The Destroyed

CHAPTER 27

FRIDAY, MAY 12 ^ th, 2006 5:43 PM LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

Some jobs had pre-event meetings, some didn’t. Jergins was a believer in them, so two and a half hours prior to the eight p.m. operation time, he had the team gather once more to go over everything.

In Quinn’s mind, meetings like these were a complete waste. If someone on the team didn’t know what they were supposed to do by now, then he or she shouldn’t be in the business.

On this particular occasion, though, he had no intentions of raising any objections. He needed to be perceived as his usual, professional, totally cooperative self. If that meant sitting around and nodding as Jergins once more went over the emergency escape route for scenario 47f, so be it.

The hardest part was not pushing Jergins to talk faster and wrap things up. Quinn had a schedule to keep if his plan was going to work.

When Jergins traced the presumed route Mila would be taking to the room on a map of the hotel, Quinn stole a glance at his watch.

Five minutes. He had to be out of there in five minutes or he was screwed.

No, he corrected himself. Mila will be screwed, permanently.

“…and Kovacs, as soon as you’re done, you’ll give Quinn the signal,” Jergins was saying. He glanced at Quinn. “Then it’s all yours.”

Quinn nodded his understanding.

“Any questions?” Jergins looked around the room, but no one said anything. Of course, why would they? They’d been over this a dozen times too many already. “Okay, good. Setup team, you’re dismissed. Get the hell out of town. In three days call the contact number for debrief. After that you’ll receive your final payment.”

Those involved in getting everything organized said their goodbyes, and within moments Jergins, Kovacs, and Quinn were the only ones left.

“You two are clear, right?” Jergins said.

“Of course,” Kovacs replied.

“Completely,” Quinn said.

“I’ll be monitoring everything from a van just off the Strip, but if things go south you’re on your own.”

“Not going to be a problem,” Kovacs said.

“You’re sure you’re all set?”

Kovacs sneered. “I’ve done this once or twice before, so what do you think?”

Assassins, as a group, tended to be a bit more prima donna than some other operatives in the espionage world. And why not? They were the takers of lives, the ones who could swing the balance of power with a single bullet. But up until then, Kovacs had kept his sense of superiority in check.

Jergins seemed to realize that Kovacs’s stoic veneer was starting to crack. He leaned back and stretched. “OK. Unless you guys have anything else, I think we’re done.”

Kovacs stood and glanced at Quinn. “The signal will come on time.”

“I’m sure it will,” Quinn said, also rising.

“Oh, Quinn,” Jergins said. “Could you wait just a second?”

On the inside, Quinn groaned, but he said, “No problem.”

Kovacs shook Quinn’s hand, and, after a slight hesitation, Jergins’s. He crossed to the door and left.

“Don’t worry about him. He’ll be fine,” Jergins said.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have been hired otherwise.” Quinn wasn’t worried about Kovacs.

Jergins nodded. “Been on a couple assignments with him in the past. Never been a problem.”

“So,” Quinn said, “what was it you wanted me to hang back for?”

“Right. You mentioned you were going to hire someone to help you, but you haven’t given me the person’s name yet. I need that for my report.”

“Totally forgot.” He hadn’t. He’d just been hoping Jergins would overlook it. Fortunately, he was prepared. The morning before, he’d received an email from a guy he occasionally used who was looking for a gig. “Jered Myers,” he said.

“I’ve heard that name before.”

“He’s a good guy. Quiet, does the work.”

Jergins pulled a pad of paper out of his pocket and wrote the name down. When he was done, he said, “Great. Thanks. That’s it.”

Quinn took a step toward the door, then stopped. “Oh, a quick question for you. Do you know how many people Kovacs has working with him? I wasn’t quite clear if it was two or three or…?”

“One, actually. A spotter who’ll be trailing the target.”

“Oh. Okay, thanks.”

Quinn had assumed there’d be a spotter, but had worried that the man had other assistants.

He shook hands with Jergins and made his way out of the hotel. The first thing he did when he reached his car was to pull out his phone.

“Hello?” a male voice answered.

“Jered?”

“Could be. Who’s this?”

“It’s Quinn.”

“Hey, Quinn. How are you?”

“Good, thanks. Got your email. Are you still free?”

“I am. Don’t have anything booked for another two weeks.”

“I can give you three days of work starting yesterday.”

“Yesterday? Um, all right. Where do you need me?”

“I need you to stay right where you are.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I want you to stay home and lie low. If anyone asks, you were in Vegas working with me.”

