“Sit,” Quinn said.
The man took a moment before doing as ordered. Once he was on the ground, Quinn closed the metal door the rest of the way.
“Now,” Quinn said, “who the hell are you?”
The man scoffed. “I didn’t tell you before. You think I’m going to tell you now?”
“I know you are.”
A mocking grin. “You don’t scare me.”
“Then apparently you don’t know who I am.”
“I’m not paid to know who you are. I’m just paid to deal with you, and I will. Don’t worry.”
Quinn pointed the gun directly at the man’s head. “Who are you?”
“You’re not going to shoot me. I know your kind. All talk and luck and no real—”
Quinn repositioned the gun and pulled the trigger.
The suppressor kept the noise to a muffled thup, but there was no masking the scream of pain that exploded out of the watcher’s mouth when the ring finger and pinkie on his left hand were blown off.
“Goddammit! Shit, man!”
The watcher squeezed his palm, trying to stanch the flow of blood, his face scrunched in agony.
“Who are you working for?” Quinn asked.
“Fuck you!”
“Your foot’s next, and I won’t just be going for your toes.”
The man rocked against the wall, blood soaking his shirt and jacket.
Out in the alley a voice called out, “Hey, what’s going on? Is someone hurt?”
“Don’t answer,” Quinn whispered.
“I heard a yell,” the voice said, getting nearer. “Is someone in there?”
Quinn leaned down near the watcher. “If you want help, tell me who you are and who sent you.”
Panting, the man glared at him, his eyes a mix of pain and anger. “Go to hell.”
Someone grabbed the outside handle of the metal door and started to pull it open. Quinn knew he wouldn’t get anything from the watcher, so he rose to his feet, and reached the door just as a bald guy with a protruding gut opened it wide enough to see inside.
Pushing past him, Quinn said, “Excuse me.”
“Hey, was that you?” the man asked. “Were you the one who yelled? Are you okay?”
Quinn silently walked on for another few feet.
Behind him, the man must have looked back into the garbage area, because it was only a few seconds before he said, “Oh, my God. What happened? Did that guy do this to you?”
Quinn picked up his pace.
CHAPTER 8
Quinn reached M Street moments before the eastbound number-thirty-two bus pulled up to the stop. He hopped on board and paid the fare. The bus was about a third full, most of the passengers concentrated in the front few rows, while a huddle of teenagers claimed the back. Quinn grabbed a seat in a relatively empty section near the middle, pulled out his phone, and called Steve Howard.
“Hello?” Howard said.
“Steve, it’s Quinn. I know you’re still on your job, but do you have a moment?”
“Sure. Just sitting around, waiting. You know how it is. What’s up?”
“I have a location problem.”
“How can I help?”
Howard made his home in Virginia right outside DC, so if anyone had an intimate knowledge of the area, he would.
Once Quinn had filled him in on what had happened and what he was looking for, Howard said, “I’m sure I can come up with something. Let me check and call you back.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
After he hung up, Quinn checked in with Daeng.
“Everything’s okay?”
“We’ve repositioned,” Daeng said.
Quinn leaned forward. “Was there a problem?”
“Hold on.” Something moved over the phone, a hand probably. Quinn could hear Daeng’s muffled voice, indistinct as he talked to Misty. Some movement, and finally Daeng again, now in a whisper. “Misty was getting a little anxious being so close to Peter’s place. We were careful. Nobody saw us.”
“Where are you now?”
“Outside the Dupont Circle Metro station.”
“Don’t go in,” Quinn said. There would be security cameras everywhere. Whoever sent the watchers might’ve also had access to the video feeds.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Just melt into the background for a little bit. I’m arranging for someplace we can meet up. Once it’s set I’ll call you back.”
“Will do.”
The bus was on H Street, passing the White House, when Quinn’s phone rang again.
“I have an address for you,” Howard said.
“I take it you read the e-mail,” Griffin said.
“I would have rather not,” Morten replied. From the sound of his voice, Griffin knew his boss was using his speakerphone. “This is bullshit.”
Griffin had sent Morten the message five minutes earlier. Attached to it was a preliminary report from O & O concerning a break-in that afternoon at Peter’s apartment. Most disturbing was that the trio who’d been there had escaped.
“How did this get screwed up?” Morten went on. “It should have been simple. Or am I not reading this right?”
“You’re reading this right,” Griffin said. It should have been simple. If he had been there with Darvot’s team, the intruders would either be in a detention cell or dead.
“So they’ve just disappeared?” Morten said. “That’s it? That is unacceptable.”
“I haven’t lost faith that they’ll be found.”
Morten snorted. “You think O & O is going to find them?”
“I’m also putting some other feelers out.”
“Not our people,” Morten said quickly. “The less this can be tied to us, the better.”
“No, not our people,” Griffin said, though if the results of the search continued to be unsatisfactory, that would have to change.
The line went quiet for a moment.
“Okay. Good,” Morten said. “Find out who these intruders are.”
“We will.”
“Keep me updated,” his boss said, then clicked off.
The house Howard arranged for Quinn and the others to use was on the Virginia side of the Potomac, in an area known as Arlington Ridge. It was one of over a hundred single-family, brick homes in the area. Being an old neighborhood, the trees and bushes were tall and wide, all but obscuring the house.
The home’s interior could be best described as spartan. The large living room was furnished with four folding chairs, a table, a single couch, and an undersized TV. The kitchen was stocked with enough dishes, glasses, and silverware for four people to eat one meal, and just enough pots and pans to make it. Food-wise, there were some dry stores in the pantry, but that was about it.
The second-floor bedrooms were equally underwhelming, each of the three smaller bedrooms boasting dual sets of adult-sized bunk beds, while the master was outfitted with a fourth pair. Sheets and blankets were in the bedroom closets, while towels were stacked on the bathroom counter.
The place was a way station, a safe house. Who owned it? Quinn didn’t know, nor did he want to. Howard had vouched for the place. That’s all that mattered.
Quinn arrived twenty minutes before Daeng and Misty. From an upstairs window, he saw their taxi drop them off half a block away and across the street. He headed back to the first floor, and waited until they reached the front steps before he opened the door.
Misty looked shell-shocked and exhausted, her nervous eyes rimmed with red, while Daeng looked like he always did, relaxed and slightly amused.
They let Misty have a few minutes to freshen up as best she could, and then gathered around the living-room table. It was story time first — Quinn recounting his escape and subsequent attempt to question one of the watchers, followed by Daeng describing his and Misty’s efforts to avoid detection.