The Silenced

Chapter 8

There was a blue Toyota Camry waiting for them at the airport. Quinn climbed behind the wheel and popped the trunk so Nate could throw their bags in back, then he reached under the seat. There he found a thin manila envelope.

Inside were three sheets of paper and a hotel keycard. He glanced through the papers. Two of the sheets were maps. The first covered an area that included Portland, Maine, in the east and a small town called Gorham about ten miles to the west. Someone had marked the map with one blue X in the vicinity of Gorham, and a smaller black X closer to Portland, just north of the airport. The second map was a detailed close-up of Gorham showing a couple of dozen streets — a single blue X on this one corresponding to the blue one on the wider map.

The third page was an info sheet.

The passenger door opened, and Nate climbed in.

“What do we got?” he asked.

Quinn handed him the papers, then started the engine.

The black X indicated the location of the hotel they would use as their base. They had already been checked in to room 211 under the name Timothy Garner. The key card would allow them to avoid contact with the hotel office. The blue X was the meeting site. Where the actual job was to take place had not been indicated.

“Not giving us a lot of time to relax and see the sights,” Nate said.

Per the info sheet, they would need to be at 23 Main Street in a little less than five hours to meet with a man named Donovan.

“We’re not here on vacation,” Quinn said.

“Speak for yourself. First time I’ve ever been to Maine. Isn’t this where they’re supposed to have the good lobster?”

Quinn rolled his eyes, then pulled out his phone and tossed it to Nate.

“Check in with Orlando.”

It was always smart to have a point person who knew what they were up to, especially when the location was an unfamiliar one. Quinn’s go-to in these situations was always Orlando. It was more at her insistence than his request, but he wasn’t complaining.

“No, it’s Nate,” Nate said into the phone. “We’re here.” He listened for a moment. “No. All smooth.” A pause, then he looked at the papers Quinn had given him. “The Holiday Inn on … um … Riverside Street. West side of Portland.” Again he listened, then looked back at the papers. “The rendezvous is in the town of Gorham. Twenty-three Main Street. We’re expected to arrive by one-thirty.… Yeah, this afternoon … He’s driving.… Okay, I will.”

He hung up.

“I’m supposed to give you a kiss,” Nate said.

“You come near me and I’ll cut off your other leg.”

A moment of stunned silence, then Nate laughed. “Look at you making a joke about my leg. I think that’s a first.”

“Shut up and look at the map.” Quinn gave his apprentice a rare smile.

Quinn took a shower, then checked the kit that had been waiting for them in the room.

It was a dark blue backpack containing two 9mm guns — a Glock for Nate and the preferred SIG for Quinn — a box of fifty rounds and suppressors and two extra mags for each weapon. There was also a box of disposable rubber gloves and a small first aid kit that included sutures, gauze, and antibiotics. Tucked into a compartment at the back of the bag were copies of the papers that had been waiting for them in the car, and an additional map that showed a more detailed layout of the pertinent part of Main Street in Gorham.

Quinn spent twenty minutes memorizing the map before allowing himself to relax on one of the beds. Nate had turned on the TV and found an old movie on TCM. The Bad and the Beautiful with Kirk Douglas.

“A classic,” Nate said. “One of the best movies about Hollywood ever.”

Quinn had grunted noncommittally. Movies were Nate’s thing.

He had to admit, though, Nate wasn’t wrong about the movie. It was definitely absorbing and helped to pass the time. Once the film was over, they left the Holiday Inn and headed to Gorham.

Back home in Los Angeles it still felt like summer, but here in Maine, not so much.

The state had fully embraced the two-week-old fall with cooler temperatures, browning ground cover, and leaves that had turned beautiful shades of yellow and orange and red.

They came at Gorham from the east on State Route 25. At some arbitrary point Route 25 became Main Street, and before long they were entering the outer regions of Gorham. Homes here were separated by acres, not feet. Most were set back from the road, many down long driveways and hidden by trees and brush.

As they drew nearer to the center of the small town, the homes began to cozy up to one another and draw closer to the road. Still, compared with a big city, the lot sizes were huge. The predominant house color was white, and the common theme seemed to be colonial clapboard. But these weren’t emulating a popular style. These were actual colonial homes, many a couple hundred years old.

As they passed a Burger King on their right, Nate began reading off the addresses, then nodded ahead. “Should be right up there.”

Twenty-three Main Street turned out to be an empty store in one half of a two-story-tall brick building on the south side of the street. The windows were covered on the inside by white butcher paper on which someone had written in large letters:

The other half was occupied by a café.

Quinn turned right on Cross Street and parked behind a small office building.

“Security cameras?” Quinn asked.

Nate took a quick look around. “None.”

Quinn nodded, then opened his door. Chances were they could leave the Toyota there all day and no one would question it.

“What about the gear?” Nate asked once he joined him outside.

“We’ll come back for it once we know what’s up,” Quinn said.

They walked to Main Street, waited for traffic to clear, then crossed to the other side.

“They can’t want us coming in through the front,” Nate said. “Gotta be a rear entrance.”

“Check it out,” Quinn said.

While Quinn examined the menu posted in the window of the café, Nate walked around to the back of the building.

When he returned, he nodded. “Three doors. Two for the café and one for the empty shop.”

Quinn looked at his watch. They were ten minutes early.

