The Collected jq-6 Page 7

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about the job and what happened.”

  In fits and starts, Pullman began telling what he knew.

  “Wait,” Quinn said before he got too far. “Quinn’s assistant. What was his name?”

  “Uh, Burke.”

  Quinn had never heard of the guy. “Do you know how he got the job?”

  “I…recommended him.”

  “You?”

  “Well, actually, the client did. I just passed the name along.”

  That was also disturbing. “All right. Let’s go back to the job.”

  Pullman told them the rest, finishing up with learning that the Mexican authorities had discovered the body, and that he could no longer reach his client.

  “What’s your password?” Orlando asked.

  “My what?”

  “Password. For your computer.”

  “Why?”

  Quinn raised the gun.

  “Uh, uh, it’s Jessica36b.”

  “God, that better not mean-” Orlando stopped herself with a disgusted groan. “Never mind.”

  Quinn could hear her disconnecting the man’s laptop and shoving it into her bag.

  “What are you doing?” Pullman said. “That’s mine. I need that.”

  “It was yours,” she said.

  “But my work. Everything’s on there!”

  “I’m sure you have a backup somewhere,” Quinn said. He stood up. “A little advice. You might want to lie low for a while.”

  “Hold on. Are you going to leave me like this?”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  Instead of unwrapping the tape, Quinn pulled out the cylindrical container, unscrewed one end, and slipped the syringe into his hand.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Pullman protested.

  Quinn stuck the needle into the broker’s arm.

  “Hey! What the hell?”

  “You’re going to have a nice headache when you wake up,” Quinn said. “You’ll want to take some aspirin and drink plenty of water. But the good news is, you won’t have to worry about that for another twenty-four hours, at least.”

  “What did you…give…me?” The man’s voice was already losing strength.

  “Sweet dreams, Mr. Pullman.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Nate’s eyes shot open as he gasped for air.

  Before he could even register that he was soaking wet, another wave of water slammed into him.

  He gasped again.

  Close by, someone laughed.

  He twisted his head toward the noise, and saw a big man with scraggly blond hair and a goatee, a foot long and braided. He grinned at Quinn, an empty bucket in his hand.

  “You up now. Good,” the man said. “No fall back asleep, okay?”

  The man wagged a finger at Nate, exited the room, and shut the door.

  It wasn’t until he was alone again that Nate realized the bag was no longer over his head.

  He turned to look around to get a sense of where he was, but had to stop and squeeze his eyes shut as a wave of nausea swept over him. Nearly half a minute passed before he could open his eyelids again.

  This time, when he scanned the room, he kept his movements slow to prevent another attack. He was in a space that couldn’t have been more than ten feet square, enclosed by stone walls broken only by the single door. No windows, he realized, and no drain in the floor. Which meant this wasn’t the same room he’d been in when he met the bald man.

  He turned his attention to the metal chair he was sitting in, and quickly discovered that it was attached firmly to the concrete floor. Straps across his chest and lap held him in place. In addition, cuffs around his ankles were connected to the chair’s legs.

  Apparently, his captors hadn’t realized that his lower right leg was artificial. Of course, without patting down the area where it met his stub or taking his pants off entirely, there was no reason why they would. The limb was wrapped with a synthetic exterior that created the look and feel of a real leg.

  Missing this detail was a mistake he hoped they didn’t rectify. His leg was more than just a means of helping him get around. If he could get to the secret compartment in the calf area, then he might have a chance.

  The other partially good news was that even though his wrists were still cuffed together, they were now on his lap instead of behind his back. More comfortable, and easier to use if the chance arose.

  He leaned his head back and tried to recall the last thing he clearly remembered.

  Quinn, he thought. The bald man had called me Quinn.

  From the aches and pains he felt, he could tell he’d taken a beating, but as for more memories, he was a blank.

  No. Wait.

  He closed his eyes. There was more. A burst of sound…and…and…vibrations. A jolt, too. What the hell had that been?

  Moved. Yes, that had to be it. I was moved.

  It was the method used he was having a hard time identifying. It had been distinctive, he was sure about that, something he should have been able to identify, but the answer remained elusive.

  Pieces, that’s all he had to figure out what was going on. The run for the border. The police who hadn’t taken him to an official jail. The bald man. The noises. The vibrations.

  And then there was the job itself.

  Unfortunately, the pieces that bound everything together were still missing, and he wasn’t going to figure anything out just sitting there.

  He refocused his mind.

  Priorities.

  Number one: Get free.

  Number two: If possible, find out what is going on, but not at the sacrifice of the first goal.

  Number three: Once free, find that bastard Burke.

  What he’d do with that asshole once he had him was something he could figure out later. At the moment, the thought of ripping Burke apart limb by limb was pretty damn appealing.

  The door opened again, and the big blond man with the stupid grin reentered. Only he wasn’t alone. Coming in right behind him was the bald man.

  I guess it’s time to play.

  The big guy was carrying another bucket of water. He set in on the floor as the bald man closed the door. The two of them then stepped in front of Nate.

