The Deceived

CHAPTER

QUINN MOVED DOWN THE BLOCK, LOOKING LEFT AND

right, desperate to find Jenny. The crowds were calmer here, as if the near-riot at the Water Gate was a thousand miles away. Several people gave Quinn an odd look as he ran past them.

Somewhere ahead and to the left he heard a muffled cry.

He ran faster than he had in months, looking for the source of the sound. Up ahead, he spotted a break between the buildings. Just before he reached the opening, he stopped, then pressed up against the wall and listened.

Another cry. Female.

He chanced a glance around the edge. The opening was a small service corridor between buildings. There were bins and barrels piled along the side. Just beyond them, Quinn could see the driver’s back. If Jenny was with him, she was out of sight, hidden by the stacks of refuse.

Quinn cautiously moved into the small alley, keeping the barrels between himself and the man. Once he was off the street, he removed one of the SIG Sauer pistols from his bag, this time pulling out a suppressor and quietly attaching it to the end of the muzzle.

He crept forward as far as he could without having to expose him

self. Then listened again. “Yeah. Over on China Street,” the driver was saying. “Hurry up.” Quinn could hear the beep of a mobile phone being disconnected. “Our ride will be here in a minute,” the man said. “You’re done.

Do you understand? This is over, so you can cut it out!”

Quinn gripped the SIG in both hands, then quickly stepped out of his hiding place and toward the man. He only made it five feet before the driver saw him.

“Stop right there,” the man said. In his hand was a gun pointed at

Jenny. Quinn took a few more steps, his pistol aimed at the man’s chest. “I said fucking stop!” The gap between them was only ten feet now. Jenny looked over at Quinn, her eyes dull, almost defeated. After a

moment, there was a flicker of recognition, and then the hint of hope

on her face. Quinn took one more step. “Stop or I’ll kill her,” the man said. “I know you don’t want that.” Quinn knew that wasn’t true. They’d want Jenny alive. Whatever

it was they were looking for, she was the key. “Jenny, come here,” Quinn said. “What the fuck?” the man said. “Don’t you go anywhere!” “Jenny,” Quinn said. “It’s okay.” “It’s not okay,” the man said. He raised his gun a few inches,

changed his aim from her chest to her head.

Quinn was about to call out to Jenny again when a sudden movement from the far end of the alley caught his eye. He barely had time to duck down when he realized it was something flying through the air toward them.

But he needn’t have bothered. The man holding the gun on Jenny turned to see what was up instead of following Quinn’s lead. His timing couldn’t have been worse.

He probably barely registered the spiky oval object before it hit him square in the face.

The force of the blow knocked him backward, but somehow he remained on his feet as he straddled the edge of consciousness.

Quinn immediately closed the gap between them, slamming the man against the wall. This time the man’s eyes closed shut, and he slumped down to the ground.

Not wanting to take any chances, Quinn grabbed the asshole’s gun just in case. But the man was out cold.

Quinn suddenly heard footsteps following the same basic path as the object that had flown through the air. He whipped both guns around, his fingers on the triggers, ready to fire. But immediately lowered the weapons.

It was Orlando. She was wearing gloves, and in one hand she carried another of the oval objects.

He recognized it now. A durian. It was a regional fruit—green in color, about a foot long and weighing a pound or two. But the most distinctive feature of the durian was the spiky, thorn-covered husk, each point hard and unforgiving. It almost looked like a pumped-up, hard-core version of a pineapple.

Quinn tossed her the SIG with the suppressor, forcing her to drop the fruit. He nodded to the semiconscious man crumpled against the wall, then knelt down next to Jenny, knowing Orlando would have his back.

“Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Just grabbed me. What... what happened? I heard a gunshot.”

“Later,” he said.

He offered her a hand and pulled her up.

“His friends will be here in a second,” he said. “You two head down to the end away from the street and wait for me.”

Orlando didn’t hesitate. “Come on,” she said to Jenny, then started running back the way she’d come. Jenny followed a second later.

Quinn knelt down next to the unconscious man and searched him.

He found a phone, wallet, and a set of keys, then put the items in his bag along with the man’s gun.

Instead of joining Orlando and Jenny, he headed back toward the street, stopping just before the alley ended at the sidewalk. He eased out enough so that he could look up and down the block.

“Hey!” a voice called from the street.