“Cover,” Myers said.

“Yeah.”

A pause. “Is this going to cause me any problems later?”

“None,” Quinn said, hoping he was right.

Myers took another moment, then said, “Sure, why not? I could always use a few days playing my bass.”

“Thanks, Jered.”

“Hey, you’re the one paying me to do nothing. Thank you.”

As Quinn pulled his car out of the parking garage, he called Julien. “Are you in position?”

“ Oui.”

“Have you ID’d the spotter?”

“Of course. Don’t know his name, but I have seen him before.” Julien rattled off a quick description: five foot eight, average build, brown hair cut just above the ears, wearing jeans and a Green Day T-shirt.

“And the package?”

“It’s waiting for you.”

“Good. I guess we’re on.”

“Quinn.”

“Yes?”

“ Merci, from me and from Mila. Merci beaucoup. ”

The van was waiting in the self-parking garage behind the Manhattan Hotel. As they’d discussed, Julien had attached the key to the inside of the front bumper using sticky tape.

Quinn entered through the driver’s door, and climbed into the back cargo area to check on the package. It was lying against the left side, a long black bag with a zipper on top. He unzipped it and found, as expected, a second zipped-up bag inside. The space between them was stuffed with several dozen broken chunks of dry ice-a necessity due to the heat of the desert, even in May.

He donned one of the gloves Julien had left on the floor, pushed a few of the chunks to the side, and unzipped the inner bag just enough so he could take a quick look inside.

The dead woman was not a perfect match for Mila. She was at least twenty years older. Nor did she have the distinctive Eastern European facial features Mila had inherited from her immigrant parents. The woman’s cheeks showed signs of busted capillaries that spoke of the love of alcohol that had probably been responsible for her death.

She was a Jane Doe, obtained from a financially strapped morgue employee in San Bernardino, California. Julien had met the man halfway at a rest area along I-15, east of Barstow. For a thousand dollars, the body and all the associated paperwork were theirs. No one would ever ask about her.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t matter what she looked like. If all went according to plan, Quinn and Julien would be the only ones to have seen her.

He zipped up the inner bag, rearranged the dry ice, and zipped up the outer.

According to his watch, it was 6:32 p.m. In less than forty-five minutes, the flight carrying Mila was scheduled to land. At that point, if she followed directions, she would proceed to the Planet Hollywood Hotel, perhaps hang out in the casino for a few minutes, then, at precisely 8:00 p.m., would knock on the door of room 739.

And if she walked into that room, she would never walk out again.

Quinn’s plan was to have her die before she even made it to the hotel, at least as far as anyone else was concerned.

He climbed out of the van and back into his car, made his way over to Planet Hollywood. That’s where he was supposed to be stationed, so that’s where he needed to make an appearance. When he arrived at his assigned room, he checked in with Jergins using the room phone, then turned on the TV so that it would sound like someone was there.

Seconds later he was out the door again. Instead of using the elevator, he took the stairs, exited the building, and made his way quickly to where a black town car with tinted windows was parked. On its rear bumper was a white number that indicated it was a car for hire.

Once behind the wheel, he opened the bag sitting on the passenger seat. From inside he retrieved a wig, hat, dark glasses, and a facial appliance that would cover from his chin all the way up to his ears, giving him a changed jawline and scruffy beard. If he’d been planning on doing any close-up work, he would have taken the time to put the appliance on just right, attaching it with the appropriate adhesive and using makeup to blend it into his face. But he was only concerned about what he looked like from a distance, so the appliance was held on merely by bands that went over his ears and around the back of his head, under the wig.

His appearance changed, he pulled onto the road, and called Julien.

“Update?”

“Her plane landed five minutes ago. Just waiting for her to come out.”

“And the spotter?”

“Same place as before.”

“Has he shown any interest in you?”

“No.”

Per their plan, neither man hung up. From this point forward, they would stay on the phone.

When Quinn was within four minutes of the airport, Julien whispered, “I see her.” There was a bit of surprise in his voice, even longing.

“Go. Now,” Quinn said.

He could hear Julien moving through the airport crowd. Thirty-five seconds later, there was a faint grunt, and the Frenchman said, “Excuse me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to bump into you. Are you all right?”

A pause, then a whisper. “Julien?”

“Did I hurt you?”

Recovering, Mila said in a normal voice, “Uh, no. No, I’m fine.”

“I do apologize,” Julien told her, then his voice dropped. “Black town car. Driver with black hat, sunglasses, and a beard. It’s Quinn.”