  “Have a good rest?” the bald man asked.

  The less said, the better, Nate knew, so he didn’t answer.

  “You were out for quite some time.”

  Nate kept his expression blank.

  The man looked at his watch. “Unfortunately, I am unable to chat right now, but I just wanted to say that I’m glad to see you’re up, and if you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask Janus, here.” He gestured to the other man. “You and I will talk later, Mr. Quinn.”

  He dipped his head an inch, in what amounted to a farewell bow, and left the room. Janus stayed.

  “Brought you more water,” the man said, picking up the bucket. “Thought you might be thirsty.”

  He tossed the contents at Nate.

  This time the water was freezing and filled with bits and pieces of ice that pelted Nate in the face and shoulders. Nate turned his head just in time to avoid a chunk stabbing him in the eye.

  Janus laughed loud and deep, almost doubling over as he did. “Cold, huh? Good for skin.” Another laugh and he, too, was gone.

  What Janus hadn’t noticed, though, was that as Nate’s body reacted to the shock, he’d automatically shoved up on his feet, tilting the chair backward a quarter of an inch as the bolts holding the front two legs down gave a little under the pressure. Nate had sensed it immediately, and had used his toes to slow his descent back to the floor so the movement wouldn’t be noticeable.

  He remained motionless for the first three minutes he was alone. Finally, when he felt his visitors wouldn’t be returning right away, he rocked back again. He went up a quarter inch before the bolts caught. On his next try he used more force, moving higher. He kept at it, each time gaining a fraction of an inch, until finally he heard one of the
bolts pop.

  Instantly, he dropped the chair to the floor and eyed the door, expecting Janus to come rushing in. He counted off seconds, stopping when he reached the four-minute mark without the door opening.

  He finally allowed himself to glance at the floor. Because his chest was strapped to the chair, he couldn’t lean far enough forward to see the front legs. Also, if he’d heard right, the pop had come from the right side, so even if the bolt had come loose and fallen to the floor, it would have been difficult to detect with his faux foot.

  Keeping an eye on the door, he rocks slowly back. While the left front leg of the chair still caught on its bolt, the right side was definitely free.

  The door started to open. He quickly put the legs back down, and hoped to God the bolt was hidden by the chair or his own legs.

  Janus entered. Instead of a bucket, he had a Taser.

  “We go for a walk,” the man said. “You will be good boy, yes?”

  Nate stuck to the same script he’d been reading from since his captivity began and kept his mouth shut.

  As Janus approached him, he touched a button on the side of the Taser. An electronic hiss emanated from the device.

  “See this? You don’t want me touch you with this. Not feel nice. I guarantee. So you be good boy.”

  Nate kept his face blank as Janus circled around behind the chair.

  Don’t look down. Don’t see the bolt.

  Janus undid the straps across Nate’s thighs, released the one around his chest, and backed away.

  “Unbuckle your ankles,” he said.

  A smart move, taking away the possibility he might get kicked or punched in the process. But it also gave Nate the opportunity to find the bolt. As he leaned down, he searched the floor, but couldn’t see it.

  “Faster,” Janus ordered.

  Nate undid one ankle, then the other as he continued to hunt for the piece of hardware.

  There it is.

  It was directly behind his right heel. As he started to reach for it, Janus pushed him on the back, sending him sprawling from his chair.

  “On your feet.”

  Silently cursing himself, Nate slowly rose. As he did, he kept his head down like he was tired, and glanced back at the chair. The bolt was still there.

  “Let’s go,” Janus said, underlining his order with a test zap of the Taser.

  Nate took a single step forward, then halted.

  “Keep moving,” Janus told him.

  Nate turned toward the other man. “I don’t feel very-”

  Before he could finish, he saw the Taser shoot toward him. Nate acted like he was going to throw up and dropped to the floor, Janus’s weapon slicing harmlessly through the space where he’d just been. He shot his arms forward, grabbed the bolt, and brought it down to his chest as the Taser touched his back.

  For the next several seconds, he jerked and jolted on the ground, the electric pain seemingly touching every nerve ending as he lost control of his body. When the hissing stopped, he continued to spasm for several seconds, playing out the last of the Taser’s effects.

  Nearly a minute passed before Janus said, “I tell you to be good boy. Now, get up.”

  Nate felt a pain on his chest. Not electrical from the Taser, more like a bruise. The bolt, he realized. He’d been thrashing against it. He put his hand over it and curled it into a loose fist as he shakily pushed himself back to his feet.

  “No more stupid move, okay? Now go.”

  Nate walked out of the room into a narrow passageway. As Janus closed the door, Nate slipped his potential weapon into his pocket.

  CHAPTER 13

  “The Cleaner has arrived?” Romero asked.

  “Yes,” Harris replied. “He proved a bit of a challenge, but nothing that couldn’t be handled.”

  “I don’t care about any difficulties. He’s here. That’s all I need to know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Truth was, Quinn’s capture had been more than just a challenge. If Harris hadn’t forced that idiot Moreno to continue the search and set up roadblocks after the cleaner got away in Monterrey, Quinn would have been in the wind, and they may have been staring at that one small error Harris had warned about at the start.

