The Destroyed (22 page)

From her bag she pulled out the book she’d been reading—
Goddess for Hire
by Sonia Singh. She’d plowed through several pages when she finally heard more people coming up the metal staircase. She looked up, curious to see who her fellow passengers were. The first two who entered were large men dressed in dark suits. Military, perhaps, or law enforcement. Behind them came a third, similarly dressed man, only he was walking backward as he held on to the end of a metal pole that stuck out the door.

When the other end of the pole appeared, Mila couldn’t help but gasp. It was attached to a ring that was latched around a person’s neck. Though a black bag was over the person’s head, she could tell from the body it was a man. His hands were cuffed behind his back, while an additional restraint was wrapped around his chest, holding his arms to his side. His steps were short, almost a shuffle. She took this to mean his ankles and legs were also secured. Behind the prisoner came two more men in suits—one who looked to be in his late fifties, and the other younger but with the definite air of authority.

As the parade turned down the center aisle, Mila subconsciously slunk lower in her seat and pressed against the curved wall of the plane, wanting to stay as far from the prisoner as possible. But if he was as violent as the extreme measures seemed to suggest, he certainly wasn’t putting up any resistance.

When the prisoner drew abreast of her seat, she heard a noise coming from under his hood. Not his voice, but stuttering, gulping breaths as if he’d never been so scared in his life. Even more surprising were the clothes the man was wearing—jeans with a casual, cream-colored shirt, not a prison jumpsuit or something similar. Then she noticed the man’s fingers. They were manicured.

Who the hell was he? And where were they taking him?

Must be an extradition, she decided—a non-American prisoner being transported to Europe to answer for past crimes. She tried to remember if she’d heard about any upcoming prisoner transfers, but nothing came to mind.

It doesn’t matter
, she thought.
It’s not important. You don’t need to care.

That was right. She was just here to do her job and deliver the box to a woman she’d meet the next morning in a café in Lisbon.

Whoever he is, I don’t care
.

As the prisoner passed, the young, authoritative-looking man approached her row and stared at her, as if surprised by her presence. She tried to nod a greeting, but her head barely moved. The man leaned over to his older partner and whispered something. The other man glanced at Mila, and whispered back as they walked by.

CHAPTER 23

ROME, ITALY

O
RLANDO REACTIVATED HER
phone the moment the plane touched down. As soon as it synced with the network, a message appeared telling her she had two voice mails. She played the first.

“Orlando, it’s Peter. If he’s in any condition to talk, I need him to call me right away. Can you help?”

She frowned. Peter was the one who started all this by asking Nate to find Quinn.

So you want to talk to Quinn? Tough luck, asshole.

She frowned at herself. All right, she admitted, maybe he didn’t
start
it, but he definitely
re
started it, so helping him out was going to be low on her To Do list.

The next message was from Nate five hours earlier. “He’s out of surgery. Still unconscious, but the doctor says he’s going to be okay. Some muscle damage, but that’s about the worst of it.”

She closed her eyes. Muscle damage.
Thank God.

She waited until she was off the plane and was walking toward immigration control to call Nate back.

“Got your message. Any update?”

“Last I checked he was still sleeping,” Nate said.

She stopped in the middle of the walkway. “You’re not at the hospital? Where the hell are you?”

“I told you. We were going to find Mila, remember?”

She dipped her head for a second. “Right, sorry,” she said. “Look, I’m here.”

“Here where?”

“Rome.”

“Rome?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

“I hadn’t thought about it one way or the other. I’ve been a bit busy.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Can you meet me at the hospital?”

“It’s more a doctor’s office than a hospital, but, yeah, I can head there right now.”

“I need the address.”

He gave it to her.

“I still have to go through passport control, but I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

__________

“N
EED TO TAKE
off?” Daeng asked.

Nate nodded as he shoved his cell back in his pocket. “Do you mind staying here and keeping an eye on things?”

Daeng shrugged. “Someone has to.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Go make sure Quinn’s doing all right. I’ll call you if anything happens here.”

