Quinn leaned down to Nate’s left ear. “Nate,” he said.
There was no response.
“Nate. Wake up.”
A low moan escaped from Nate’s mouth. A moment later his eyelids fluttered.
“Take it easy,” Quinn said. “Are you hit?”
Both eyes opened slowly. “Quinn?” he said, his mouth pressed against the floor, slurring his speech.
“Are you hit?” Quinn repeated.
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe you should check.”
Nate closed his eyes again. With effort, he rolled over onto his back. “Fuck,” he called out, wincing.
“What?” Quinn asked.
Nate rubbed the side of his face. “He hit me in the jaw.”
There was a red patch on the side of Nate’s face, but otherwise he appeared unmarked.
Quinn stood up. “You might want to put some ice on that.”
Quinn walked back into the living room. The phone was still on the couch where he’d dropped it. He picked it up and was about to dial for help when he heard a muffled voice on the other end.
“Quinn?” It was Peter.
“You’re still there?”
“What’s going on?”
“Gibson got loose.”
“And?”
“He’s dead.”
Peter didn’t answer right away. “It would have been better if you’d taken Gibson alive.”
“Well, shucks. I wish you’d told me that sooner. Or maybe I should have told him to wait a moment while I checked with you.”
“Give me the details,” Peter said.
Quinn took a breath, then filled him in.
“You need help with removal?” Peter asked.
“I’ll take care of it.” Quinn paused. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?”
The line went quiet for a moment, then, “We’re not sure.”
“You realize I’m not coming to D.C., don’t you?”
“It’s not a good idea now, anyway. I think you should probably just get lost.”
“Is that an official directive?”
“Let’s just call it officially unofficial,” Peter said. “Make yourself scarce. I don’t care where. In fact, I don’t want to know.”
“The son of a bitch knew where I lived,” Quinn said, more to himself than to Peter.
“More reason to get out of there. Whoever’s behind this might try for you again. And if you stay where they can find you, they might not miss next time. But it’s your choice.”
“My choice,” Quinn said. “Right.” He hung up the phone.
Quinn stared for several moments out the back window into the Los Angeles night. Peter was right. If it indeed was a disruption, then disappearing was the only option.
“Nate,” Quinn called toward the kitchen.
Nate, legs unsteady, weaved into the room, falling more than sitting onto the couch. “What?”
“I hope you haven’t unpacked.”
CHAPTER 8
Quinn and Nate entered the Tom Bradley International Terminal at LAX just before 10 a.m. As they made their way through the Saturday morning crowds, Quinn had to constantly fight an urge to look over his shoulder. He had little doubt there was someone somewhere at the airport looking for them. Or if not both of them, at least him. He knew he had to maintain the delicate balance between being aware of his surroundings and trying not to draw any attention to himself. Frontline op agents could do this in their sleep, but Quinn — especially since he had Nate with him — had to work at it.
Having Nate stay in L.A. had been an option, but not a good one. Whoever wanted Quinn dead had to know he had an apprentice. So leaving Nate behind would have meant setting him up as a target. If Nate had a bit more experience, maybe they could have tried splitting up. But he was only four months in on an apprenticeship that would last anywhere from three to four years. Four months was nothing. Nate wasn’t even close to being prepared to handle this kind of situation. Unlike Quinn, he had come into the business straight out of college, a recommendation of a friend. If Quinn left him, he might as well just tie Nate to a chair in the middle of his living room and put a big welcome mat at his feet. The end result would be the same.
There had been no choice. Nate had to go with him until things calmed down.
They paused in front of a departure monitor. Quinn pretended to check the display, just another traveler on a holiday. Casually, he looked at his watch, then glanced around as if he were waiting for someone. His gaze never stopped on anyone in particular, and after a couple of sweeps, he decided they were still alone.
“So?” Nate asked.
“What?” Quinn said.
Nate nodded at the departure monitors. “Which flight are we taking?”
“Give me your passport.”
Nate pulled a blue-covered booklet from his pocket and handed it over. It was one of twenty they carried between them, all fake. Each was top quality, made by a guy Quinn knew who worked out of a shop on the Venice Beach boardwalk.
Dozens of international airlines were set up in Bradley Terminal. Usually they would have had the choice of the whole world. But this wasn’t a usual day, and until Quinn heard otherwise, he had to assume most of the world wasn’t safe. He needed to select a destination no one would expect them to go to.
Europe was out. As was anywhere in the States or Canada. Latin America was an option, but not a great one. Too many spooks, too many chances someone might spot him. Russia, Australia, China, Japan — all lousy choices. There really was only one answer. He looked around until he spotted what he was looking for.
“Okay. Let’s go,” he said.
“Not even a hint?” Nate asked.
Quinn ignored the question as he headed off through the crowd. It took them less than two minutes to reach the business-and first-class passenger line for Thai Airways.
“All right,” Nate said, smiling.
“Not one more word until we’re on the plane, understand?”
“Yeah. Sure. Not a word.”
When their turn came, Quinn gave Nate a warning look before approaching the counter.
“How can I help you?” the ticket agent said. She was an Asian woman about thirty years old.
“I’m wondering if there are any seats left on the 12:05 flight to Bangkok?”
“No business class, sir,” she said. “But there are still a couple available in first class.”
“Perfect,” he said with a smile. “Two, please.”
“The seats are not together. Is that all right?” she asked.
“No problem,” Quinn said.
“May I have your passports?”
Quinn handed her the two passports, then smiled again. She looked at them, then punched several keys on the keyboard of her computer terminal. “How would you like to pay, Mr. Hayden?”
Quinn held passports in many names. Louis Hayden was the one he’d chosen for this trip, it having the benefit of being an identity he’d never used previously. Nate was traveling under the name Raymond James. “Credit card,” he said, removing from his wallet one of the several he had with the Hayden alias on it.
After he paid, the woman busied herself at her computer arranging their tickets. Quinn casually scanned the terminal again. It didn’t take him long to identify two suspicious types near the front entrance. They were big guys, both dressed in dark gray business suits. They seemed to be paying particularly close attention to the people coming into the building. Surprisingly, Nate seemed to have noticed them, too. He looked at Quinn, trying but failing to hide his concern. Quinn shrugged and gave him a quick smile.