The Discarded (37 page)

After a quick examination, Quinn knew he was right. One bullet had entered just below his rib cage and the other in his chest. From the wheeze of the older man’s breaths, Quinn was sure one had punctured a lung. He was equally sure there was little he could do for his friend.

Raising his voice, he said, “Clear on this end.”

“Clear here, too,” Nate said.

“I need Orlando.”

A moment later, he heard her cutting through the brush.

When she saw Abraham, she said, “Shit,” and dropped down on the other side of him. “Dammit, Abraham. What the hell did you do?”

“I thought…that was pretty obvious.” He winced again. “Did we get them?”

“We did,” Quinn said, “but it would have been a lot harder if you hadn’t taken out the woman.”

As the others approached, Quinn caught Desirae’s gaze and shook his head. She got the message and tried to stop Tessa from approaching, but the girl kept coming.

“Abe?” Tessa said, her eyes wide. “Oh, no. Are you…”

Despite the pain Quinn knew Abraham was feeling, the old op smiled and said, “Are you…okay?”

She knelt beside him. “Yeah. But you—”

“I need you…to promise me…something.”

With effort, he lifted his hand toward her and she grabbed it.

“I need…you to just have fun…be a girl…enjoy every…”—he coughed—“moment. Can you…promise me that?”

Her lower lip trembling, she said, “I promise.”

As he coughed again, Desirae put her hands on Tessa’s shoulders. “Why don’t we give Abe a little room?”

Abraham moved his gaze to the woman, the look on his face asking if Tessa was indeed okay.

“She’s fine,” Desirae said. “Thanks to you, she’s just fine.”

“I brought the others to you….You would have been…safe if I left…it alone.”

“They would have come for us whether you were looking or not. You helped us stop them. Thank you.” She smiled. “Come on, Tessa.” She led her daughter away.

Abraham seemed to drift off for a moment.

Orlando squeezed his hand, tears running down her face. “Hey, stay with me.” When his eyes opened again, she tried to smile as she said, “You know, you were wrong earlier.”

He looked confused. “Wrong?”

“Yeah, what you said about it not being your best day,” she said. “You saved Tessa. Seems to me this
is
the best.”

A twinkle flitted through his eyes as a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Orlando,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper now, “my best day…was the day I found you.”

As far as last words went, Quinn thought Abraham’s were pretty damn good.

CHAPTER
36

W
HEN THE SUN
came up
,
Quinn and Nate got down to the business they were best at, and before long the bodies of the McCrillis crew were buried deep in the jungle where they would never be found.

Abraham was another story. A call to Helen Cho—the first of what would be several—resulted in a no-questions-asked death certificate and a sealed coffin ride back to California.

But Abraham and the bodies of the others were not the biggest issue. Despite what Desirae had said to Orlando’s mentor, Clark and her men had been a symptom of Tessa and Desirae’s problem, not the cause, so the danger still existed.

After Quinn and Orlando promised they would continue their working relationship with Helen’s organization, she was more than willing to provide them with the assistance they required to finish things. It would, after all, clean up a mess the CIA—one of her internal clients—would be very happy to be rid of.

“Big house,” Orlando noted.

“You expected something smaller?” Quinn asked.

The house was in an exclusive neighborhood of San Mateo, California, the heart of Silicon Valley. Surrounding it was an eight-foot-high stone wall with a solid wooden gate across the driveway entrance.

They had no problem getting someone inside to open this gate for them. As a respected reporter for a leading lifestyle website and her freelance photographer, Orlando and Quinn were ostensibly there to interview Jacqueline Rostov, CEO of Rostov Dynamics.

The house was a three-story French chateau, which, according to the information they’d been given, was a brick-by-brick copy of a home in the Loire Valley of France. As they neared the front, a suited man standing in the driveway directed them to a parking spot before leading them up to the front door.

Inside, an older gentleman took them to a lavishly decorated office on the second floor.

“Mrs. Rostov will be with you soon,” he said. “She’s finishing up other business. After you finish the interview, I’ve been instructed to give you a tour of the grounds.”

“That’ll be great,” Orlando replied. “Thanks.”

