The Destroyed

CHAPTER 42

Quinn checked his watch.

They would be cutting it close, but even at eleven p.m., it had been too much to hope that they wouldn’t run into any traffic as they drove into New York City. Their timing had to be perfect, otherwise they risked getting detained and questioned themselves. Something that was out of the question.

“Seven minutes out,” Nate said.

Quinn nodded, and glanced at Daeng. “Let’s get them ready.”

Mygatt, Green, and Olsen sat on the floor of the van, tied and hooded as before. Speakers in back blasted the prerecorded radio station directly at them. Quinn lowered the volume then said, “How’s everyone doing?”

“We did what you asked,” Mygatt said. “Now let us go like you promised.”

“I think I promised to give you to people who wouldn’t necessarily kill you.”

“What does that mean?”

Quinn didn’t respond.

“You will never get away with this,” Green said. “Kidnapping a US dignitary and high-ranking officials and taking us out of the country is going to get you the death penalty, my friend. And I’m not talking from a court. I will personally see to it that you are all tracked down and killed in the most painful possible ways.”

“And you feel you’ll be in the position to do that because…?”

“Let us the fuck out of here!” Green yelled.

“Well, you’re in luck. That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Quinn said. “Now, boys, we’re going to remove your restraints for a moment, so when it’s your turn, don’t try anything stupid. If you do, we’re going to have to shoot you, and I’m sure you’d rather avoid that. Correct?”

The men uttered their agreement, though Quinn suspected Olsen and Green were thinking this might be the chance to make their move.

They started with Olsen first, having him lie flat on the floor of the van, then cutting loose his hands and ankles. Twice the man’s muscles twitched as if he were preparing to strike out, and twice Quinn rapped the back of Olsen’s head with the barrel of his gun. They stripped him down to his underwear, replaced his clothes with a pair of bright orange coveralls, and restrained his hands and ankles again.

They repeated the procedure with Green and Mygatt, neither man attempting any kind of escape.

“Why did we need to change?” Mygatt said.

Instead of answering, Quinn turned the radio back up and returned to the front, leaving Daeng to watch over them.

“We’re close,” Nate said.

Quinn saw that they were only a few blocks from the exact position they needed to be. He called Peter.

“Almost there.”

Peter took a second before he said, “No calling it off, huh?”

“Not an option.”

“Yeah, I know. Okay, I need three minutes.”

Quinn put a hand over the phone and leaned toward Nate. “Slow down.”

It had been a less-than-interesting news day. The presidential primaries were over, each party’s candidates all but decided. Most of the day had been spent discussing the preparations for the upcoming convention, going over the merits of each candidate, and arguing over who was going to have the best chance in the fall. In other words, the same stuff they’d been hashing over for the last week.

Something was brewing, though. Norm Geller sensed it the moment Patty Vinton, the late-shift news director, had hung up the phone and rushed out of the control room. Geller was the TD, the technical director. His job was to operate the switcher board that cut between studio shots, pretaped segments, and live location feeds, then funneled the final product up to the satellite and onto the air. He’d been doing the job for nearly a decade, so his instincts were pretty honed about these things.

Though he didn’t say anything to anyone, his money was on a political scandal. There had been far too few of them up to this point, and with the conventions not far away, wild accusations were bound to start surfacing. An affair, an illegal campaign contribution, a supporter who was not exactly on the up and up-could be any of those things.

When Patty came back into the room, he wasn’t surprised when she said, “We’re about to get a live feed. And Frank’s in Bay Seven cutting a piece we’ll want to slot in right after.”

“No problem,” Geller replied.

“What’s going on?” one of the producers in the back asked.

Patty ignored him and said to Wendy, their graphic person, “We’re going to need a lower third.”

“Sure. What’s it need to say?”

“The reporter is Dewayne Beetner. Location-‘Outside Bucharest, Romania.’ ”

That caught Geller off guard. “Romania?”

As Patty nodded, the phone rang. She picked it up, listened for a moment, then said, “We go in thirty seconds.”

It didn’t matter that it was just after eleven p.m. Times Square was packed with tourists.

As always, the neon and video screens that lined the buildings lit up the area like it was day. Excited, beaming faces moved from one bright spot to another, taking in the wonder of a city most of them had probably never been to before. The only locals were those working-in the stores, at the carts along the street, in taxis.

Several television networks had giant video boards silently carrying their feeds. One such board was owned by Prime Cable News, also known as PCN.

Nate pulled the van to a stop at the curb, seventy-five feet from the building with the PCN monitor.

“Gentlemen, we’re going to be sorry to see you go,” Quinn said.

He nodded at Daeng, who cut the ties around the men’s ankles.

Orlando started to open the door.

“Wait,” Mila said.

They all knew they only had seconds before a cop approached and told them to keep moving, but Quinn motioned for Orlando to hold on.

Mila knelt down in front of the man who’d caused her to lose the life she used to have. “I want you to remember something, Mr. Mygatt. I want you to remember that Mila Voss is responsible for everything that has happened to you and will continue to happen to you. And if I could do more, I would.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t forget you,” Mygatt said.

“Good. Because you’re going to wish you could.”

She stood up and nodded at Orlando.

“It’s on the screen,” Nate called back. “My God, it’s really there.”

The door swung open.

Quinn and Daeng grabbed Olsen and Green first, shoving them outside, then together they pulled Mygatt to his feet.

“You’re through, Mr. Mygatt,” Quinn said. “I’m sure you don’t believe that now, but in a few seconds you’ll know I’m right.”

They threw him out of the van.

Before Quinn closed the door, he looked back at the three men in their bright orange jumpsuits as they tried to pull the bags off their heads. He could also see the PCN camera crew rushing toward them from half a block away. And the large screen that could be seen from almost anywhere in the square was broadcasting a live camera feed from “Outside Bucharest, Romania” that was focused on an aged and horribly thin Thomas Gorman.

“Go,” Quinn ordered as he shut the door. “We’re done.”