The Damaged Read online

  In seventy-two hours, the body would be unrecognizable. At the end of a week, even the best forensic technicians would have a hard time pulling any useful information from the remains.

  Quinn and Orlando refilled the hole. After this, they repeatedly jabbed their shovels into the pile of dirt beside the grave, creating a miniature landslide that cascaded over the spot, concealing it from sight. At worst, it would be at least a year before any of the dirt was moved again. In the best-case scenario, the construction at the site would be put off for a decade or maybe forever.

  Quinn and Orlando caught an early morning flight to Dallas, from where they would take separate flights back to California—Quinn on a nonstop to Los Angeles, and Orlando making a plane change in Phoenix before continuing to San Diego.

  “Thank you,” Orlando said before they left for their separate gates. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

  Quinn smiled, but she could tell something was troubling him.

  “You aren’t going to say anything to Peter, right?” she asked.

  “No. Of course not. It’s just…”

  “Just what?”

  “I’m supposed to also supervise him on whatever the next mission Peter puts him on. What happens if Durrie backs out of that one, too?”

  “He won’t. I promise.”

  Quinn almost said something, but held it back. This time she didn’t prod him, as she was pretty sure he would remind her she’d promised Durrie would be on this job, too.

  “If for some reason he doesn’t show up,” she said, “I won’t try to talk you out of reporting it.” She meant it, though she was determined to not let things get to that point.

  She slept most of the way to San Diego, then watched the city rise up around her as her plane descended toward the airfield.

  Durrie wasn’t home when she arrived at the house. She had texted him from Dallas so he should have been here waiting for her. Normally, when she had work and he didn’t, he’d be home when she returned.

  She called him, but after five rings the call went to voice mail. After the beep, she said, “I’m home. I was thinking maybe we could grab some dinner. Let me know if you’re up for it.”

  She texted him a similar message, but received no response.

  Her two days in Mexico had made her all but forget how stressful her life was. The oppressiveness now came crashing back with a vengeance. She felt the weight of a thousand worries pressing down on her, trying to shove her through the floor and into the earth itself. And as if that wasn’t enough, the dull headache that had been her constant companion these past few months began throbbing again.

  She took a shower, hoping that would ease some of the pain, but within minutes her hands were pressed against the wall, water pouring over her, as she was overwhelmed by the inability to come up with even one idea for how to pull Durrie out of his funk.

  He had never been an easy man to love.

  His gruff, sarcastic demeanor had rubbed more than a few people the wrong way. But he’d always been a total professional who respected those good at their jobs. A respect that had extended to her, even when she’d been a newly minted apprentice with Durrie’s sometime partner, Abraham Delger.

  She hadn’t planned on falling in love with Durrie. Nor had she realized he had any romantic interest in her. Not until the day he’d asked her on a date. She’d said yes more out of shock than anything else.

  He’d been the perfect gentleman. Kind and generous and interested in her. And funny, too. She had laughed so much that night that she’d found herself saying yes to a second date without hesitation. It didn’t matter that he was considerably older than her. She enjoyed being around him. Over the coming weeks and months, she fell more and more into his orbit, until one day she woke up and realized she loved him.

  It was surprising, really.

  If you had asked her a few years ago who in her professional circle she might end up with, she would have guessed Quinn. They had a ton in common and clearly enjoyed each other’s company, so she would have welcomed a relationship with him. But he had never done anything to indicate he would have been open to one with her, too.

  He was always so respectful toward everyone, but toward her especially. Sometimes to the point of madness. If the average person clocked in at around five or six on a respectful scale, Durrie would have hit around seven point five. But Quinn? Quinn would easily land somewhere off the scale. Say, at fifteen or maybe even twenty.

  Not that the possibility of becoming involved with him mattered anymore. For better or worse, she was with Durrie. And she would help him, even if he didn’t ask for it.

  She went to bed at midnight, having left him several more messages, voice and text. When she opened her eyes again, the room was still dark, and the other side of the mattress still unoccupied. But she sensed something in the room.

  She sat up.

  “Hello, baby.”

  Durrie sat in the chair by the door, his hands clasped in his lap.

  She reached for the lamp on her nightstand.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  She stopped. “Where have you been?”

  “Out.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  He chuckled and leaned forward, forearms on thighs. “Let’s see. I was at the Tin Star for a while. Then Ella Wayne’s and Rhythm Bay.” He paused. “Oh, yeah. I hit Margo’s somewhere in there. Don’t ask me to give you the order.”

  Bars, all of them.

  “How much did you have to drink?”

  “Not a drop.”

  She reached over and turned the light on before he could stop her again.

  His eyes were clear, and there were none of the usual signs he displayed when inebriated.

  “I tried calling you,” she said.

  “I got your messages.”

  “Then why didn’t you come home?”

  “I considered it. But I had too much on my mind.”

  “Like what?”

