The Destroyed (7 page)

“I’ll need time,” she said as he turned for the door. “Maybe forever.”

That
was where the dream ended.

But as the hot Thai months moved on, the dream came less and less, until he’d stopped having it at all. But the previous night, after Christina sent word that a man would be arriving to see him, the dream had come to him again, more vivid than ever. When he woke before dawn, his usual thoughts of English lessons and working in fields were replaced with memories of violence and death.

From the description Christina gave him, he knew his visitor was Nate. Yet when he saw his former apprentice, he was surprised. There was something older about Nate, his edges sharper and more defined. There was a confidence, too. While Nate undoubtedly had more to learn, he was now a professional who could stand on his own.

What Quinn also saw was a window into the world he was not yet ready to return to, a world he was unsure he would
ever
be ready for again. His assumption had been that Nate was there to lure him back. Nearly nine months was a long time to be away, so the attempt would not be unreasonable, but that didn’t mean he had to agree to it. His plan had been to make it clear to Nate he wasn’t going anywhere.

Then Nate had yelled out Mila Voss’s name.

Mila Voss. Seen alive.

Dear God, what was she thinking?

Quinn could hear the call ringing on the other end as Nate handed him the phone. There was a click, and a familiar female voice said, “Yes?”

“Misty?” Quinn said, surprised.

A pause. “Quinn.” He heard a smile in her voice before her tone turned serious. “I heard your father passed away last year. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I understand Peter wants to talk to me.”

“Let me see if I can find him.”

He was on hold for nearly three minutes before Misty came back on.

“Sorry for the wait. Connecting you now.”

A double beep, then, “Jesus, Quinn. Where the hell are you?”

“Hello, Peter.”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“No.”

“Haven’t changed, have you?”

Quinn let that one pass without comment, wanting to get this over with. “I’ve been told we have a ghost.”

“Would be nice if that were the case. Afraid this one’s very much flesh and bone.”

“Mila Voss.”

“So it appears.”

“Where was she seen?”

Peter briefed Quinn on the incident in Tanzania, and the discovery of a disguised Mila Voss hovering over a body on the sidewalk.

“Security detection software picked it up first, then matched it to a known photo. Ninety-nine-point-five-percent sure it was either her or her twin sister. But as far as we know, she doesn’t have a twin.”

“Who was the dead guy?”

“Not important.”

Quinn knew that probably wasn’t true, but he didn’t push. “I’d like to see the footage.”

“It’s already uploaded. I put it on one of the servers you and I have used in the past. ADR-3.”

“All right, I’ll check it.”

“Hold on,” Peter said, sensing that Quinn was about to hang up. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

Quinn waited.

“You were the one who was supposed to have disposed of her body,” Peter said.

“I was.”

“So what happened?”

“The body I was given, I got rid of.”

“Yeah, but was it dead when you made it disappear?”

“I don’t typically dispose of people who are alive.”

“And it was Mila?”

“You can read my report, Peter. It’s all in there.”

“I
did
read it. You were the one who ended up having to ID her. So,
was
it Mila?”

“I disposed of the body of a woman that was Mila’s height, had her hair, wearing the clothes she had last been seen in, and dropped off at the hospital by the driver who’d picked her up at the airport. It sure as hell looked like Mila to me.”

“So as far as you know, the body you got rid of was Mila’s.”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“Then how the hell is she walking around alive?”

“I was relying on the assassin for information. If I recall correctly, he had a spotter following her from the airport. Why don’t you ask
him
if they fingered the wrong person?”

“Not a bad idea, except Kovacs was killed several months after that assignment. So that’s not an option.”

“Well, I’m not sure what else you want me to say, Peter.”

Peter let out a defeated breath. “If it really is her, this is a total fuckup.”

“The best I can do is look at the footage and tell you what I think. Other than that, I’m as much in the dark as you are.”

 “Honestly, I’m looking for anything that will help at this point. If you find something, call me right back.”

