sweatshirt and pulled him to his feet. She pulled the picture from her pocket and held it in front of his face.

  “Have you seen this before?”

  Moody stared at her like he couldn’t understand what she was saying. He looked scared and old and frail.

  “Look at the picture, dammit!”

  Moody held Petra’s gaze, fear in his eyes, then looked at the picture and gasped. “Where did you get that?”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  Moody gave her a single, shocked nod. “Where … how …?”

  The shot had been taken in what looked like a small restaurant. There were two tables on either side of the image, and a bar that ran almost the entire length of the background, with plates of sandwiches sitting on top that looked untouched. Scattered around the room were fourteen people, nine men and five women, some sitting at the tables, some standing near the bar. All but one looked like they were between seventeen and twenty-two. The one who didn’t was a man who had to be at least forty. They were dressed comfortably for the time, button-down shirts and slacks for the men, blouses and skirts for the women. Several of the men and one of the women had glasses of beer in front of them, though none were drinking at the time the image was snapped. And though they had all been looking at the camera, not one of them had been smiling. “You’re in this photo, aren’t you?” she asked.

  Hesitation, then another nod.

  She pointed at one of the men near the bar. Young and smiling and completely average, his hand curved around a glass. “You, correct?”

  “So long ago.”

  “And this one,” she said pointing at a man at the left table, leaning back casually. “David Thomas, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this is—”

  “Ryan Winters.”

  Petra could feel the hair at the back of her neck tingle. Finally, they had their key. Moody. He would be able to point them toward the Ghost, toward closure.

  “We know most of the names of the people in the photo,” she said. “What I need is for you to tell us who—”

  The shatter of glass cut her off.

  Petra pushed Moody back to the floor as a second windowpane blew inward.

  She glanced at Mikhail. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “The garage,” he said.

  “Is there a car there?” Petra asked Moody.

  “Please, leave me alone,” Moody pleaded.

  She grabbed him by the arms and rolled him onto his back. “I am not here to kill you. But the people outside are. So if you want to live, you will help us get out of here.”

  He nervously licked his lips.

  “Is there a car in your garage?”

  “Yes,” Moody said. “A pickup.”

  “Where are the keys?”

  “In the kitchen. On a hook by the door.” Moody motioned toward the back of the house.

  “Come on,” Petra said.

  “Take my truck. I don’t care,” he said. “But I’m staying here.”

  “I already told you, they will kill you if you stay.”

  “You’ll kill me if I go.”

  “You misunderstand the situation, Mr. Moody. You’re more valuable to me alive than dead.”

  The glass on one of the Maxima’s windows imploded.

  “What was that?” Donovan shouted over the radio link.

  In the moment of silence that followed, something smacked into the side of the house. A voice crackled over the walkie-talkie, one of Donovan’s men. “Someone’s shooting. They hit the car and just hit the house. I think that first shot might have got the driver.”

  “Who the hell fired?”

  “It looked like it came from the southeast.”

  “Mercer,” Donovan said, “did you see anything?”

  A slight pause. “Nothing.”

  “That’s your area! Check it out! There must be someone else out there.”

  “Copy that,” Mercer said.

  “What about the two in front of the house?” Donovan asked.

  “They’ve gone inside,” one of the men said.

  “Son of a bitch,” Donovan said. “Someone take out the porch light.”

  “Copy that.”

  A second later the lamp above the door shattered, and the yard went dark.

  “Light’s disabled.”

  Donovan took a deep, audible breath. “All right. Everyone but Mercer, move in. But carefully. There’s a sniper out there somewhere. Mercer, you find that shooter.”

  “Copy,” Mercer replied.

  With Mercer hunting for the sniper and Dailey monitoring the thermal scanner, Donovan’s six-man team was down to four.

  “Well, this is exciting,” Nate said.

  “Exciting” was not a word any cleaner wanted associated with the job he was working on. Routine, dull, uneventful. Those were the descriptions most desired.

  “You hear even the hint of a siren, that’s an automatic abort,” Quinn said.

  “Good by me.”

  So far there had been no signs that any of the neighbors had noticed anything wrong. The trees and the distance appeared to be working in their favor.

  Just then two men slipped out of the cover of the woods. The first crept to the tree that was near the front door of the house. The other headed toward the Maxima.

  “In position across from the door,” a voice said on the radio.

  “We have a problem,” a second voice said.

  “Like I hadn’t noticed that,” Donovan said.

  “More of a problem. I’m at the Maxima. The driver is dead. Bullet caught him right below the ear. Doesn’t look like a random shot to me. He was definitely targeted.”