  He leaned back again. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe like you and Johnny in Mexico City.”

  She blinked. “What does that mean?”

  “Tell me—where did you end up staying?”

  “Staying? Um, an apartment.”

  “That Peter set up.”

  “Yes.”

  “A small little place? Studio? One real bed?”

  She said nothing.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head and let out a quiet snort. “I’ve stayed there before. Cozy, wasn’t it? I bet Quinn really enjoyed it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Come on, baby. I know how much he pines for you. Getting you alone in a place like that must have been like a sign from heaven to him.”

  She threw back the covers, jumped to her feet, and marched over to him. “Ignoring for a moment how idiotic you sound, don’t you think in a situation like you’re suggesting, I might have something to say about what would happen?”

  A shrug. “I know how you feel about him, too.”

  “If you believe I would ever cheat on you, you’re an even bigger asshole than everyone thinks you are.”

  She stormed out of the room, almost slapping him on her way out, but stayed her hand as she knew it would do no good.

  “Are you saying you didn’t share the bed with him?” Durrie called after her.

  She turned and saw Durrie standing in the doorway now, the grin and knowing look from before tempered by a hint of vulnerability.

  “Even if we had, nothing would have happened. Quinn respects you—and me—too much to ever do anything that would hurt either of us. You know that.”

  She could see her words had stung him.

  After several seconds, he whispered almost too low for her to hear, “What about you? Would you ever do anything to hurt us?”

  Her head ready to explode, she turned away to get her temper under control.

  “Everyone makes mis
takes,” he said.

  She whipped back around, a hair’s-width from flying down the hall and kicking the living crap out of him. “I’m beginning to think my only mistake was that I let myself fall in love with you.” She turned and headed into the living room. “Do not follow me. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear your voice. I don’t even want to hear you breathing.”

  “Orlando…wait.”

  She kept going.

  “I’m…I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m being an idiot. I take it all back.”

  She stormed out of the hallway and over to the breakfast bar that divided the kitchen from the living room, picked up her car keys, and headed for the coat closet.

  “Orlando. Please,” Durrie said, his voice moving down the hall toward the living room. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  A half dozen excellent responses popped into her head, but she suppressed them all. She grabbed her leather jacket and pulled it on over the long T-shirt she’d been sleeping in. She hurried over to the garage door and, as she yanked it open, heard Durrie enter the room behind her.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  Her jaw clenched and her lips sealed, she stepped into the garage and slammed the door closed.

  She drove without a destination in mind, her mind reliving not only the horrible conversation she’d just had but all the other moments from the past year or so when Durrie’s words and actions had hurt her.

  It wasn’t until the fog of anger eased that she realized she was heading north, toward Los Angeles. For the next ten minutes, she seriously considered driving all the way to Quinn’s house. He was the only one she could talk to about this, and that’s what she needed to do right now.

  But she only made it as far as Anaheim before admitting to herself that going to him of all people would be a mistake. It would be the quickest way to end her relationship with Durrie. And as painful as that relationship was, she did still love him.

  Her paternal grandmother had once said, “It’s easy to give yourself to a partner when everything’s going well. The true test of a relationship is the ability to do so when things aren’t.”

  She had no idea if he was suffering from an illness or had fully given in to the asshole tendencies he’d always had. Whatever the case, she couldn’t turn her back on him.

  She took a deep breath, exited just past Disneyland, and reentered the freeway heading south, toward home.

  Two days after returning to Los Angeles, Quinn called Orlando, ostensibly to bring her up to speed on how the job closed out, but really because he wanted to say hi and make sure she was okay.

  “Peter’s happy everything went well,” he told her.

  “Peter’s never happy about anything.”

  “True enough. How about I say he was pleased.”

  “That, I’ll buy.” She paused. “I assume he asked about Durrie.”

  “He did. I told him everything went well, gave him a rundown of what we did, and told him it all went smoothly.”

  “That’s it?”

  “He pressed some, wanted to make sure Durrie hadn’t messed anything up, but I stuck to the story.”

  “So he doesn’t suspect anything.”

  “No, though he did ask if I was still willing to do that next job with Durrie.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him of course I was.”

  Orlando said nothing for a moment, then, “Thank you.”

  “How’s, um, how’s Durrie doing?”

  “He’s fine.”

  When you know someone, really know someone, you pick up on little things, word use or tonal changes, however slight. Things other people wouldn’t notice. Things that made you see beyond their words.

  When Orlando said, “He’s fine,” what Quinn heard was “He’s still a mess and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Will he be ready for the next job?”

  “He will. Don’t worry.”

  He didn’t even have to try to hear the defensiveness in her tone now. He wished he knew what he could say to help her open up. But he worried that if he pushed even a little, she would shut down. Possibly even pull away from him. That was something he could not risk.

  So, instead of providing the lifeline she probably needed, he said, “I’m not worried.”

