The Silenced

Chapter 11

“Stay down!” Petra yelled at Moody as the truck raced over the remains of the garage door.

Mikhail was behind the wheel, keeping his own head low, aiming the truck toward the street.

Before they’d gone ten feet, a staccato whap-whap-whap of bullets hit the side of the pickup.

“Faster,” Petra said.

“What about Kolya?” Mikhail yelled.

“He’ll have to take care of himself,” she said.

Mikhail lifted his head enough to peek out the window as they passed the Maxima. When he crouched back down, his face was white.

“What is it?” Petra asked.

His only answer was to shake his head and press down on the accelerator. Kolya had to be dead.

The truck tossed them around as they sped across the front lawn. After a moment, Mikhail looked up again.

“Hold on,” he said, then whipped the wheel to the right.

The tires squealed as the truck fought against inertia. Petra braced herself, expecting to flip over. But a moment later the rocky ride ended, and they were racing away along the main road. She glanced into the crew seat behind them. Moody was still tucked in the space between the seats.

“Who were they?” Mikhail asked.

“The same people we’ve been up against since we started,” Petra said.

All of a sudden the truck began to slow.

“What are you doing?” Petra asked.

“Police.”

She sat up and saw the lights in the distance coming toward them fast. “We can’t let them see us,” she said. The truck was riddled with bullet holes. “There.” She pointed at a gravel road several yards ahead on the left.

Mikhail eased off the accelerator and turned. Once they were on the side road, he doused the lights, took the engine out of gear, and let the truck roll to a stop on its own.

They both looked over their shoulders out the back window. To the left a halo of flashing lights began to dominate the night as a siren grew louder. Then a single police cruiser rushed by, its lights quickly fading into the black.

Mikhail started to put the truck back into gear, but Petra stopped him. “Wait,” she said.

Three minutes later, more lights appeared on the horizon. Two more police cars and an ambulance.

As soon as they passed, Petra said, “Okay, go.”

Mikhail turned the truck around and got them back onto the highway.

“We can’t stay in this,” Petra said. “It’ll draw too much attention. We need to find something else.”

Mikhail nodded, then glanced toward the back. “How’s our passenger?”

Petra peered over the seat. “He’s still hiding on the floor.” She reached back and tapped Moody on the shoulder. “You can get up,” she said in English. “We’re safe now.”

He didn’t move.

“Mr. Moody. It’s okay. It’s over.”

Again nothing. She exchanged a look with Mikhail.

“You want me to pull over?” he asked.

“No. Keep going.”

She climbed into the back and leaned down next to Moody.

“Are you all right?”

There was no movement at all.

As she reached underneath to pull him up, she touched something sticky and wet.

“He’s been hit.” She manhandled him onto the seat, then reached up and flipped on the dome light. The front of Moody’s shirt was dark with blood.

“No,” she whispered.

She put her fingers against the man’s neck. There was a pulse, though faint. “He’s still alive,” she said.

She unbuttoned Moody’s shirt and peeled it back. More blood, but no entry wound.

She moved her hand over his torso, slipping it around the man’s side, then stopped.

“Bullet hole,” she said. “Right side. Near his kidney.”

She ripped off part of his shirt and pressed it against the wound. But even as she applied pressure, she realized it was too late. Moody’s chest barely moved as he took a breath. It rose once more. The third time was even fainter.

There was no fourth.

“Should I find a hospital?” Mikhail asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Is he …?”

She locked eyes with Mikhail in the rearview mirror. He took a deep breath, then nodded.

“What now?”

“Find us another car. We’ll leave the body here.”

Mikhail turned at the next street, then said, “I meant, what are we going to do now?”

“I know what you meant.”

She only wished she knew the answer.

“I assume we’re going to avoid Portland,” Nate said once they were back in the car.

Quinn nodded. “Head south.”

Nate pulled out into the street. “Boston?”

“New York.”

It would take a few hours longer, but as a place to disappear, New York couldn’t be beat.

Quinn stayed tense as they worked their way through southern Maine. He wasn’t worried about getting caught. He was disturbed by the presence of the Russian woman. Unlike in L.A., here she had actually blown the operation. How could she have known? Was Wills’s organization compromised? If so, that was a huge problem. The Englishman had paid for three weeks of Quinn’s time, which meant that potentially there were still over two to go. That was a lot of time for something even worse to happen.

Quinn looked out the window and stared at the sky, trying not to think about the job anymore.

The Milky Way punched millions of holes in the dark night, the stars twinkling their ancient brilliance. In the distance, a single light moved to the west, a plane flying from one unknown point to another. Along the road, trees that were no more than dark shadows rushed by solo and in groups with no discernible pattern.

A memory hit him, unexpected and hard.

He was in the back seat of his family’s car. Beside him, his sister.

Liz was probably six at the time, which would have made him fourteen. In the front his mother sat in the passenger seat and, as usual, his father was behind the wheel. Outside, it was night, and the trees of Minnesota, much like the trees of Maine, flew by the window like a dark, silent army.

Liz yawned, then leaned over and laid her head in his lap. Automatically, his hand went to the side of her head, stroking her long hair so that she’d fall asleep.

