Double Play (9 page)

Jack told me exactly who Cillian was and what he’d done for Jack in the old days. Then what he’d done
to
Jack now. He told the story matter-of-factly. Just business. But I knew this hurt. Jack was a man of his word, treating his colleagues and clients fairly. And I got the sense Jack had really looked up to Cillian, that thirty years ago he had hoped for a relationship that might mellow into friendship, and that hadn’t quite happened—Jack had permanently relocated stateside—but he’d still felt a nostalgic bond there. Which Cillian had blown to hell.

Worse, while Jack never said it, I knew he’d have to kill Cillian. I would gladly do it for him, but I knew enough not to even offer. Instead, I leaned over and kissed him and he pulled me on top, and I set about doing what he would allow—showing him that I understood and I cared.

12 - Jack

Nadia was sitting up in bed, munching on Skittles, occasionally tossing one his way, grinning when he caught it, which he always did. Before he met her, Jack couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten candy. Real candy—the kind that’s pure sugar and chemicals. It was a reflection of the side of Nadia that first made him fall in love with her. The vulnerable side. The innocent side. The genuine side. Not childlike, but open in a way he hadn’t been himself in so many years.

Nadia never had any shame in admitting her love for candy, and she’d light up when he bought it for her, the way other women might light up over diamond rings. He’d get that same look every time, no matter how often he showed up with candy in his pockets. A grin that wasn’t so much for the candy itself as for the gesture—genuine surprise and joy that he’d gone out of his way to get her something, even if it entailed no more than stopping at a shop. Such a small thing, one that explained so much about Nadia.

He watched her, sitting naked in bed as she talked between candies, and he knew he loved her. He hadn’t said the words. He wasn’t sure how to, because he never had, not even when he’d been fifteen and dating a girl whose name he’d long since forgotten and when he’d try to slide his hand up her shirt, she’d stop him and say, “I need to be sure,” and he’d known she hadn’t meant she needed to be sure she wanted sex, but that she needed to be sure he loved her. Except he hadn’t. She was just a girl he liked, and he wouldn’t lie about that, even if it meant getting sex before his sixteenth birthday.

But now he
did
feel that way, and he had no fucking idea how to say it. He’d started to, many times, after they made love, but that seemed the wrong moment, like she’d think it was just part of the afterglow. He’d considered saying it
before
sex, but what if she didn’t say it back? He didn’t care—it wasn’t a test. But if he said it and she wasn’t ready, she’d panic and then feel bad and . . . yeah, definitely gonna spoil the mood. But when the hell do you say it? And why the fuck was it so hard to figure this out? He wasn’t fifteen anymore.

Just do it. Say it and then say something else, fast, so it doesn’t hang there, waiting for a response. Say it and then . . .

And then say more. Not just, “I love you,” but more about how he felt, which would take away any obligation because it would have moved past a response, and he’d get the chance to say more, because he had more to say, and that would be the opportunity. Get the words out. All of them.

“Hey,” he said, and she gave him that breath-taking grin that made him understand the meaning of that overused phrase because that one really did take his breath away.

“Hey,” she said back.

Okay, keep going. You’ve got her attention. Just go. Three, two, one—

“I—” he began.

“I’ve been—” she said at the same time and then stopped. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Nah, go on.”

She hesitated, but he motioned for her to continue, and she said, “I’ve been thinking about Cillian and the cartel and this whole setup. Besides being hellishly complicated, does it bug you at all? Any of it?”

“Yeah,” he said, and he exhaled the word on a breath of relief, almost as great as if he’d actually gotten those other words out. He’d been thinking this himself—that it bothered him—but he’d pushed it aside, feeling like he was just being paranoid.

“Yeah,” he repeated. “It does.”

“Good,” she said. “So I’m not overthinking it.” She lowered herself to lie facing him. “Okay, tell me what’s bugging
you
.”

He did.

An hour later, they were in Evelyn’s hotel room, looking at an image on her laptop. An image of the building where they thought Quinn was being held. And they’d been able to find it online. Just sitting there for anyone to see, like many places were these days. You type in the location, and up pops a street view on your screen. Fucking amazing. Of course, the picture could be a couple of years old, so it didn’t erase the need for on-site surveillance. But it sure as hell helped.

Finding the location had been a matter of putting together the puzzle pieces—the information the thug provided on the building together with what Felix had found from Quinn’s phone and the results of Contrapasso’s own investigating. Yeah, Contrapasso came through, turning over at least part of what they had. They still weren’t entirely convinced Jack wasn’t involved, but he knew that was a matter of prejudice rather than any actual cause for suspicion.