Nate nodded his thanks, then made his way back to where their car was parked.

Forty-five minutes later, he knocked on the door of Dr. Pelligrini’s clinic. The woman who answered wasn’t the doctor’s wife.

“You are here to see your friend,” she said, not a question. “My sister said you would be back.”

“Sister?”

“
Signora
Pelligrini.”

Nate looked at the woman anew, and though she and the nurse he’d met earlier were nowhere near identical, he did notice a few, subtle common characteristics.

“You’re a nurse, too?”

“No, uh, just help.”

He entered the building and she shut the door.

“Is the doctor still here?” he asked.

“
Si
, but, um, he sleep in his office. You want me to wake him?”

“Not yet.” Nate took a step toward Quinn’s room, then stopped. “There’s another friend who should be here soon. A woman. Asian.”

“If you hear knock, you can answer.”

“Okay.”

He entered the room and the woman followed. Quinn now lay on a narrow bed that had replaced the examination table he’d been operated on. His eyes were closed, but other than the tube running under his nose, and the bandages that covered the left side of his neck and shoulder, he looked almost normal.

“Any change?” he whispered to the woman.

“No, everything same. Good and, um…stead.”

“Steady?”

“
Si
,” she said, brightening. “Steady. That what doctor say. Steady.”

That was good news.

“You want coffee? Tea?” She paused. “
Acqua
?”

“I’m okay. Thank you,” Nate said.

“
Acqua
,” Quinn whispered.

Nate whipped around.

“
Signore
,” the woman said, moving quickly to the bed. “How you feel?”

His eyes slits, Quinn repeated, “
Acqua
.”

“
Si, si
.” She ran out of the room.

“Good to see you awake,” Nate said, smiling.

“What…happened?”

“What do you remember?”

“Getting shot.”

“We got you out of there, brought you here. Doctor fixed you up.”

“How long?”

Nate looked at his watch. “Since you were shot? Almost sixteen hours.”

“Worried it was…longer.” Quinn took a few breaths. “What about Mi—”

The door opened and the doctor rushed in. Pushing Nate out of the way, he pulled a light out of his pocket, and leaned over Quinn. “Your head, it hurt?”

“It’s…fine.”

“Open your eyes.”

“They are open.”

“Like this.” The doctor opened his eyes wide.

Quinn’s slits doubled in size, but apparently it wasn’t enough. The doctor spread the lids of one eye apart with his fingers, shined the light in, then did the same with the other. As he finished, his sister-in-law entered carrying a pitcher of water and an empty glass.

“
La porta
,” she said.

Nate assumed she was talking to the doctor so he didn’t pay attention to her.

“
La porta. La porta
,” she said again.

“The door,” the doctor told him.

“Oh. Oh, right,” Nate said, the words finally sinking in.

He jogged to the back door, and pulled it open to find an impatient and worried-looking Orlando.

“He just woke up,” he said, moving out of the way so she could enter.

When they reached Quinn’s room, the doctor was still doing his examination so they paused near the door.

“Exactly where was he hit?” she whispered to Nate.

He touched the spot that corresponded with Quinn’s wound.

“Ligament damage?”

He shook his head. “Not as far as I know.”

At the bed, Dr. Pelligrini peeled back a corner of Quinn’s bandage and looked underneath. With a satisfied nod, he taped it back down and took a step back.

“Now, rest only. Let the wound heal, you understand? And you be okay.”

“Right. Rest,” Quinn said.

The doctor looked at Nate. “You make sure he does. No rest, no good for heal.
Si
?”

“
Si
,” Nate said.

The doctor headed for the door. “I go back to sleep. You need me, you come get me.”

As he passed his sister-in-law, he motioned for her to leave, too. Reluctantly, she followed him out of the room.

As soon as the door closed, Quinn tried to sit up.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Nate blurted out as he rushed over, Orlando only a half step behind. “You need to lie down.”

“I’m fine,” Quinn said, his voice strained.