“Good night, Jake,” she said groggily.

“Good night, sweet pea,” he replied.

Quinn’s phone buzzed in his pocket again, jerking him out of the past.

It was a text from Orlando, sent when they were in position outside Moody’s house. He had forgotten about it.

This was no simple request to touch base. Orlando wasn’t like that. If she’d been thinking about him, and wanted him to know, that’s what she would have said. If she had something to talk about, but could wait, she would have said that, too. A simple CALL ME meant do it now. Urgency in her simplicity.

The phone began to vibrate in his hand. He looked down. A call this time, not a text. On his screen was a single word: WILLS.

“David,” Quinn said.

“I just got off the phone with Donovan,” Wills said. “What a disaster!”

“Yeah,” Quinn said. “Pretty much.”

“He told me you recognized the people who showed up.”

“Just one of them. Not the whole group. It was the woman from L.A. The Russian.”

“Are you sure?”

“No question.”

Silence.

“And the target?” Wills asked. “Donovan thinks he left with the others.”

“That would be my guess, but we don’t know for sure. They could have killed him and left him in the house.”

“Didn’t anyone check?”

“There wasn’t time,” Quinn pointed out. “Donovan gave the order to abort, and we all scattered. Good thing he did — the police arrived just as I was leaving.”

“Donovan didn’t say anything about the police.”

“We delayed our departure for a few minutes.” Quinn explained about the wallet Nate had taken from the victim.

“That was good thinking,” Wills said.

“We weren’t the only ones with the idea. One of Donovan’s men hung back to grab it, but got scared off by the police.”

“Really? Which one?”

“A guy named Mercer.”

There was just the slightest of pauses before Wills spoke again. “Well, I’m just glad somebody got it. What did you find?”

“Hold on.” Quinn held out his hand. “Wallet.”

Keeping his eyes on the road, Nate dug the wallet out of his pocket and handed it over. Quinn flipped it open and found a driver’s license tucked behind a clear plastic cover.

“According to this his name is William Burke. B-U-R-K-E. Address in Manhattan.”

“Burke?” Wills questioned to himself.

Quinn looked through the rest of the wallet. “He’s got a credit card and an ATM card. Wait, here’s something interesting.”

“What is it?”

“Several business cards. They all have the same name, but the companies are different. Comcast Cable, Faye Construction, Triple A. There’s one here that says he’s with the FBI. They all have the same address. Some place in Manhattan.” Quinn paused. “No chance William Burke is this guy’s real name.” Quinn looked at the guy’s picture again. “Something else.”

“What?”

“Hold on.” Quinn held the driver’s license out on the dashboard so Nate could see it. “This is the dead guy, right?”

Nate glanced quickly at the picture. “Yeah. That’s him.”

Quinn put the phone back to his ear. “I’ll check this guy’s ID against the pictures I took in L.A., but I’m pretty sure he was behind the wheel of the car at the warehouse the other night, too.”

Wills said nothing for a moment, then, “The client isn’t going to like this.”

That wasn’t Quinn’s problem. Even if the job was canceled, Quinn had already been paid, and per his standard arrangement, the money would stay with him.

“Given all that’s been going on,” Wills said, “I want to meet with you in person. Today. Well, tomorrow for you. It’s not even midnight there yet, is it?”

“Not quite yet,” Quinn said.

“I’ll fly over. Not Portland, but maybe Boston.”

“New York,” Quinn said. “The Grand Hyatt. There’s a bar beyond the elevators on the main floor. Text me what time you’ll be there.”

“Bar at the Grand Hyatt,” Wills said. “Okay. I should be over there in time for lunch. And Quinn. Thanks again. You haven’t disappointed me yet.”

“You say ‘yet’ like you’re expecting me to.”

“Actually, I’m not.”

“Good.” Quinn disconnected the call.

He was about to slip the phone back into his pocket when he remembered he needed to call Orlando.

She answered after only one ring. “Finally done?” she asked.

“That’s one way of phrasing it,” Quinn said. He filled her in on what had happened.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.

“Wish I was.”

“You know you took a chance with the ID.”

“Not a big one,” he said.

“Bigger than you should have.”

“I made Nate do it.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” she said.

Quinn smiled. “So what’s up?”

When she spoke again, all the playfulness that had been in her voice was gone. “Somebody tripped one of my flags.”

Orlando knew her way around computers better than most people knew how to walk. One of the things she had done was set up electronic tripwires throughout cyberspace that would notify her when someone looked at whatever it was she’d flagged.

“Okay,” he said. “Is this something we need to worry about?”

“It got me to check some of the other related flags I’d set up,” she went on, ignoring his question. “There are at least five that should have sent me a message, but didn’t. Someone bypassed them.”

Quinn started to feel uneasy. “What does that mean?”

“It means someone’s been poking around where they shouldn’t. It’s been going on for over a week. The only reason I found out is that there was a dual flag set up this time. They got around the first, but missed the second.”

“What exactly are we talking about?”

“You, Quinn,” she said. “Someone’s been trying to find out all they can about you.”