“Let’s get a coffee first,” he said.

“And a sandwich?”

Quinn frowned. “Fine. But to go.”

“It would probably draw less attention if you order something, too.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” But the untimely growl from his stomach belied his tone.

The man who greeted them at the back door of Alison’s Boutique was small only in height. Quinn guessed he wasn’t more than five foot five. He wasn’t fat, though. Muscles bulged, large and menacing and almost, but not quite, obscene. Steroids for sure, and about a million hours in the gym. If his muscle mass had been toned down even ten percent, he would have been more intimidating. Small guys could be wiry and unpredictable. But with this guy’s bulk, speed and agility were no longer options.

“You’re late,” he said as he moved out of the way to let them in.

Quinn and Nate crossed inside.

“You Donovan?” Quinn asked, once he and Nate were inside.

The man shook his head. “He’ll be back in a bit.” He nodded toward a rectangular table in the center of the room surrounded by folding chairs. There was no one else present. “You can make yourself comfortable there.”

“So who are you?”

“I’m Mr. Edgar.”

Quinn cocked his head. “We’ve worked together before, haven’t we?” He stared at the man for a moment. “Not Edgar. It’s …” He thought for a moment. “It’s Mercer, isn’t it?”

“Not bad,” Mercer said. “And you’re Quinn.”

Mercer had been a background player on a job three years earlier. A gig for the Office.

“You were a courier, weren’t you?” Quinn asked.

“Was. But haven’t been for a long time.”

Without another word, Mercer turned and walked out of the room, leaving Quinn and Nate alone.

Nate, who was already sitting down, sandwich in hand, said, “Friend of yours?”

“Barely know him,” Quinn said as he took a seat across the table from his apprentice.

“Friendly type.”

Quinn shrugged. You met all kinds in this business.

At five minutes after two, the back door to the shop opened again, and four men walked in. They were all somewhere between thirty and forty years old and were casually dressed: jeans, button-down shirts, light jackets.

“Quinn?” the one with thinning hair asked.

Quinn stood up and held out his hand. “Are you Donovan?”

“Yep,” Donovan said. “Shall we get down to it?”

A moment later everyone was seated around the table looking at a map. It showed property lines and accurate footprints of each structure in the area. There were also circles of various sizes indicating the locations of trees and other vegetation. At the street end of each property was the corresponding address. Donovan pointed to a block of Main Street not in the town center area, but further out in the direction of Mosher Corner.

“Here’s the target house,” Donovan said.

He circled an upside-down, reversed L in the center of a parcel on the north side of the street. The home was set back a couple of hundred feet from the road.

“We’re doing it in the target’s home?” Quinn asked.

Donovan nodded. “Not ideal, I know. But he lives alone, and seldom goes out. The report I have says the only visitors he gets are the mailman and a weekly delivery of groceries.”

“Bedridden?” Nate asked.

“No. Just private,” Donovan replied. “We arrived yesterday morning. Since then I’ve had one of my men keeping an eye on the place using thermal-scanning gear. We’re sure someone is inside, but whoever it is hasn’t stepped through the front door yet.”

Quinn thought for a moment, then said, “How positive are you that you’ll need me?”

Donovan paused, then said, “Let’s you and I take a walk.”

They headed up Main Street, then south along Elm. As soon as it was apparent no one was interested in them, Donovan removed an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Quinn. A file listed Kenneth Moody’s name, his address, and the letter T.

Terminate.

“So what does the rest of your team think?” Quinn asked.

“Per instructions, they know the mission, but not the target’s ID.”

Quinn nodded. Wills had given him the same instructions. But Quinn had long ago decided that whatever he knew about a job, Nate and Orlando would know also.

“Any chance this guy realizes what’s coming?” Quinn asked.

“From what I understand, he’s paranoid, so he probably always thinks something’s coming.”

“And you’re positive he’s there alone?”

“My man’s been doing hourly thermal scans since yesterday. So far he’s only logged one person.”

“What about a basement? I assume this house has one. Your equipment can’t see down.”

Donovan smiled. “Wills got some satellite time last night. Took ten overhead thermal images at just after two-thirty a.m. local. It confirmed our findings. Only one person.”

“What if it’s not him?”

“Then we don’t term.”

They walked silently for a moment. “So what’s the plan?” Quinn asked.

“The property is surrounded by a thick layer of trees and enough distance between houses that we shouldn’t run into any problems with neighbors. We’ve ID’d weak points and will be inside the house less than two minutes from mission start.”

“Tonight?”

Donovan nodded. “In position at nine p.m., then get things going at ten. Your designation will be team four. When we get back, make sure you get comm gear for you and your assistant.”

“Will do,” Quinn said.

“When we’re ready for you, you’ll get a ‘Team four go.’ But if I say ‘Abort,’ get the hell out of there.”

“Vehicle?” Quinn asked. His rental car was not body-removal-friendly.

“Parked two blocks away. A black Lincoln MKZ.” He gave Quinn the plate number.

“Gear?” Quinn asked.

“Everything on the list we got is in the trunk, less what was waiting for you at the motel.”

“Okay,” Quinn said. “Then we’re set on my end.”

It was a straightforward op, the kind that should go off flawlessly. Only the job in L.A. was supposed to have been the same kind of thing.

Quinn couldn’t help wondering how this one was going to get screwed up, too.