The Collected (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) (30 page)

One of the men pulled a small black box from his case and held it up to the electronic lock on the door. A light flashed green, he gently turned the handle, and began pushing the door open.

“Get ready,” Quinn whispered.

Orlando was holding her phone in her free hand. On the screen was one of her many self-created apps. It displayed a simple green button that, when touched, would send a signal to the device now hooked to the fuse box controlling the lights on the third floor.

Across the hall, the first man entered room 317 and stopped a few feet inside. One by one the others joined him.

As the fourth started in, Quinn said, “Now.”

Orlando’s thumb tapped down on the green button and darkness descended, sudden and complete.

Quinn opened the door and raced across the hall in a crouch, reaching the fourth man before the guy had even turned around. He shoved the intruder in the back, pushing him farther into the room and knocking him into the guy just in front of him. Both men tumbled to the ground.

Muzzle flashes lit up the far end of the room. If Quinn had been standing, the bullet that smashed into the wall above him would have hit him square in the face. The other bullets flew through the doorway and into the hall.

Shooting first had been a mistake. Quinn and Orlando aimed at the flash points and pulled their triggers, once each. The two men who had entered the room first dropped dead.

Quinn heard the other two trying to free themselves from each other and join the fight. He whipped his gun down and positioned the end of the suppressor an inch from the closest guy’s ear. The heat radiating from the muzzle was enough motivation for the man to freeze.

The other one continued trying to twist free. The shadowy form of the gun in his hand moved upward. Quinn was about to whip him on the side of his head with the SIG when Orlando stepped around him and kicked the gun out of the guy’s hand. She then lashed out again, catching the guy under the chin.

His body went limp.

“Drop your gun,” Quinn said to the fourth man.

“
No hablo inglés
.”

“Bullshit. Drop it.”

The gun clunked to the floor. Quinn reached over and pushed it back toward the door.

“Orlando, some light.”

There was a slight delay, and then the lights in the hallway came back on. A few seconds later, the room lights flipped on.

Quinn glanced back and saw Daeng standing just inside the threshold. “Door.”

With a nod, Daeng closed the door.

Quinn returned his attention to the man on the floor. “Who sent you? Romero?”

A second of nothing, then, “Who Romero?”

Quinn grabbed his man by the shirt and pulled him up. He forced him to the back of the room, where his two dead colleagues lay. “Tell me what I want to know or you’ll join them.”

There was fear in the man’s eyes, a particular kind of fear Quinn had seen before—the fear of an asshole who was used to being the deliverer of violence, not the receiver.

Quinn pushed the suppressor into the back of the man’s head. “
Who
sent you?”

“Okay! Okay! Romero. Yes, yes. Romero.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

Quinn shoved the barrel forward again. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know! Our boss just sent us here. Tell us to bring people in room back to him. I swear.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Back to where?”

__________

R
YAN PORTER WAS
growing concerned. He should have heard from his security team by now. They’d had more than enough time to get into the room at the Marguerite Hotel and snatch whoever was in there.

The last he’d heard from them was that they were on site and getting ready to move in. That was nearly twenty minutes ago. They must have had some kind of problem.

He’d been monitoring the police bands, and all was quiet. So whatever was going on, at least the authorities weren’t involved yet.

He drummed his fingers on his desk.
Ten more minutes, and I’ll go check myself.

He got up to fill his coffee mug, not that he wanted another cup. He needed to do something more than just sit there staring at his phone. He was halfway to the coffee maker when the intercom buzzed. He raced back to his desk and pushed the button.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Porter. It’s Felipe. We’re back.”

There was a small monitor next to the speaker. Porter turned it on, and a view of the entrance to the building appeared on-screen. The light over the door was enough for him to see Felipe’s face, and the dark forms of the two men in hoodies behind him—Raul and Marcos, most likely. Between the two men was someone smaller. It looked like a woman. They were gripping her arms, and her head was bowed.

Porter pushed the button again. “Is that her?”

Felipe turned his face so he was looking directly at the camera. “Yes. She was the only one there.”

