Quinn padded over to the security panel near the front door and touched the upper right corner of the screen with his left thumb, bringing the monitor to life. The first thing he did was turn the alarm off. Then, in quick succession, he worked through the feeds from the cameras that kept watch over his property. There was no one in the backyard — not by the back fence nor against the house. If someone had hopped the fence, it would be recorded on the system’s hard drive. Quinn could go back and review it later if he needed to.
Nate was watching from over his shoulder. “Maybe it was just a cat,” he suggested.
“Maybe.”
Quinn switched to a view of the front, then tapped the monitor again, zooming the camera in for a tight shot of his house. He began a pan from left to right, moving the camera slowly so that he wouldn’t miss anything. About two thirds of the way across he stopped and studied the monitor.
“Not a cat,” Quinn said.
An intruder was crouched on the porch below the bathroom window. Nate started to say something, but Quinn held up a finger for quiet. The bathroom was just around the corner from where they were standing. There was a chance, though slight, that they might be overheard. Quinn quickly dialed through the remaining cameras to make sure the intruder was alone. When he was satisfied there was no one else, he returned to the original image. The intruder hadn’t moved.
Quinn motioned for Nate to hand over his gun. No need to break out his own pistol, the Walther would do. Nate handed him the weapon.
“Suppressor?” Quinn whispered.
Nate nodded, then hurried over to the couch where his leather jacket was draped over the arm. From a pocket, he extracted a long cylinder. He brought it back to Quinn, who attached it to the barrel of the gun.
Quinn leaned toward Nate. “Stay here,” he whispered. “When you hear a single knock on the front door, open it.”
“What if he gets you first?”
Quinn scowled. “When you hear a single knock on the front door,” he repeated, “open it.”
Nate nodded. “Okay.”
CHAPTER 7
From outside, it appeared that the only exits to Quinn’s house were through the front door or the attached three-car garage. But there was another way, hidden on the west side of the building. Quinn thought of it as his “escape hatch.” It was a small door that blended in almost perfectly with the surrounding wall. Quinn had built it himself, but this was the first time he had needed to use it.
The door swung inward silently on oiled hinges. Quinn paused for a moment, listening. All was quiet. He eased through the opening and into the night.
He crept along the side of the house, stopping just before reaching the front corner. Carefully, he peered around the edge.
The intruder was still on the porch but was no longer kneeling below the bathroom window. He’d moved to the other side of the front door, just below the window to the entrance hall. Since the interior wooden shutters were closed, the intruder couldn’t see in.
Quinn was about to step around the corner of the house when his unwanted visitor pulled what looked like a small black box out of a cloth bag at his side. Quinn stopped to watch. The intruder pressed the device gently against the window, where it stuck easily. He then pulled a set of earphones out of his pocket, plugging it into the box. He put one of the earpieces into his left ear.
This guy’s not some random burglar, Quinn thought. He’s a pro.
Quinn had seen the black box before. In fact, he owned one himself. It was an echo box, a listening device that amplified sounds from inside a building when placed against a window. It was held in position against the glass by a quick-release suction device. For the moment, the intruder would be able to hear almost anything that was said inside.
Keeping low, Quinn moved away from the house, over to where his BMW was parked in the driveway. The move didn’t get him any closer to the intruder, but it did put Quinn behind the son of a bitch. He checked the Walther to make sure the sound suppressor was firmly attached, then moved toward the house.
The intruder had removed the listening device from his ear and was now pulling something else out of his bag. Quinn moved silently forward, not stopping until he was only six feet away from his uninvited guest.
“Put it down,” Quinn said in a calm, even voice.
The man froze, then lowered his hands. In one was a thin, ropelike substance. Quinn recognized it immediately. Incendiary cord. He wasn’t quite sure what the guy had in mind, but there was no mistaking the ultimate objective.
“Drop it,” Quinn said.
The intruder did as he was told.
“Now turn around and stand up. Slowly,” Quinn cautioned. “Hands in the air.”
The intruder followed Quinn’s instructions. The man was about five foot ten and wiry. He couldn’t have been more than a hundred and fifty pounds. He was dressed all in black. Even his face, which was smeared with something like grease or shoe polish, was black.
“Five steps,” Quinn said. “Two away from the window and three toward the front door.”
He watched as the intruder stepped away from his bag and toward the entrance. So far the guy was following orders. Quinn took a step forward, keeping a wary eye on the man. “Turn around and face the wall,” Quinn said.
When the intruder’s back was to him, Quinn shoved the man between the shoulder blades, forcing him hard against the building. Because of the angle, most of the guy’s weight was now on his hands, making it nearly impossible for him to make any kind of move on Quinn.
Quinn did a quick body search. The man was carrying a Glock in a shoulder holster, and a seven-inch Ka-Bar fighting knife in a leather sheath on his belt. Quinn took the weapons, then reached over and knocked once on the front door.
Nate opened it instantly. “I was wondering when the hell you were going to—” He stopped, staring.
“Hands behind you,” Quinn said to the intruder. “We’re going inside.”
“Kitchen,” Quinn told Nate once the front door was closed again.
Nate led the way. As they passed the living room, Quinn dropped the Glock and the knife on the couch.
The kitchen was a work of art — exposed wood, stainless steel, and a floor covered by light brown tiles imported from Spain. It was almost like one of those kitchens you’d see in a magazine: spacious, functional, with a large island in the center. Off to one side was a breakfast nook, complete with a nineteenth-century wooden table and an eclectic mix of chairs. Nate pulled one of the chairs out from the table, and Quinn pushed the intruder onto it.
“Turn on the light,” Quinn said to Nate.
Nate walked over to the wall and flipped a switch. The light gave Quinn his first chance to get a good look at his prisoner. Even with the black face paint, he wasn’t surprised he recognized the man.
“Hello, Gibson,” Quinn said.
“Quinn,” Gibson replied mildly. “How’ve you been?”
Quinn pulled a roll of paper towels off a dowel on the counter. “Here.” He tossed the roll at his captive. “You can wipe that crap off your face.”
Gibson smiled, but didn’t move. The paper towels bounced harmlessly off his lap and onto the floor.
“Your choice,” Quinn said. He retrieved a bottle of water from inside the refrigerator, then returned his attention to Gibson. “What are you doing here?”
“I was bored.”
“So this was some kind of random house call?”
“Sure. Why not?” Gibson said.
“I didn’t realize you knew where I lived.”
“I looked you up in the phone book.”
Quinn smiled, then took a sip of the water. “Who sent you?”
Gibson snorted. “Right.”