“Would you like something to drink while you wait?”

“We’re fine.”

To ensure they would have a little extra time before the “interview” started, they had arrived fifteen minutes early. As soon as their guide left and closed the door, Quinn opened his camera bag and he and Orlando set to work.

Thirty-two minutes passed by the time Mrs. Rostov finally walked in and found Quinn and Orlando seated in the guest chairs in front of her desk. While her bio listed her as fifty-nine, the head of Rostov Dynamics had clearly spent a sizable chunk of cash on doctors and clothes to look younger.

Businesslike smiles and quick, firm handshakes were shared, and then the woman settled into her chair behind the desk.

“I’m having some tea brought in,” she said. “If there’s something else you’d rather have…?”

“Tea is fine,” Orlando said.

“Works for me, too,” Quinn said.

They had prepared for the contingency of someone bringing refreshments, so Orlando started in on her list of questions, while Quinn walked around the room under the pretext of checking the lighting and looking for good angles to take some pictures.

He was still walking around when the tea arrived. A young woman in a dark suit brought the tray in, set it on the desk, and left. Quinn arrived at the double doors just as she closed it. With his back to the desk, he slipped the double-looped lock over the two handles and pushed the button that silently tightened the carbon-fiber straps. He then walked toward the window at the other end of the room, pulled out his phone, and sent the pre-typed text.

Commence transfer

Casually, he returned to his chair. Orlando was in the middle of asking the woman about her favorite vacation spots but stopped as soon as he sat down.

Rostov looked at her for a moment, waiting, then said, “Was there a question?”

Orlando smiled, but said nothing as Quinn removed a laptop from his bag and set it on the desk.

Rostov looked confused. “What’s going on?”

Quinn held up a finger. “Just a second.”

“I’m sorry?” she said, clearly unaccustomed to being told what to do.

A video chat window opened on the screen. In it was Desirae Rosette.

“Who is that?” Rostov asked.

“We’ll get to her in a moment,” Orlando said.

“I’m not sure what this is all about,” the woman said, “but if this is some kind of—”

“This is not some kind of anything,” Quinn cut her off. “It
is
a discussion about your future.”

“My future?” She stared at him for a tense second before her face relaxed and she said in a calm voice, “Murphy, get in here.” She donned a smug smile and leaned back in her chair. After several seconds, puzzlement crept into her eyes. “Murphy? Now.”

“I’m afraid no one’s coming, Mrs. Rostov,” Orlando said as she picked up the small device she’d put on the desk when the interview started. “I’m not actually using this to record you. We know you have this room bugged.” She glanced at Quinn. “How many?”

“Seven, not including the one in the private bathroom,” he said.

“This thing is a signal jammer,” Orlando went on, “but not just any old signal jammer. In addition to keeping your people from hearing what we say, it’s playing back to them an interview you gave to a reporter two days ago in New York. I should probably tell you she wasn’t a reporter, either, so don’t expect to see that article anytime soon.”

Rostov picked up her phone.

“Sorry, that doesn’t work, either,” Quinn said.

Not believing him, she put the receiver to her ear before slamming it back into its cradle and rising to her feet. “I am not a fan of pranks or whatever this is you’re doing. You can explain yourself to the police.”

As she rounded the desk, Quinn said, “Sure, and you can explain to them why you put a hit on a four-year-old girl and her mother.”

Rostov stopped. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Jennifer Kagawa and her daughter, Tessa? You remember who Tessa is, don’t you? Your husband’s daughter?”

A crack in her control. Not much, but enough.

“I believe you were going to get the police,” Orlando said. “We’re happy to wait. They’ll love the information we have.”

Rostov narrowed her eyes. “What information?”

“Sworn affidavits, video testimony, bank records.”

“What records? What testimony?”

“That would be the testimony of Don McCrillis, CEO of McCrillis International. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

Rostov placed a hand on the desk as if she needed help maintaining her balance. “I don’t believe you.”

“Of course you don’t,” Quinn said.

He moved Desirae’s video window to one side and clicked open another file. Up popped an image of McCrillis International’s president. Quinn hit
PLAY
.