It would be Jack they blamed, not Nadia. They liked Nadia. They understood her drive for justice. They’d made it clear they’d hire Jack, too, but he knew that was mostly for Nadia’s sake, knowing they were more likely to get her if they accepted him. Accepted, not embraced. No matter how good he was at his job, they saw him as Quinn did, and in their view he’d never rise far above the very guys they devoted their lives to hunting.

But they had come through. While they told Nadia that they’d lost track of Quinn in an office building—where his GPS tracker had been disabled—that wasn’t entirely true. His captors had only zapped it. That was Jack’s explanation. Felix had explained it in more technical terms. Point was, Quinn’s captors hadn’t discarded the tracker—Felix figured they wanted to study the tech. The problem was that the signal hadn’t disappeared immediately. It just started to fail. That meant Contrapasso had two locations to work with: the office where Quinn’s kidnappers grabbed him and the spot where the transmitter finally died twenty minutes later. Put the two points on a map, and Evelyn had been able to follow that trajectory, factor in the rest of the information and find a location.

Jack was less than ten minutes from their destination when Cillian’s phone rang. He checked his watch. Shit. He’d forgotten all about the callback. Obviously they’d jumped the gun earlier, calling Cillian as soon as their goons caught up to Nadia. Now . . . Well, he wasn’t really sure what the fuck they’d do now, but he was ready.

Jack answered to hear Cillian himself, breathing hard and saying, “It’s me. Don’t hang up, Jack. Please don’t fucking hang up.”

Jack said nothing.

“I’m sorry I got away,” Cillian said, then gave a strained laugh. “Jesus, am I really apologizing for escaping? Fuck, this is such a mess. Such a damned mess.” He took a deep breath. “Some guy found me. I made up a bullshit story, and I didn’t report it or anything. I don’t blame you for doing that. Don’t blame you at all. I’m just lucky you gave me the antidote for that cyanide. You’d have had every right not to, after what I did.”

He waited, as if expecting Jack to say it was all right. When he didn’t, Cillian prodded with, “You still there, Jack?”

“Yeah.”

Cillian cleared his throat. “Like I said, I understand why you did that. But as soon as I got free, I contacted a few people. Called in favors. Huge favors—the kind I’ve been saving all my life. Like yours.”

Pause.

More throat clearing. “Anyway, I know a few things now. Things that can help. You’re stateside, right?”

Jack changed lanes. Didn’t answer.

“Hope so,” Cillian said. “I hope you found your girl and everything’s okay.”

“No,” Jack said. “Still looking.”

“Fuck. Well, all right then. I can help. I’m going to set this right, Jack. I’ve called in the biggest favor I’ve got. A guy who can fix this for you. He knows the cartel—he’s the one who put them in touch with me. If you’re looking for your girl, you must be in the DC area. I asked my guy to get there right away, spare no expense, I’ll cover everything.”

More silence as Cillian still failed to get the enthusiastic—or even grateful—response he obviously expected.

“I’m going to give you an address,” Cillian said. “I need you to get there right away. This guy won’t wait forever. I can’t afford that.” A strained laugh. “You get to him, and he’ll give you everything you need, and he’ll offer to help you fix this. You can just take his information if you want, but I’m going to strongly suggest you let him help. He’s as good in his field as you are in yours.”

“Which is?”

“Huh?”

“His field.”

“A fixer.” Cillian gave a short laugh. “Which is what we need right now, huh? Someone to fix this whole fucking mess. That’s what he does. Helps people connect with others and solve their problems. Which he will do for you, and I’m footing the bill. My way of saying how fucking sorry I am. And I really hope . . .” Another throat-clearing. “I’m not just trying to save my ass here, Jack. I really am sorry.”

“Address?”

“I’m texting it to your phone—well, my phone. You need to get there fast. I mean that, Jack. He—”

“Got it.”

Jack hung up. He glanced over his shoulder at Nadia, who’d ceded the front passenger seat to Evelyn. He’d had the phone on speaker and they’d both been silent as they listened in. Evelyn opened her mouth but stopped, seeing where Jack was looking.

“He’s paddling as fast as he can,” Nadia said. “Which could mean he knows exactly how much trouble he’s in and he’s trying to save his life. Or . . .”

“Or he wasn’t rescued by a random passerby?” Evelyn said.

Jack snorted.

“Yes,” Nadia said. “I’m sure you didn’t leave him somewhere that would be likely to happen. Someone went looking for him and found him, and the fact that he’d lie about that says he’s not—unfortunately—trying to save his life. Well, yes, maybe he is, but not from you.”

Jack grunted.

Nadia smiled. “Sorry. As badass as you are, the cartels beat you, hands down.”

True, and he wouldn’t argue the point. What Cillian could expect from him was two to the head. Quick. Efficient. Merciful, in its way, at least compared to what the cartels might do to him.