  Quinn blew out a breath. A bad situation had just gotten worse.

  “Fine,” Donovan said. “We are still on mission. Dailey, wha
t do you see?”

  “The heat signatures are all together, not far inside the house.”

  “Is anyone looking out the window?”

  “No one’s near any window.”

  “Good. Abel, you and Cox move in close. See what you can hear.”

  “Copy that,” Abel responded.

  The man at the car and the one behind the tree began running in a crouch toward the front door.

  “I think I jinxed us with that ‘exciting’ comment,” Nate said to Quinn.

  “Yeah. I wasn’t going to point that out,” Quinn said.

  “Thanks for your consideration.”

  There was a sudden movement from the far side of the car. A third man was heading quickly across the front lawn toward the house.

  “Donovan, is that you?” Abel said.

  “What are you talking about?” Donovan said.

  “There’s someone about thirty feet to my right. He looks like one—”

  A muzzle flashed. It was followed almost immediately by the disintegration of one of the windows next to the front door. Another flash. Another window shattered. Quinn saw Abel and Cox dive for cover. When he looked back at the front yard, the third man was gone.

  “Shooter! Shooter!” Abel yelled as he and Cox sprinted toward the Maxima.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is going bad fast,” Nate said to Quinn. “Someone’s got to be calling the cops by now, don’t you think?”

  Quinn nodded. “We’ll hold our position so we can act as eyes for the others. But if there are any bodies, we’re leaving them.”

  Abel and Cox circled the Maxima.

  “He’s gone,” one of them said.

  “Dailey, scan the yard,” Donovan said. “See if you can pick up something.”

  “I can’t reposition that quickly,” Dailey said.

  “Fine. Stay on the house. Mercer, anything?”

  “No.” Mercer sounded winded. “Someone was just running through the trees, but I lost him.”

  “Goddamn it. The rest of you, into the house. Now. I don’t care how you do it. They already know we’re coming.”

  The phone in Quinn’s pocket buzzed again, reminding him he had a text waiting. The vibration was loud enough for Nate to hear. He looked at Quinn, eyebrows raised.

  Quinn ignored both his apprentice and the phone.

  Abel and Cox darted to the front door. Without pausing, Abel kicked out with his right, connecting with the door just below the knob.

  Quinn could hear the sound of the wood cracking. More noise pollution. He had seldom seen a job go this bad this fast.

  Abel kicked again. This time the door flew inward, then rebounded toward them. Cox took up position against the jamb, aiming his gun into the darkness. Abel nodded, then rushed forward, keeping low.

  “We’re in,” Abel announced as Cox slipped inside as well.

  “He’s done something to his windows so we’re having a problem getting in at the back,” Donovan said. “Looking for an alternative. Dailey, what’s going on with the targets?”

  Targets now, Quinn registered. What a mess.

  “They’re at the back of the house, west side.”

  Over the radio, Quinn could hear the spit of bullets passing through suppressors.

  “We’re receiving fire,” Abel grunted.

  “We’re coming around to your side,” Donovan said.

  “They’re moving again,” Dailey broke in.

  Three more muffled gunshots.

  “Into the garage,” Dailey continued.

  Several seconds of nothing, then the roar of an engine ripped through the night.

  Quinn keyed his mic. “They’ve got a car in the garage. Engine just started.”

  “Everyone out front. Now!” Donovan said.

  Again, Quinn and Nate held their position. This wasn’t their fight.

  Tires screeched, then a tremendous crash filled the air as a large pickup truck exploded through the garage door. Quinn looked at the truck’s crew cab, but couldn’t see anyone. They all must have been hunkered down below the dash.

  As the vehicle weaved through the debris, Abel and Cox ran out the front door. A second later Donovan and Beech appeared around the corner of the house.

  All four opened fire on the truck. The Ford sped up. As it reached the parked sedan, it swerved to the right, scraping against the Maxima but not slowing down.

  “Abort! Abort!” Donovan shouted as the truck raced down the driveway toward Main Street.

  “What about the dead man in the car? Shouldn’t we check for ID?” Cox asked.

  Good idea, Quinn thought.

  “Abort now,” Donovan repeated. “No time. Team four, you’re released.”

  “Copy that,” Quinn said. But he held his position as the others disappeared into the woods.

  So did Nate.

  After ten seconds, Quinn’s apprentice said, “You want the ID, don’t you?”

  “The woman was the same woman who watched us in L.A. Wills is going to want to know who these people are.”

