In their dark clothing, they looked somewhat similar to the sentries outside but not exactly the same. A realization that took Boyer a moment to reach.
When he did, he moved toward the large desk in the center of the room. But Nate got to him long before Boyer could reach it and jerked him back.
“Get your hands off me!” Boyer yelled as he tried to twist free.
“This will go much easier if you cooperate, Mr. Boyer,” Quinn said.
Nate manhandled the McCrillis executive into one of the puffy leather chairs in front of the desk.
“Sit,” he said.
“Go to hell,” Boyer replied.
“I said sit,” Nate told him as he kicked him in the back of the knees, forcing Boyer to flop into the chair.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“People you shouldn’t have screwed with,” Quinn said.
“Oh, really?” he said. “I’m the one who shouldn’t be screwed with. That’s a life-changing mistake. My men will be here in a moment so I suggest you—”
“I assume you mean the same men who stopped us from coming up here,” Quinn cut him off. “Yeah, none of them are going to be doing anything for a little while. Or do you mean the men who will be arriving because of the alarm we should have tripped getting in? Sorry, not happening, either.”
Quinn had to give the man credit. Instead of looking frightened, Boyer’s anger seemed to increase. “You have no idea what I am capable of doing. I will ruin you.”
“No,” Quinn said. “You will not.”
With a nod from Quinn, Nate whipped the barrel of his gun into the side of Boyer’s head.
Boyer yelled in pain. “You’ll fucking pay for that!”
Quinn smirked. “I doubt that.”
Boyer forced a laugh.
Quinn took a step forward. “Where is the man you abducted earlier this evening?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Quinn signaled Nate, who hit Boyer again.
“Fuck!”
Quinn leaned in again. “Your people grabbed him, put him in a car. Where is he?”
Boyer tried to spit at Quinn, but only succeeded in dribbling saliva down his chin.
“Where is the man you took?”
“You can go f—”
Nate’s pistol slammed into the man’s head a third time.
“Where is the man you took?” Quinn repeated.
Boyer spit out some blood before looking at Quinn again. “If you know who I am, then you know I would never cower to little fucks like you.”
Quinn placed his suppressed SIG against Boyer’s right knee and pulled the trigger.
A loud, agonizing scream filled the room. If there hadn’t been so much space between the homes at The Hilltop, one of the neighbors might have heard Boyer, but with the way the community was laid out — not a chance.
Quinn moved the gun to the other knee. “Where is the man you took?”
Boyer writhed in his chair. “Goddammit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit!”
“Answer my question or I pull the trigger again.”
“Wait! Wait!” The man fell back against his chair, his jaw tensing in pain.
After a moment, Quinn shifted the position of the suppressor half an inch to remind Boyer he was still there. The man’s eyelids popped open.
“Where is he?”
“I…I don’t know.”
Quinn pulled the trigger.
Another scream, but shorter than before because Boyer blacked out.
Quinn let ten seconds pass, then said to Nate, “Wake him.”
Nate slapped Boyer’s cheeks until the man sucked in a deep breath and looked around as if unsure where he was. Then the pain hit him again and he began to groan. “Oh, God!”
“Where is the man you took?”
“I don’t know!”
Quinn moved the gun to Boyer’s shoulder.
“No, please! I’m serious! I don’t!”
“Then what happened to him?”
“He’s…with one of…my people.”
“Who?”
A hesitation. “Gloria…Clark.”
“The same woman you met in the courtyard near the Ritz-Carlton this afternoon?”
Even with all the pain, Boyer looked surprised. “Yes…the same.”
“What is she going to do with him?”
“She’s supposed to find out why…he was following…me, and who he’s…working for.”
“I can answer that last part for you right now. Me.”
The man looked like he’d already figured that out.
“You must have some idea where she took him,” Quinn said.
The guarded look in Boyer’s eyes told Quinn he was right.
“Tell me,” the cleaner said, poking the man’s wound again.
Boyer moaned, “I don’t know.”
This time Quinn grounded the muzzle deep into the wound. Boyer’s scream was so intense, it was almost soundless.
“One of…one of our local facilities.”
“Which one?”
Boyer shook his head. “I prefer not to know that…information.”
Quinn could see Boyer was telling the truth, so they’d have to use what he’d given them and figure out the rest on their own. But that didn’t mean Boyer didn’t have more information to give.
“What was in the suitcase Gloria Clark gave you?”
“Suitcase? Oh…clothes, mainly…some travel stuff.”
“Whose?”
“A guy named…Becker. We’re checking it…for a data chip.”
“And did you find one?”
“The lab’s looking now.”
“So what’s supposed to be on this chip?”
“Information…about…about a girl.”
“What girl?” Quinn asked.
“A girl who’s supposed to be dead.”
“And is she?”
Boyer’s response was lost in another tidal wave of pain. “Please,” he finally said. “Call…an ambulance…”
The man’s voice was growing weaker, and Quinn knew they didn’t have much more time to get anything out of him. “What did you tell the woman to do with my friend after she’s done?”
The man looked away, acting as if he hadn’t heard the question.
“What did you tell her to do?” When Boyer still didn’t answer, Quinn grabbed his chin. “Look at me.”
The man kept his eyes averted, so Quinn squeezed his jaw.
“Look at me.”
Reluctantly, Boyer did.
“Did you tell her to eliminate him?”
Boyer didn’t need to speak to provide Quinn an answer.
The cleaner stood up and raised his gun.
“No,” Boyer pleaded.
“I told you already — you screwed with the wrong people,” Quinn said, and then shot Boyer through the forehead.
They siphoned gas out of the cars in the garage and doused every room in the house. Before the now deceased McCrillis International executive vice president received a thorough soaking, Nate emptied the emergency container of dissolving chemicals from his kit into the wounds on Boyer’s head and knees. It wouldn’t completely hide the damage from the coroner, but it was fast acting enough to confuse things, leaving a mystery about what had happened here.
After dragging the unconscious security guards far enough away from the building to be out of harm’s way, Quinn started the fire.
Unlike the blaze in Copenhagen, this was one act of arson for which he felt no regrets.
CHAPTER 22
McCrillis International had three permanent black ops sites within fifty miles of the capital, each well equipped for Gloria’s purposes. The one closest, near College Station, Maryland, was being used by another team, so she had been assigned the facility in an industrial park in Springfield, Virginia.
The interrogation room was below ground in a soundproof space with one-foot-thick concrete walls, a chair bolted to the floor, and cameras that could be turned on or off, depending on what the situation dictated.