“We still like the cartel for this?” he asked.

He directed that one to Evelyn. Nadia didn’t even try to answer—it wasn’t her area of expertise.

“We do,” Evelyn said. “Felix has been sending me his findings. There are a few high-level political hits on the market. He’s also narrowing it down to those who employ outside contractors.”

“Not many, I’m guessing,” Nadia said.

“No, not many at all.”

Jack made a noise in his throat. Evelyn didn’t notice, but Nadia caught his eye in the rearview mirror. They exchanged a look.

“So are you ignoring the summons?” Nadia asked.

“Can’t. Best way to get answers. I’ll go. You two hold tight.”

“And not go after Quinn? Despite being reasonably sure we know where he is, which is not likely to last much longer?”

“She has a point,” Evelyn said. “Any minute now, they’ll find those dead thugs, which means Dee is still in the wind. Once they realize you’re in the area, they’ll move Quinn.”

Nadia leaned forward against the seat back. “If this meeting with Cillian is bullshit—and they even
suspect
I’m with you—they’ll expect me to stick close. It’s the perfect time to grab Quinn and end this.”

Jack grunted.

“Yes, I know,” Nadia said. “Getting Quinn doesn’t end this. It ends when we figure out what was going on and put a stop to it. But with Quinn safe, they can’t hold anything over our heads, right?” She paused and then added, “On the other hand, maybe we should stick close while you go to this meeting. I can provide backup—”

“No,” Jack said. “It’s a trap? Trap’s more for you than me.”

“They’ll expect you to go with him, as you pointed out, Dee,” Evelyn said. “Better if you’re as far away as possible. Jack can handle this.”

“But you’ll stay in touch, right?” Nadia said.

“Course.”

13 - Nadia

I had all audio on my phone turned off, which included the vibration that would signal an incoming message. So I kept checking it as I headed to the building. I didn’t expect to hear from Jack—he’d dropped us off barely a half hour ago—but I checked anyway.

I’d seen no signs of a trap so far. There were guards outside. Not overtly watching the building—two guys in a car near the front entrance, another two near the back, with two more inside according to an infrared device from Felix. The gadget was good; the gadget wasn’t perfect. It told me how many warm bodies we had just inside the walls, as we’d circled the perimeter. To actually find Quinn, I’d need to get a lot closer to him . . . and possibly closer to more cartel goons.

I entered the building without raising a single alarm. There seem to be three basic city settings for underworld activity—offices, warehouses and industrial areas. If the buildings can be abandoned or under renovation, that’s a bonus. In this case, it was neither. It seemed to be an office building, though all the blinds were drawn. A sign on the front door, as viewed through binoculars, simply and politely declared it private property.

This was no high-rise building, though. It was old, in an area where it looked as if most of the former “offices” had been repurposed. In other words, no one would bat an eye at the closed blinds and lack of business signs. Right now, as night fell, the entire block seemed deserted.

Being an old area also meant the buildings were close together. Getting in only required using the one entrance the thugs hadn’t thought to cover: the roof. It wasn’t exactly a cakewalk getting there. But as a sniper, I’m always looking for the highest point, which means I have a lot of experience scaling buildings and crossing from rooftop to rooftop, even if it takes a leap and a prayer to get there.

Needless to say, Evelyn didn’t join me on my aerial voyage. She stayed below, covering the guards and waiting for news from Jack.

I broke open the roof door, used the infrared to scan the area and then whispered, “I’m in,” through my earpiece before making that a reality.

The roof door opened, not surprisingly, to a set of stairs. I headed down them. At the bottom, I scanned again and thought I picked up a faint blip to my right . . . and then nothing. I tried repositioning a few times, but the device brought back nothing. Felix had warned me not to rely on it. Jack wouldn’t even use one—and hadn’t been thrilled that Evelyn brought it. To him, any reliance on gadgets meant less reliance on your senses. I knew the device’s limitations, though. In an old building like this, with thick walls and rats’ nests of wiring, it was even less useful than usual. But it helped.

As I moved, I kept the device in one hand and my gun in the other. At each corner, I added the infrared to the usual list of checks before I stepped around it. That blip kept appearing and disappearing, and by time I reached the stairwell, I decided the device was too distracting. I pocketed it and settled for listening and looking.

I covered the fifth floor. It wasn’t a large building. Empty, too. I saw signs of renovation that reminded me of our chalet at home—the piles of wood, boxes of nails. What was missing was the smell—no hint of sawdust from cut wood or drywall from putting up new walls or even dust from cutting through old ones. And the signs of renovation were oddly random. Tools in this room, wood in that one, nails in another . . .