  They hung up promising to get together soon in either L.A. or San Diego.

  Little did either of them know it would be months before they saw each other again. And when they did, it would be in neither location.

  Chapter Eleven

  The follow-up job Quinn was supposed to do with Durrie was delayed. At first by a week, and then, per Peter, “at least another two.” Peter wouldn’t divulge the exact reason, only that it had something to do with the target’s schedule.

  “So, are you saying I have a little free time?” Quinn asked when Peter called him about the latest delay. He was really feeling the need for a little downtime.

  Peter snorted over the line. “Right. I’ve got something coming up in San Francisco that could use your delicate touch, but that’s at least a few weeks off. Lucky for you, I have a pair of jobs that are a bit more pressing.”

  Trying not to sound disappointed, Quinn said, “Great.”

  Both gigs were in Europe. First up, a simple scene scrubbing in Lisbon. The mission’s target had been involved in the theft and sale of military equipment to whoever was willing to pay. Because of the client information he carried in his head, the target could not be eliminated. This was to be an abduction, after which the target would find himself in some out-of-the-way, secret installation, having long conversations with nameless interrogators. Quinn’s job was to erase any signs of the kidnapping and plant evidence pointing to the target having left town on a long business trip.

  There was a rocky moment near the start of the operation, where the target acted in a way that made the ops leader think he’d been tipped off. But it turned out the man had just been conducting a covert liaison with the wife of a Portuguese cabinet official. They let him have his fun, then as soon as he returned to the hotel room serving as his home, the ops team swung into action. The mission, including Quinn’s part, was executed without a hitch.

  From there, Quinn traveled to an area south of Amiens, France, where an enforcer for the Italian mob named Jorio had been living for several years under an assumed identity.

  But one did not get away with killing two American and three Spanish soldiers indefinitely. Once Jorio was located, those who pulled the strings decided it was time to remove him from the gene pool.

  “Eyes on Jorio,” the watcher, an operative named Kosar, announced over the comm.

  “Copy,” Fisher said. He was the ops team’s assassin, lying in wait in the trap they had set.

  “Copy,” Quinn said.

  Three ops was the bare minimum on an assignment like this. An additional watcher and an assistant for Quinn, bringing the total to five, would have been more appropriate, but this was a highly sensitive operation.

  To say the French were not fans of their allies—or anyone, for that matter—conducting undercover missions on their soil would be an understatement. But bringing them in on the job had not been an option.

  A mole controlled by the very mob the target worked for was operating somewhere within French Intelligence. If the French knew what was going on, so would the mob.

  The fewer agents involved, the better.

  “Turning onto the driveway,” Kosar reported.

  The dirt driveway was half a kilometer long, running off a country road, along which sat several other farms like this one. The property belonged to a family named Fortier, who sold fresh eggs and milk out of their barn to bolster the income from their crops. Approximately twice a week, the target would drive here to purchase some for himself. Having lived for so many years in the shadows, he knew not to have a set schedule, so there was no specific day or time for his visits.

  Kosar had set up cameras on the road
in front of Jorio’s place, with a view of the man’s driveway. Every time the target left his property, the team got into position at the farm. They were able to do this without having to worry about the property’s owner because the Fortier family had “won” a ten-day, all-expenses-paid trip to Venice. Early every morning and late every evening, a hired crew came in to deal with the livestock, but the workers were always gone during the range of time when the target would most likely show up.

  In the fifty-seven hours since the team had begun its stakeout, Jorio had left his compound five times without coming to the farm. Departure number six was a different story.

  “Any traffic?” Fisher asked.

  A brief pause while Kosar presumably checked the country road. “All clear.”

  “Copy.”

  Quinn waited inside the Fortiers’ house, out of the way. Through the living room window, he saw dust billowing up from the target’s vehicle as it approached. A few seconds later, he saw the car itself, a purposely ordinary gray sedan.

  To sell the illusion nothing unusual was going on, the barn door was open and the Fortiers’ sign hung off the side of the building, near the door. It read, in French, SONNEZ LA CLOCHE EN CAS D’ABSENCE—ring the bell if we’re not around. Next to this was the end of a rope, leading to a bell mounted high on the wall. The team had even scattered some feed on the ground and let a few of the chickens wander around.

  “One hundred meters,” Kosar said.

  “Copy,” Fisher said.

  The assassin lay on the farmhouse roof, on the side that sloped away from the barn.

  “Fifty meters.”

  The car slowed as it passed the last of the fields and entered the wide dirt area between the house and the barn. The plan was that after Jorio parked next to the barn and climbed out, Fisher would ease over the apex of the roof and put a bullet through the target’s heart as Jorio walked to the bell’s rope.

  Only instead of parking next to the barn, Jorio stopped halfway across the open space. He sat in his vehicle, engine idling. Quinn could see the man scanning the area.

  “I think he’s on to us,” Quinn said.