Quinn hesitated. “There’s no computer where I am, so it could be a day or so before you hear from me.”

“The sooner the better,” Peter said, then hung up.

As Quinn handed the phone back to Nate, he tried not to think about how many lies he’d just told. What happened on this job in Las Vegas had gone against all his training, but
he
was the one who caused the job to go off the rails.
He
was the one who’d made the conscious decision to ignore the professional detachment he was usually so good at maintaining. He had hoped it would never come to this, but even then he’d known the secret of that night—that Mila Voss was still alive—would come to light one day.

That day had finally arrived.

Nate pocketed his cell. “Okay. I’ve done what I promised. I’ll leave you alone now and head back to Bangkok.” He held out his hand. “If you need me, you know how to reach me.”

I’m not ready to go back,
Quinn thought.
In a few more months, maybe. Not now.

But he could no longer suppress the words whispering in the back of his mind.
“I’ll make sure she stays safe,”
his old friend Julien had said.
“But if there comes a day that I can’t, then it will be up to you.”

A pact, one that Quinn couldn’t ignore.

He finally looked up, but didn’t take Nate’s hand. “It’s too late to leave now. We’ll get some sleep and head out in the morning.”

“You’re coming, too?”

“Yes.”

CHAPTER 7

SEVEN YEARS EARLIER

LUCERNE, SWITZERLAND

“H
E’S IN THE
room,” Henrik whispered over the comm in Quinn’s ear.

Quinn touched the bag sitting on the floor beside him. It contained the tools he had predetermined would be needed on the job ahead. His current location was a little-used storage room in the basement of the Chateau Gallant Hotel in Lucerne, where he could remain out of the way until his specialized services were needed.

After consultations with Henrik, the team leader, when he’d first arrived, Quinn had been pleased to find out that the method chosen for the elimination of the subject would be mess-free. A powerful, quick-acting anesthetic would be released from a metal canister hidden behind the headboard as soon as the subject lay down for the night. Once he was under, Henrik would enter the room and administer the fatal dose of Beta-Somnol. Henrik and his team would then have five minutes to locate the documents the subject was supposed to be carrying before Quinn took over. If things went according to his plan, and they usually did, the body would be out of the hotel and on its way to its final resting place no more than seven minutes after that.

He glanced over at Julien. The larger Frenchman looked somewhat ridiculous in his coveralls, but it was better than dressing him as a bellhop. At his size—several inches over six feet and broad in both shoulders and chest—he would have instantly stood out to the hotel staff. It was less likely, though, that anyone would know all the maintenance personnel who might service the facility.

“Won’t be long now,” Quinn said.

“Good. I’m starving. Maybe on the way out of town we can stop for something to eat,
oui
?”

“How about we get rid of the body first and eat later.”

Julien shrugged. “I do not think he will mind.”

Quinn rolled his eyes, but gave no other response.

Over the comm, Henrik was giving the play-by-play of what was happening in the room. Apparently the subject was trying to get some work done before going to sleep.

Julien pulled out a deck of cards. “Some more poker while we wait?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I was lucky earlier. Don’t you want a chance to win back what you lost?”

“I have a feeling you’ll still be lucky.”

“Luck, who knows where it lands? Sometimes good for me, sometimes good for you. You know this.” He smiled. “Okay. This time we play just for fun, huh?”

Quinn was saved from declining again by Henrik announcing that the subject had finally decided to crawl into bed.

“All right. Looks like his eyes are closed,” Henrik said. “I’m activating the gas.” He was quiet for a few seconds. “He should be breathing it in right about…now.” Another pause, this one for half a minute. “All right, we’re going in.”

There was the sound of movement over the radio, then the click of a door opening. That would be the room Henrik was using just down the hall from the subject. More movement, then another click.

“Okay, we’re inside,” Henrik whispered.

Quinn grabbed his bag and stood up. That was their cue.