I couldn’t tell what was going on, and there was no time to stop and ponder. I kept moving, tucking those thoughts into the back of my mind as I continued down the stairwell. At the bottom, I whispered an “all clear, still searching” to Evelyn, who told me Jack had checked in ten minutes ago saying he was at his destination, nothing to report yet.

I was about to step from the stairwell when I decided to use Felix’s device for a quick scan. Sure enough, it was giving me that blip, stronger now but still not holding steady. I put the device away and searched. Empty rooms here, too. One had a sawhorse. Another had a drop-sheet and a can of paint, but again, there was no smell of actual work. The paint can had been opened and, when curiosity compelled me to check, I pried off the lid to see it was half-empty, but there was no scent of paint fumes in the air nor anything actually newly painted nearby.

On the third floor, the blip came stronger. Someone was definitely here. I found more of those signs of renovation without any actual reno. Three levels of sporadic materials and tools.

I could ask Evelyn to help me puzzle it out, but she’d just snort and tell me to stick to the job. This
was
the job, though—the circumstances were too odd to be happenstance, so they meant something.

I looked at another drop-sheet and partial can of paint.

Any ideas, Jack?

I chuckled to myself. Hey, it worked the last time. This time, he remained silent, even in my head. Silent because he would be puzzling it out. He’d take the time to consider the implications.

Okay, I’ll do that, then.

Fake signs of renovation. Why?

In case someone came in and wondered why the building was empty?

Possible, but lots of buildings stood empty, either as investments or awaiting a purpose.

Because someone was visiting and they wanted it to look as if the building was being renovated?

Why? A scam? If so, they could at least slap some paint around, rip out a few floorboards. Why not bother with those basic extra steps?

I got nothing.

Untrue. I had questions, and those were almost as important as answers. Questions meant something was wrong here, and I needed to pay extra attention—

A floorboard creaked. I zipped behind the door. A moment later, a man walked by. Hispanic. Thirties. Big guy with a gun in his hand. A thug doing his rounds.

He continued past the room without slowing and went straight to the stairwell. Even after the door clicked shut, I waited for his footsteps on the stairs, to be absolutely sure it wasn’t a fake out. Once his boots sounded, I slid out and silently jogged to the stairwell. It sounded as if he was heading up, but I wanted to be sure.

The door on the next level shut and his boot steps faded down the hall. I crept into the stairwell and went down to the second floor. I did a faster survey of that level. There were boxes on this one—cardboard and wood. Most were empty. A few were stuffed with random office items, like paper. And I do mean “stuffed,” as if someone just dumped the supplies in, rather than actually bringing them packed for storage or use.

Nothing else on the second floor. The first level was the trickiest—I didn’t need to check Felix’s device to expect guards on that one. The stairs continued down another level, and I decided to just skip the first floor. At the bottom of the steps, I checked the device. Two blips together, flickering in and out, likely the guys on the first floor but I wasn’t taking any chances. What interested me more was I was now picking up one steady sign of life. In the basement. Which was the best place for stashing a hostage.

The problem with the device is, of course, there’s no way of seeing the actual layout of the building. So when I finally drew close to the blip, I found myself on the opposite side of a wall from it. I continued along that wall, looking for a door, but had to circle through a couple of rooms before I got reasonably close to the blip again. When I did, I found a crudely cut hole in the wall, almost like those used for passing food to prisoners in ancient dungeons. I bent to peer through it. Directly across from me, dim lighting reveals a tall guy with a light brown crew-cut sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, pretending to be asleep. I say “pretending” because short of a serious blow to the head, he wasn’t going to nap while being held captive.

“Sleeping on the job?” I whispered through the opening.

Quinn’s eyes snapped open.

“It’s Dee,” I said.

He pushed to his feet fast, something metal clattering to the floor. It looked like a spoon. Behind him, I could see signs where he’d been digging at the mortar in the brick wall.

“Nice escape plan,” I said. “It’ll take you a while, though.”

“I’m not digging out,” he said as he walked over. “Just freeing a weapon—a nice solid brick.”

“Ah. Smart.”

He opened his mouth to say something else. Then he stopped, his eyes widening. “Dee. Shit. No. You need to get out of here.”

“Nice to see you, too. Yes, I know, this is a trap for me. Don’t worry—me springing you wasn’t actually their plan, and I have backup. Let’s just get you out—”

“
No
.” He practically flew to that opening as I stepped away. “Don’t— The door. You can’t open the door. You need to get out of here. Now.”

“If the door’s locked from the outside, I have tools. We can—”

“
No
. Look.”

I followed his finger to see a door on the far side of the large room. And I saw why they’d cut out this opening—way over here—for communicating and passing food. Quinn hadn’t just used his spoon to try prying out a brick. He’d removed the outer board from a box over the door. Inside that box? Enough explosives to bring down the whole damned building.