“All right. Bring her in. I’ll meet you in the storage room.”

He pushed the button that unlocked the door. Feeling more relaxed, he filled his coffee and left his office. A little conversation, and then they’d get rid of her.

Problem solved.

__________

“G
OOD SO FAR,”
Quinn whispered once they were inside the building. “You keep it up, you’ll stay alive.”

The room immediately beyond the entrance was filled with large, old machinery. From the looks of things, it had been years since any of them had been turned on.”

“Where is this storage room he wants us to go to?” Quinn asked.

“In the back,” Felipe said.

“How do we get there?”

“Through there and all the way back.” Felipe pointed between two of the machines.

“And then?”

“Um, we go left until we reach the white door. That’ll be it.”

“And you’re sure he’s alone?”

“Yes,” Felipe said. “He sent all of us to the hotel.”

Quinn gave Orlando a subtle nod. In a swift, silent motion, she raised the vaccination gun to Felipe’s shoulder and shot an eight-hour dose of tranquilizer into his arm. Felipe turned in surprise, but before he could say anything, his eyelids began to droop, and they eased him to the floor.

Following Felipe’s instructions, they headed to the back of the building, vigilant in case Porter wasn’t the only one around. When they came in sight of the white door, Orlando moved into the point position so she would be the first one seen.

__________

P
ORTER’S OFFICE WAS
just down the hall from the storage room, so it wasn’t a surprise he was the first one there. There was an old wooden storage box next to the wall. He dragged it into the middle of the room, right below the only light.

He took a step back, and smiled. Very intimidating. Whoever this woman was, she wouldn’t last long. He was willing to bet he’d know everything she did before his coffee cooled.

He took a sip, and nodded. Perfect.

Behind him he heard the door open. He turned, a smile still on his face.

The woman came through the door first. She couldn’t have been much more than one hundred and fifty centimeters tall. She was also Asian, which was a bit of a surprise.

“Well, hello,” he said. “Please, have a seat.”

Two of his men came in behind her, but Porter’s eyes remained focused on the woman, making sure she understood who was boss. When she got to within ten feet, she stopped, the look of despair on her face replaced by an eerily playful smile. Porter tried to maintain his own detached façade, but he couldn’t stop his brow from creasing in confusion.

“Actually, Mr. Porter,” one of the men behind her said. “You’re the one who should take a seat.”

CHAPTER 48

S
O FAR NATE
had counted eighteen soldiers leaving the fort and moving into the jungle.

They wouldn’t send everyone out, he knew, but he felt confident, based on the yelling he heard coming from beyond the wall, that they would send the majority.

Under the cover of darkness, he had snuck all the way back to the wall, where he had momentarily considered climbing up and finding someplace within the complex to hide. But he felt he could control things better out here.

Surveying the wall, he spotted a heavy wooden door that, as far as he could tell, was the only ground-level exit to the complex. Choosing the location carefully, he dug a ditch between a couple of trees, just deep enough for him to lie in, and covered himself with dead palm fronds and other vegetation. The position gave him a perfect view of the door, with very little chance he’d be discovered.

That’s where he was when the men had begun coming out.

Eighteen fighters.

He figured half that many were still inside. That would make twenty-seven total. Round that up to thirty, just to be safe. Add in Janus, Harris, and the old man. Thirty-three. Staff? Cooks? Medical personnel for the old man? That seemed likely. Figure forty people total, not counting the prisoners.

Looking at the whole number was a bit daunting, but one by one, not so bad. Especially if Nate could get his hands on a weapon.

The door opened again, and a nineteenth soldier came out. Nate recognized this one. He was the jerk who’d come in with Janus and slammed the butt of his gun into Nate’s back the first day. Nate could see the offending rifle slung over the guy’s shoulder, and suddenly knew which weapon he’d like to start with.

As soon as the soldier passed by, Nate slipped out of his hidey-hole.

__________

S
OMEONE KNOCKED ON
Harris’s door. He opened it to find one of Romero’s nurses.