  He had expected the taking of the cleaner to be difficult, just not that difficult. After all, Quinn’s abduction had been the hardest to set up. As a cleaner, the man was in charge of his own work, and not a part of the official ops team, which meant he called his own shots and hired his own people.

  To achieve their goal, Harris needed to get someone close to Quinn to feed information to the group of police officers Moreno had put together. The problem wasn’t who that person would be. That was easy. Harris simply trolled the lower levels of the freelance world and plucked someone more interested in money than loyalty. Burke had served his role well.

  Getting Quinn to hire Burke, though, was another issue. Harris’s research had shown that the cleaner had a small group of operatives he’d consistently worked with over the last few years. Jamming their schedules had been a necessary first step before even offering the job to Quinn.

  The hardest person to deal with in Quinn’s select little group turned out to be a man named Daeng from Thailand. According to several sources, Quinn had been using him a lot as of late. When Harris tried to find a way to contact Daeng and put him on the same kind of hold as the others, the people he talked to said the man only worked for Quinn, no one else.

  Harris decided it was time to get a little actual dirt on his hands, and followed a lead back to the man’s home country, where he was able to finally figure out a way to get Daeng out of the picture. It had been a while since he’d killed anyone, but he hadn’t forgotten how. More importantly, the ploy had worked.

  Daeng was moved out of the way, Burke was hired, and now Quinn was here.

  “The shooter?” Romero asked.

  The shooter was the only one on the list left to pick up. “In progress, sir.”

  “So he’ll be here…?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  In contrast to Quinn, taking the shooter had been the easiest to set up, so Harris had saved him for last.

  “You will inform me when he arrives,” Romero said dismissively.

  Harris tilted his head in acknowledgment, but it was a wasted gesture. Romero was no longer paying him any attention.

  CHAPTER 14

  San Paolo, Brazil

  Maurice Curson could not believe his luck. For four years, he’d been persona non grata in the secret world. The only suitable employment he could find for someone with his particular skill set was as a bodyguard for rich losers.

  But the asshole clients weren’t the worst part. It was the other bodyguards who really annoyed him. While there were a few ex-military types who Curson could respect, he was convinced the majority had all come straight from gyms where they’d spent their time lifting weights, taking steroids, and mostly likely watching that stupid Kevin Costner-Whitney Houston movie over and over. Smoke blowers who acted like they’d come straight out of the Secret Service and knew best what to do in any situation. Only none of them had been in the Secret Service.

  In Curson’s old career, he’d done jobs in over thirty different countries, had killed, been shot at, and successfully protected people a hell of a lot more important than the latest winner of American Dumbass. These other guys? They wore it as a badge of honor any time they knocked a member of the paparazzi to the ground.

  Amateurs. A whole mess of idiotic amateurs.

  That’s why when he’d been offered the gig-an actual, honest-to-God black ops situation-he had jumped at the chance. To hell with the fact it meant backing out of a previous commitment. And it didn’t even matter that it wasn’t a trigger-man position. He didn’t care. He was back in, and, hopefully, if he played his cards right, he’d never have to go back to that other crap work again.

  The op was pretty straightforward. A snatch and grab. The target: a Brazilian economist who was stirri
ng up trouble and needed to be convinced to adjust his thinking. While Curson would have preferred to be on the snatch team, he was content to be in charge of getting the package from the op site to the safe house-in effect, a glorified driver.

  Two days of planning, a dry run, and he and the other team members were ready. Hell, he’d been ready for years. It was all he could do to keep the smile off his face as he sat in the appropriated ambulance, waiting for the target to be brought to him.

  Four years in the cold-exiled for a mistake that could have happened to anyone-were finally behind him.

  Goodbye, Mr. Stoned Movie Star. I’m really back in the game now.

  “Sixty seconds.” The voice came over the comm in his ear.

  This was it. The grab had been made and they were on their way.

  Maurice climbed out of the ambulance and walked around to the back. He checked the street, confirmed it was as deserted as it had been before, and opened the rear doors.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  He climbed inside, ready to accept the package.

  The three-member snatch team appeared at the back right on time, the target propped up under one of the men’s arms like a passed-out drunk. Working quickly, they transferred the Brazilian onto the gurney inside, and Curson buckled him down.

  “Set?” the team leader asked.

  “All set,” Curson told him.

  “He’s all yours.”

  The men disappeared down the street.

  As Curson checked the buckles one last time, he realized his cargo didn’t appear to be breathing.

  Oh, crap.

  He checked the target’s pulse, or tried to, because there was none.

  Oh, God, no.

  The snatch team had delivered him a stiff.

  He immediately began CPR.

  “Come on, come on,” he implored the lifeless body.

  No response.

  He glanced at his watch. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be behind schedule.

  Dammit!

  He tried another go at CPR, but there was no bringing the man back.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit!

  He knew this would somehow become his fault. His grand reentry into the realm of secrets and spies thwarted before it could even get going.