“You’re sure about not stopping for food,” Julien said as they left the room.

“I’m sure,” Quinn replied.

Julien frowned for a second, then suddenly brightened. “Maybe the target ordered room service and didn’t finish. Can’t let that go to waste, huh?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“If no room service, he must have bought some Swiss chocolate, don’t you think?”

By the time they reached the door to the stairwell, Henrik had administered the Beta-Somnol, and the five-minute clock had begun. Based on their trial runs, it would take Quinn and Julien exactly four and a half minutes to get from their current position to the subject’s door, providing them with a thirty-second cushion in case anything slowed them down.

Nothing did.

Quinn tapped the door twice, paused, then once more. He expected to see Henrik and the three men working with him standing nearby, ready to leave, when the door opened. Instead, all but the one who opened the door were still searching the room.

“Twenty seconds,” Quinn said.

“We can’t find it,” Henrik explained.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re out by the deadline or you’re moving the body yourself.”

“I realize that,” Henrik said. He pointed at the desk next to the subject’s laptop. “They should have been right there.”

“Maybe it’s on the computer.”

“No. Hard copies only. I was told they were concerned about having any of it in digital form.”

“Did anyone lay eyes on it to be sure he had it?”

“Peter confirmed the handoff occurred, but he couldn’t tell us exactly what the information was contained in,” he said. The Office was the client on this job. “Both he and I assumed it would be in an envelope or file folder.”

Quinn looked at his watch. “Five seconds. Are you staying or am I?”

Henrik frowned, then scooped the laptop off the desk and looked over at his men. “Grab his suitcase and shoulder bag. We’ll search them again off-site.”

Quinn grimaced. The bags were part of his disposal responsibility. He didn’t like having pieces floating out there that could cause problems later. “You’ll need to burn them.”

“Don’t worry. We will.”

“You do it yourself.”

“I’ll see to it personally,” Henrik assured him.

Reluctantly, Quinn nodded.

Henrik headed for the door. “Let’s go. Let’s go.”

Before the team was even out of the room, Quinn and Julien began preparing the body for transport. Soon they were also leaving, carrying an aluminum-reinforced cardboard box that contained the subject. If asked, Quinn would simply say they were carrying a replacement duct for the heating system. But they made it through the hotel without any fuss.

They put the box into the dark green van parked downstairs, then leisurely drove off. As soon as they were out of sight of the hotel, Quinn moved into the back, opened the box, and began removing the clothes and all identifying items from the body. These, like the now-dead target, would be going up in flames. He had just pulled off the guy’s undershirt and was reaching for the waistband of the pajama pants when he noticed a flesh-colored bandage on the man’s torso, just below his ribs.

He pulled it off in case there was some sort of tattoo underneath that he hadn’t been told about. No tattoo, but that didn’t suppress his surprise. There was a bump under the skin, one-centimeter square. It was red with a fresh scab at one end that looked very much like it was covering an incision.

Quinn swore to himself, and for a second considered slapping the bandage back on. This wasn’t his responsibility. The only thing he’d been hired to do was get rid of the body. Except, much to the disapproval of his old mentor Durrie, he’d never been one who focused solely on his job and ignored everything else. On this particular operation, he was fully aware that the main focus, beyond the subject’s death, was to obtain a set of documents.

He grabbed a knife out of his kit, and cut around three sides of the square, turning the skin into a flap. Underneath was exactly what he’d been worried he’d find, a small container holding a stack of microphotographs.

The documents. Had to be. Old-school spy craft at its best.

Son of a bitch.

With extreme reluctance, he called Peter.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already finished,” Peter said.

“Still in progress.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Has Henrik given you an update?”

“Yes. Very disappointing.”

“Maybe not.”

After he finished explaining what he’d found, Peter sounded almost jubilant. “Oh, thank God! Good work. Really, really good work.”

“I don’t want to hold on to this. That’s not my responsibility.”