 “Yes?”

 “Sorry to disturb you,” the nurse said. “But Señor Romero wants to see you.”

Harris wanted nothing more than to tell the nurse he’d come when he could, but he knew that would only enrage his employer, and the nurse would be sent back again.

“I’ll be right there,” he said, and shut his door.

Despite the early hour, he poured himself a whiskey and slammed it down. The alcohol helped mute the voices that were telling him everything was beginning to unravel. Of course, it wasn’t. He still had control of the situation.

So what if one of the prisoners got away? So what if it was Quinn? He was just one person. And they would find him. He could only hide for so long. This was an island, for God’s sake. A
small
island. If need be, they’d search it inch by inch.

What about whoever had been searching Romero’s and Quinn’s names at the hospital?

Porter will handle it.

No, everything was going to be fine. Things were too close to the end for them not to be.

He fought the urge to have another drink, and forced himself to head over to Romero’s office.

“Have they found the cleaner?” Romero demanded as soon as Harris entered.

“It hasn’t been that long. They need a little time.”

“Unacceptable! They should have him by now.” The old man fumed for a moment. “I want to continue as planned.”

“You mean now?”

“Yes, now. Of course, now. We’re wasting time.”

“I’d be more comfortable once we have Quinn back.”

“I will
not
let one person delay us. Do you understand me? Assemble the prisoners.”

“We’re understaffed at the moment,” Harris said. “Most of the men are out looking for him.”

Romero narrowed his eyes. “How many men to do you really need? The prisoners are beaten and weak. They’ll be cuffed and hooded, too. We could do it with just Janus if we needed to.”

Quinn is beaten and weak, too
, Harris thought,
and look at what he did
. He knew there was no sense in arguing the point, though. “Yes, sir. I’ll get things moving.”

“Good. I’ll be out in the courtyard in twenty minutes. They’d better be there.”

__________

T
HE GUARD DIDN’T
know Nate was there until the rock slammed into his head, and even then, the realization probably lasted only a microsecond before he dropped to the ground.

Nate checked his pulse. Weak, and getting weaker. There was a very good chance the man wouldn’t live for long.

Bummer
. That was about as much sympathy as Nate could muster.

He grabbed the guard by the shoulders and dragged him into the brush, out of sight. A quick search netted him not only the rifle and some spare ammo, but also a GLOCK pistol, a five-inch hunting knife, and a palm-sized, handheld radio. Once he was geared up, he masked the marks he and the soldier had made in the sand, and went in search of number two.

__________

I
T WASN’T UNTIL
Janus was hauling the prisoners outside that Harris realized he hadn’t heard back from Porter. He tried calling him, but after four rings only reached voice mail.

“It’s Harris. Update. Now.”

CHAPTER 49

T
HEY DROVE SOUTH
through Córdoba—Orlando behind the wheel, Quinn and Daeng in the backseat with Porter between them, and Liz up front with Orlando’s computer.

“Here we go,” Liz said, looking at the laptop’s screen. “The island’s called Duran, and is thirty-one miles south-southeast of Isla de Cervantes. Apparently, it was first spotted by Columbus on his final voyage in 1503. Says he didn’t stop there, though. Not big enough, I guess.” She began to read aloud. “‘In the early 1600s, Charles Duran, one of the early Spanish governors of Isla de Cervantes, decided the much smaller Isla Helena, as Duran was first known, could serve as an early warning outpost, alerting the bigger island of approaching enemies by lighting bonfires at its highest point, a low-slung hill at the southwest end of the island.’

“‘Over the years, the outpost’s few buildings were renovated and added to until it became known as Fort Duran.’” She paused as she read on silently. “It does say the island eventually fell into private hands. Nothing about whose, though.”

According to Porter, the private hands in question belonged to the Romero family, and they’d made Duran their private retreat for over a hundred years. Javier had apparently taken sole control of the island a year prior to his faithful run for the presidency, and had moved there permanently—with the blessings of the government he’d tried to oppose—when he was released from the hospital.