It was Blondie. He was standing only thirty feet away, and had been looking toward the alley as Quinn had stepped out.

Quinn turned and started running toward Orlando and Jenny.

“Go!” Quinn said.

Neither woman needed to be told what to do twice. They disappeared off to the right.

When Quinn reached the end, he turned right, too. As he did he caught a glimpse of Blondie and two more men entering the alley. One of the men stopped next to their unconscious comrade, but the other two continued the chase.

Then they were out of sight.

Quinn once more found himself in the Far East Square. Only this time it was deserted, the gunfire having driven everyone out. It only took him a second to recognize his location from his earlier recon. There was another exit just ahead.

“To the right!” he called out to Orlando.

She and Jenny had just reached an intersection in the pathway— three directions for shopping, and to the right, an exit.

“To the right!” he repeated.

Orlando nodded, then led Jenny out of the mall. They had just disappeared when Quinn heard Blondie and his friend coming out of the alley behind him.

Quinn ran straight through the intersection, not even looking in the direction Orlando and Jenny had just taken.

There was a dull thwack, then a split second later a bullet smashed into a window just to his left. A burglar alarm began to ring.

Another thwack.

Quinn could almost feel the bullet whiz by his head. He juked first left, then to his right, then grabbed one of the metallic chairs sitting in front of a bakery. He swung it in a large arc, letting it fly back toward Blondie, but he didn’t watch to see what happened.

Thwack. Quinn expected to see the impact of a bullet nearby, but the only sound was from behind him, the expulsion of air followed by a heavy thud.

He looked over his shoulder. The man who was with Blondie was down.

Blondie himself had moved off to the right, taking cover behind one of the vendor carts lining the walkway.

Beyond, standing in the middle of the intersection, was Orlando.

She was holding the SIG Sauer in her hand. She waited a moment, no doubt hoping Quinn’s remaining pursuer would expose himself, but when he didn’t, she disappeared back into the exit.

Quinn kept moving. When he reached the next pathway to the street, he took it.

He found himself on the sidewalk along Cross Street. Quickly he scanned the area, trying to locate his friends. It only took him a moment to spot Orlando and Jenny. They were on the other side of the road, at the base of Club Street. Traffic was as much a mess here as it had been outside the Water Gate. No one seemed to be moving anywhere.

At the corner back toward Amoy Street, police lights flashed. Quinn guessed the mall was being surrounded, and that traffic would soon be jammed everywhere. That was a good thing. It meant the only way the others could continue their pursuit would be on foot.

Quinn weaved through the traffic, catching up to Orlando and Jenny as they made their way up Club, away from the chaos.

Unlike the streets bordering the Far East Square, Club was quieter. It was mainly made up of two- and three-story structures that, for the most part, housed private clubs and businesses. The street was not as well lit as Cross Street or the other roads in the shopping district. It was a private place for private people.

“Everyone all right?” he asked.

They each nodded.

“How did they find me?” Jenny said.

“I don’t know,” Quinn said.

“Did they follow you?” she asked.

They had either followed Jenny or had followed him. But if they knew where Jenny was, they would have already taken her. So it had to be him. He just didn’t know how.

A quick glance from Orlando told him she was thinking the same thing. But to Jenny, he said, “No one followed me.”

“Are you sure? Maybe they’ve got you bugged. Maybe they’re tracking your phone. Have you been using credit cards? Maybe they tracked you down that way, then tailed you here.”

It was apparent Markoff had given her a pretty good amateur education. “I don’t know how they knew we were meeting you here. But it doesn’t matter right now. We need to get you away from here. Get you out of Singapore before they find you again.”

She stopped. “Wait. I’m not leaving.”

“You realize they want to kill you, right?” Quinn said.

There was the roar of an engine. Not a car, but a motorcycle.

Quinn looked back toward the intersection with Cross. There was a dark bike working its way through the traffic and heading in their direction.

“Stay to the shadows,” Quinn said for Jenny’s benefit.

Orlando began running, Jenny only steps behind her.

Quinn, though, remained where he was.

He pulled the other SIG out of the bag and attached the suppressor, then moved as far back from the street as possible, blending into a nook where two buildings met.

The engine gunned as the motorcycle cleared the traffic jam and started moving up the road toward his position. The only question now was whether the driver was trouble or just a civilian.

But that question was soon answered. Dark suit. No helmet. Caucasian.

Trouble.