“Quinn?”

“Just get in the car.” In a louder voice, he said, “If you will excuse me, then. Have a good day.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You, too.”

Perhaps if Quinn had been standing there, the scene would have looked normal, but from the audio alone, it sounded like Mila could have already blown it.

“What’s she doing?” he asked.

“Heading for the door,” Julien replied.

“And the spotter?”

“He sees her.”

“Still not paying attention to you?”

“No.”

“All right. You know what to do.”

Arriving at the terminal, Quinn pulled to an empty stop near the curb, hopped out, and moved around to the other side of the car. Mila, who was standing on the sidewalk just outside the door, caught sight of him and walked over.

“Ms. Reese?” Quinn asked as she neared, using the name she was traveling under for this assignment.

“Yes.”

“Any bags?”

“No, just this,” Mila said, touching her carry-on.

“Very good.”

He opened the back door, and she climbed inside. As he walked around the car to the driver’s side, his gaze swung toward the terminal. Even if Julien hadn’t given him a description of the spotter, he would have easily picked out Kovacs’s man. The guy was trying hard not to stare at the town car, but only half succeeding.

That’s because the car was not part of Jergins’s plan. Mila had been instructed to take a taxi to the hotel to prevent drawing undue attention.

But here she was, being picked up by a town car that had obviously been arranged ahead of time. Once the spotter checked in-something that would undoubtedly happen in the next sixty seconds-Jergins would try to figure out which company the car had come from, and when Mila could have arranged it. If he made it far enough down the list, he would call a company named W. White Town Cars amp; Limos, and be informed that, “Yes, we do have a car picking up a Ms. Reese at the airport, arranged by a Mr. Peters.”

Quinn knew the chance of Jergins calling W. White was slim, but if he did, the name Peters would throw him another curve, making the team leader wonder if Peter was the one who’d made the arrangements. This would buy even more time.

As Quinn climbed in, he caught a glimpse of Julien farther back, watching the spotter. He put the car in drive and pulled from the curb.

“Excuse me,” Mila said. “I was wondering how long the drive is.”

“You can relax,” Quinn said. “The car’s not bugged.”

She immediately leaned forward so that her head was almost poking over the back of his seat. “What the hell’s going on?”

“I said not bugged. I didn’t say no one was watching.”

She scooted back a little, but not all the way. “Quinn, what is it? What happened?”

He took a quick look at her in the rearview mirror, checked for tails, then returned his gaze to the road. Before he could speak, his phone buzzed.

He looked at the display. Jergins. “Julien?” he said. The call to the Frenchman was still active.

“ Oui?”

“Putting you on hold.”

“ D’accord.”

Quinn glanced at Mila again. “Absolute quiet.” As soon as she nodded, he switched the calls. “This is Quinn.”

“It’s Jergins. There’s been a complication.”

“What complication?”

“There was a town car waiting for her.”

“So no taxi?”

“No.”

“When did she arrange that?” Quinn asked.

“No idea, but I don’t like it. The plan’s still in effect, but be aware we might have to improvise.”

“Any chance of an abort?”

“Unless the president himself calls with a pardon, I’m mission go.”

“All right.”

“Just sit tight,” Jergins said. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Quinn disconnected the call and switched back to Julien. “Are you there?”

“I’m here,” Julien said. Tense.

“What’s going on?”

“He’s got you.”

Quinn’s eyes immediately shot to the rearview. “Which one?”

There were almost two dozen cars behind him, nearly half of them taxis. Most of the rest were no doubt rentals full of people planning to hit it big in the casinos.

“Silver Audi A3,” Julien said. “About forty meters behind you.”

Quinn adjusted his gaze. Though the sun was just dipping below the horizon, he found the car, and made out the spotter behind the wheel.

“And you?” he asked.

“Behind him, another thirty.”

“Don’t let him see you.”

“I think his attention is more on what’s in front of him than behind.”

“Just be careful, all right? And let me know if something changes.”

Quinn fell silent, concentrating on the road.

After several seconds, Mila said, “Can you talk now?”

Might be easier if I don’t, Quinn thought, but said, “They’re planning to kill you.”

“Who’s planning to kill me?” she asked, her tone instantly leery.

“There’s no package. No courier run. This was a termination from the beginning. Seconds after you enter the room at Planet Hollywood, you’d be dead.”

“And how the hell do you know this?”

“Because I was the one hired to get rid of your body.”