“The hell you are,” Orlando said.

Quinn jerked in surprise, then winced in pain from the effort. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think? You get shot so I should just stay in San Francisco drinking espressos?”

He said nothing for a second, then, “You don’t like…espresso.”

She pointed a finger at him, jabbing the air with every word as she said, “Do not try to lighten the mood.”

“Sorry.” He paused. “It’s good to see you.”

“You bastard. You disappear for six months, and when you do finally show up, you get yourself shot. I should kill you myself.”

“Getting shot wasn’t exactly…part of the plan.”

“That implies there
was
a plan, which I doubt.” She frowned, then leaned over and kissed him.

Nate stepped toward the door. “Maybe I’ll go see if I can—”

“Stay right there,” Orlando said, her tone freezing him in place. She looked back and forth between him and Quinn. “Which one of you is going to tell me what happened?”

When it looked like Quinn wasn’t going to answer right away, Nate said, “We were trying to, um, connect with Mila Voss.”

“Connect?”

“Quinn thought there was a good chance she’d show up at Julien’s apartment.”

“Please, do
not
tell me she’s the one who shot him.”

“No,” Nate said quickly. “She was with us. We were in the apartment when a strike team showed up. We got out, but they surprised us on the street.
They’re
the ones who shot him.”

“Mila,” Quinn said. “You didn’t…tell me what happened to…her.”

“After you were shot, they grabbed her and left.”

Quinn groaned.

“Who, exactly, are ‘they’?” Orlando asked.

Instead of answering, Nate looked at his mentor, so she turned to Quinn.

“I think they might be working for Peter.”

“Peter?” There was no hiding the surprise in Orlando’s voice.

“He’s trying to find Mila. That’s why he wanted to talk to me.”

“Did you tell him you were going to look for her, too?” she asked. “Because that sure as hell seems like what you’ve been doing.”

“Looking for her, yes, but only told him that as far as I knew, she was dead.”

Her eyes narrowed as she stared down at him. “Tell me straight out, was there something between the two of you? Is that why you pretended she was dead?”

“What?”

“You need me to stay it? Was she your girlfriend? Were you sleeping with her?”

Nate had the sudden wish he’d just left earlier without saying anything.

“No,” Quinn said. He pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Never. Not even. She was
Julien’s
girlfriend. I mean, had been…not important. I left Thailand to help her because Julien can’t. But I failed, and let them get her. God only knows where she is now.”

“Um, actually,” Nate said, “God and me. And Daeng.”

Quinn and Orlando looked at him.

“You know where she is?” Quinn said.

“Well, we think we do.” Nate told them about Giacona, then about visiting the safe house, and finding the outbuilding where Mila was most likely being held.

When he finished, Quinn pushed himself all the way up into a sitting position, and started to swing his legs off the bed. Orlando stiff-armed his thigh, stopping him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she said.

“Leaving.”

“Not in your condition.”

“I’ve worked when I’ve been worse.”

“Name once.”

He said nothing.

“Nate and I can take care of this,” she said.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m not staying here.”

Orlando and Quinn stared at each other in a silent standoff. Finally, she rolled her eyes and tilted her head back.

“God, you’re the worst patient ever.”

“Second worst. You’re not so good at it, either.”

She glared at him, annoyed, then turned to Nate. “Find him some clothes.”

CHAPTER 24

APRIL 12
^th
, 2006

30,000 FEET ABOVE THE ATLANTIC OCEAN

I
T COULD HAVE
been the chicken dinner, or the turbulence. Most likely it was both. But whatever the reason, Mila’s stomach was twisting and turning in ways it was never designed to do.

Shortly after takeoff, she’d been given a cardboard tray with her less-than-appetizing meal, but she’d been too hungry to set it aside. What a huge mistake that turned out to be. Upon finishing, she put the cardboard container on a seat in the row across the aisle, then stretched out and closed her eyes. Sleeping on planes was not something she had a problem with, so in less than five minutes, she was out.