  “Not our job to get an ID,” Nate observed. It wasn’t an admonishment, just information.

  “I want to know who these people are, too.”

  Nate rose out of his crouch and tossed the binoculars to Quinn. “Be right back.”

  “My idea. I’ll get it,” Quinn said.

  “I’m already on my way,” Nate said, but before he could take a step, something moved near the bushes in front of Moody’s house. Nate knelt back down. “The shooter?”

  Quinn raised the binoculars. A man skulked around the yard, holding a gun that glowed bright with the heat of a recent discharge. As he took a few steps forward, Quinn was able to focus in on his face.

  “It’s Mercer,” Quinn whispered. He must have come back for the attack on the truck.

  Mercer snuck his way toward the car, his gun ready at his side. Then, very faint in the distance, Quinn heard a siren. Mercer’s head shot up. After a second, he glanced at the car, hesitated, then he whipped around and ran east toward the woods at the edge of the property. A moment later he was gone. Nate stood again.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The ID, remember?”

  “Police are coming.”

  “So I guess I’d better be fast, huh?”

  Nate stepped out of the trees, then sprinted to the sedan. Quinn watched as his apprentice opened the driver’s door and leaned in over the corpse. Fifteen seconds later he was up again and running back.

  “Find anything?” Quinn asked once Nate had rejoined him.

  Nate held up a thin wallet. “This was it.”

  The sirens were getting closer now.

  “Time to go,” Quinn said, then let Nate lead them through the woods back to their car.

  “STAY DOWN!” PETRA YELLED AT MOODY AS THE truck raced over the remains of the garage door.

  Mikhail was behind the wheel, keeping his own head low, aiming the truck toward the street.

  Before they’d gone ten feet, a staccato whap-whap-whap of bullets hit the side of the pickup.

  “Faster,” Petra said.

  “What about Kolya?” Mikhail yelled.

  “He’ll have to take care of himself,” she said.

  Mikhail lifted his head enough to peek out the window as they passed the Maxima. When he crouched back down, his face was white.

  “What is it?” Petra asked.

  His only answer was to shake his head and press down on the accelerator. Kolya had to be dead.

  The truck tossed them around as they sped across the front lawn. After a moment, Mikhail looked up again.

  “Hold on,” he said, then whipped the wheel to the right.

  The tires squealed as the truck fought against inertia. Petra braced herself, expecting to flip over. But a moment later the rocky ride ended, and they were racing away along the main road. She glanced into the crew seat behind them. Moody was still tucked in the space between the seats.

  “Who were t
hey?” Mikhail asked.

  “The same people we’ve been up against since we started,” Petra said.

  All of a sudden the truck began to slow.

  “What are you doing?” Petra asked.

  “Police.”

  She sat up and saw the lights in the distance coming toward them fast. “We can’t let them see us,” she said. The truck was riddled with bullet holes. “There.” She pointed at a gravel road several yards ahead on the left.

  Mikhail eased off the accelerator and turned. Once they were on the side road, he doused the lights, took the engine out of gear, and let the truck roll to a stop on its own.

  They both looked over their shoulders out the back window. To the left a halo of flashing lights began to dominate the night as a siren grew louder. Then a single police cruiser rushed by, its lights quickly fading into the black.

  Mikhail started to put the truck back into gear, but Petra stopped him. “Wait,” she said.

  Three minutes later, more lights appeared on the horizon. Two more police cars and an ambulance.

  As soon as they passed, Petra said, “Okay, go.”

  Mikhail turned the truck around and got them back onto the highway.

  “We can’t stay in this,” Petra said. “It’ll draw too much attention. We need to find something else.”

  Mikhail nodded, then glanced toward the back. “How’s our passenger?”

  Petra peered over the seat. “He’s still hiding on the floor.” She reached back and tapped Moody on the shoulder. “You can get up,” she said in English. “We’re safe now.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Mr. Moody. It’s okay. It’s over.”

  Again nothing. She exchanged a look with Mikhail.

  “You want me to pull over?” he asked.

  “No. Keep going.”

  She climbed into the back and leaned down next to Moody.

  “Are you all right?”

  There was no movement at all.

  As she reached underneath to pull him up, she touched something sticky and wet.

  “He’s been hit.” She manhandled him onto the seat, then reached up and flipped on the dome light. The front of Moody’s shirt was dark with blood.

  “No,” she whispered.

  She put her fingers against the man’s neck. There was a pulse, though faint. “He’s still alive,” she said.

  She unbuttoned Moody’s shirt and peeled it back. More blood, but no entry wound.