“State your name,” an unseen man said.

“Donald Wayne McCrillis.”

“And the date?”

McCrillis stated a date from three days earlier, the interview having taken place immediately following the completion of negotiations between McCrillis and the US government under the direction of Helen Cho. The negotiations really only came down to whether McCrillis wanted to keep his company, albeit in a considerably less powerful form, or spend the rest of his life in jail. An easy decision, to say the least.

“We are here to discuss the Rostov-Kagawa matter, is that correct?”

“Yes,” McCrillis said.

“I believe you have a prepared statement?”

“I do.”

“Proceed.”

McCrillis picked up some papers off the table in front of him and began to read. “Earlier this month, I became aware of a rogue operation run by Ethan Boyer, our recently deceased vice president of special operations. The operation was contracted by Jacqueline Rostov, head of Rostov Dy—”

“That son of a bitch,” the woman said. “Turn it off!”

Quinn clicked the
PAUSE
button. “No sense in going over details you’re already familiar with, right?”

Rostov slumped back into her chair, her right hand trembling.

“I believe it’s introduction time,” Orlando said. “Mrs. Rostov, this is Desirae Rosette. Desirae is the woman who raised your husband’s daughter. Someone had to since you killed the girl’s mother.”

Rostov drew back against her chair as if Desirae was going to leap through the screen and strangle her.

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Desirae said.

“What is it you want?” the woman whispered.

“First, you or anyone acting on your behalf will never attempt to harm Tessa again,” Desirae said.

“Let me interject something here,” Quinn said. “If anything does happen to Tessa, anything that can’t easily be explained to all of our satisfaction, then that same something will happen to you, Mrs. Rostov. Am I clear?”

The woman’s hand continued to shake, but otherwise she didn’t move.

“Am I clear?”

Finally, a nod.

“Please continue, Desirae,” he said as his phone vibrated with an incoming text.

“Second, since you have no children of your own, eighty percent of the Rostov estate will be kept in a trust for Tessa, while the other twenty percent will go to the Abraham Delger Memorial Education Fund.”

Rostov nearly flew out of her chair as she said, “If you think I would
ever
let you take my money away, you all are beyond delusional.”

Quinn gestured to the frozen image of Don McCrillis. “You’ve lost it one way or the other. Or would you prefer the government takes it away when you’re given the death penalty?”

“You’ll have to do what the rest of us do,” Orlando said. “Get a job and live off of that.”

Rostov gritted her teeth. “I have a job.”

“That brings us to the third point,” Quinn said. “The board of directors has decided it would be best if the company were not associated with someone who hires hit squads to kill children.”

“The board can think whatever they want, but
I’m
the majority stock holder! My vote is the only one that counts.”

“I believe you misunderstood point number two. Your assets aren’t waiting to be transferred out of your name. The transaction completed…” He checked the new message on his phone. “Thirty seconds ago.”

Rostov stared at them, dumbfounded. “Bullshit.”

“Go ahead,” Quinn said, motioning to Rostov’s own computer. “Check one of your accounts. It doesn’t matter which one.”

She pulled her keyboard toward her and did what Quinn suggested. The account in question had a current balance of $43.71.

“There’s a little bit left in each,” he said, “to give you a fresh start.”

“You can’t do this,” she whispered.

“
We
can’t, no,” Orlando said. “But friends of ours can, and did.”

Quinn asked Desirae, “Anything else to add?”

“One more thing,” she said, then looked offscreen and raised her voice. “Terri!”

A few seconds later, Tessa squeezed into the shot with her.

“There was something you wanted to say, wasn’t there?” Desirae said to her daughter.

Tessa looked into the camera. “You’re Mrs. Rostov?”

The woman’s mouth hung open.

“Answer her,” Quinn said.

“Yes,” Rostov replied.

“I know what you did to my first mom, I know what you did to my friend Abe, and I know what you wanted to do to me. You’re not a good person. My mom…”—she glanced at Desirae—“says I should forgive you so I can move on. I’ll try, but I don’t know if I can.” She paused and looked at her mother again. “That’s it.”