Quinn waited until the motorcycle was only a few seconds away, then stepped out of his hiding space into the dull light of a distant streetlamp.

The instant the driver saw him, he started to bring the motorcycle to a skidding stop.

Then the flap of the man’s jacket flew up, revealing a gun underneath, and a hand reaching for it.

Thwack.

Quinn’s bullet knocked the rider off his bike.

Quinn waited only long enough to make sure the man wasn’t getting up, then started running after Orlando and Jenny.

Ahead the road curved to the left. Just before he reached the bend, Quinn checked over his shoulder one last time.

He cursed under his breath. Someone else was coming up the road. This time on foot, and fast. A light in front of one of the houses caught the man’s face for a split second. Blondie.

As soon as Quinn took the bend, he stopped worrying about sticking to the shadows and raced up the street, the messenger bag banging painfully against his back.

Orlando and Jenny were nowhere in sight.

Good, he thought. While he acted as the distraction, Orlando would take Jenny someplace safe.

At the next intersection, Quinn turned left, heading up Ann Siang Hill, and followed the road all the way to the park at the end of the street.

Ann Siang Hill Park was not much more than a corridor between the back sides of the buildings lining Ann Siang Road and Amoy Street. Narrow strips of grass and small trees grew on each side of a red tile and concrete path. At intervals there were old-fashioned lampposts providing just enough light so no spot was completely dark.

Quinn slowed as he reached the path, masking the sound of his steps by keeping to the grass. The path wound through the buildings for several hundred feet before opening up into a patiolike area at the top of the hill. At the edge of the patio, there was a spiral staircase leading down to another path running behind the homes on Amoy.

Quinn paused near the top, focusing his attention back the way he had just come.

At first, there was only the distant noise of the city. Then there was something more. Soft but rhythmic. Footfalls. Someone on the path, heading his way.

He stepped on the spiral staircase, padding softly down the steps to the bottom. Then instead of continuing on the lower path, he slipped under the stairs, finding a dark spot beneath the deck, surrounded by vegetation.

He slipped the strap of the leather bag over his head, allowing himself a moment to roll his shoulder back and forth, relieving some of the stiffness. Next he popped the mag out of his gun. He was only down one bullet, but he had been trained never to be satisfied with less when he could have more. From a box of ammo in the bag, he retrieved a new cartridge, reloaded, then returned the mag to its home in the grip of the pistol.

He could hear the person on the path above clearly now. Not quite running, but not walking either. When Blondie reached the patio, his pace slowed, but didn’t stop until he stood at the overhang, twenty feet directly above Quinn.

Quinn remained motionless, his breaths long, deep, and silent.

For thirty seconds, there was no sound from above. Blondie shuffled to the left. Five feet, no more. Silence again.

When he moved a second time, it wasn’t back the way he had come, as Quinn had hoped, but rather down the spiral staircase.

Quinn took another deep breath, keeping himself loose and ready. Each tread in the spiral staircase was a separate metal triangle connected to a central pole, and beneath was a riser that went halfway down to the next tread, but left a gap of open air. He aimed the SIG through the gap that was level with his eye line.

As Blondie descended into the target zone, Quinn could first see shoes, then a pant leg, then the man’s hip, his waist, and, as Blondie neared the bottom, his torso.

As soon as the man set both feet on solid ground, he stopped, his body still.

The guy was good, Quinn thought. Very good. He worked quietly. He had patience. And he’d tracked Quinn up Club Street and into Ann Siang Hill Park.

Quinn moved his finger onto the trigger. Once Blondie moved away from the stairway, he would have a clean shot. Whether he liked it or not, it was a shot he needed to take. A man like this wouldn’t stop until he found Jenny, so he had to be removed.

Off to the right down the lower path, a twig snapped. Blondie tensed and took a step back toward the stairs.

There was the murmur of voices. A man and a woman, both speaking in Mandarin. Their conversation was loud and peppered with bouts of laughter. Several seconds later, they staggered into view, the man more drunk than the woman.

Blondie eased out from the stairs again, then started walking down the path. Quinn had him, a ten-foot gimme shot straight into the man’s heart. But he couldn’t pull the trigger. The civilians were too close. If he didn’t kill the man with the first shot, there was a good chance the couple could get caught in the middle of a gunfight.

As his target disappeared down the path, Quinn could only watch, hoping he hadn’t just made a fatal mistake.