The Silenced (36 page)

THE HOUSE WAS TWENTY MILES NORTHEAST OF
the city, outside Chelmsford, near a little town called Sandon. It was down a rural road lined with fields and the occasional home. The house belonged to a Dr. Ryan O’Sullivan and his Russian wife, Ilya, both friends of Nova’s. When Quinn had scouted it with Orlando and Petra that afternoon, his only question had been where the doctor and his family were.

“Nova says the husband and wife are out of the country at a medical convention, and that the children are away at boarding schools in Ireland,” Petra told him.

“Any chance someone will show up unexpectedly?” Orlando asked.

“He says zero.”

Quinn took another look around. “All right. This will do.”

At the front of the property was a small pond that served as home to a pair of black swans. Quinn had seen them that afternoon, but the only movement on the water now was the frenetic dappling caused by the rain from the storm.

The house at the back of the property was two stories in front with two single-story wings that ran further back on each side. Though Nova had supplied a key, Quinn had no intention of entering. Their business would be dealt with out front, between the house and the pond.

The closest neighbors were a good four acres away to either side, separated by rows of trees and brush. Behind the house, nothing but a tree-ringed field.

When they arrived, Orlando was waiting for them. Her job had been to make sure no one had shown up.

Petra parked the van in front of the house, visible from the road, then Quinn and the two Russians joined Orlando under the carport on the south end of the house.

“How is he?” he asked Orlando, still thinking about Nate.

“Not great, but he’s hanging in there.”

Quinn took a deep breath. In all his years in the business, he had never been seriously shot or lost a limb. In Nate’s short time, he’d experienced both. And, Quinn realized, both times had been on projects that were Quinn initiated. Which meant there was no way to rationalize either injury as just being part of the job.

They were Quinn’s fault. He was responsible.

Orlando placed a hand on his back. “He’s a fighter,” she said. “He’s going to be fine.”

If he makes it through the night
, Quinn thought.

Something buzzed nearby.

Mikhail pulled his phone out of his pocket. He listened for a moment, then said, “Five minutes away.”

Quinn nodded. “Tell Nova to drop the hammer now.”

While Mikhail passed on the instructions, Quinn turned to Petra and Orlando.

“We should get into position,” he said.

Petra and Mikhail headed off to the right, past the van. Orlando gave Quinn’s hand a squeeze, then ran along the edge of the driveway opposite the pond.

Three minutes later, Quinn saw headlights in the distance down Meyers Lane. They were proceeding slowly. He moved out from the cover of the carport to a spot in the middle of the driveway a dozen feet away from the van, then turned so he faced the road, and waited as the rain soaked his head and jacket.

A large tree at the northeast corner of the property momentarily obscured the car, then it reappeared along the road just on the other side of the pond. Even with the stormy conditions, Quinn could see it was a Mercedes sedan. It slowed to a near stop fifteen feet shy of the driveway’s entrance, then began crawling forward, finally turning onto the driveway. When it stopped again, it was two car lengths away from Quinn.

Quinn’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out knowing what would be on the display:
BLOCKED
.

He accepted the call and held the phone up to his ear, but said nothing.

“You weren’t alone. Where are the others?”

“What others?” Quinn asked.

“You think I didn’t have you watched? Where are they?”

Quinn raised his arm. A second later Petra and Mikhail stepped out from around the van.

“Show me your weapons,” Palavin said.

“That’s not necessary,” Quinn told him.

“Show them or your sister is dead.”

“How do I know you didn’t kill her already?”

There was the sound of a slap, then Quinn could hear Liz yelp. “Your weapons,” Palavin repeated.

Quinn pulled a pistol out of his jacket, and held it out so those in the car could see it.

“Drop it on the ground.”

Quinn did so.

“Now your friends.”

Quinn paused, then turned and nodded at Petra and Mikhail. They repeated Quinn’s actions, their pistols joining his in the mud.

“Happy?” Quinn asked.

“Where is the package?” Palavin said.

“In the van.”

“Get it.”

Quinn walked over to the van. As he reached for the door Palavin said, “Tell me now if there is anyone inside.”

“Other than Trevor Robb?” Quinn asked. When Palavin didn’t respond, Quinn said, “No one.”

“Open it.”

Quinn opened the door. The two bags he and Orlando had carried out of the Grant Building were visible just inside.

“That’s him?” the Ghost asked.

“What’s left,” Quinn said.

“Bring the bags over and set them beside the car on the driver’s side.”

“Let my sister out first,” Quinn said.

“I don’t think so.”

“Look. The bags are right here. If you really had someone watching me, then you know these are the same bags I brought out of the building.”

“I know nothing of the kind,” Palavin said. “You’ve had plenty of time to replace what was inside with anything. Bring the bags over.”

“The deal was an exchange. That means we both get something at the same time.”

Quinn heard movement on the other end, then Palavin’s voice, muffled and unintelligible.

The two front doors opened, and the driver and the front passenger got out. The driver was about Quinn’s height, and at least fifty years old. Quinn had never seen him before.

The passenger was different, though. Quinn knew exactly who he was.

“Hello, Mercer,” Quinn said.

Mercer sneered at Quinn.

The driver opened the rear passenger door and leaned inside. When he stood back up, he had Liz with him. She looked scared.

“Now the bags,” the Ghost said over the phone.

Quinn slipped the phone into his pocket, then pulled the bags out of the van and walked them over to the car.

On the road in front of the property, two cars appeared—a Mercedes and an Audi. A moment later they turned down the driveway.

“What is this?” Quinn yelled.

The rear passenger door on the other side of the S600 opened, and an elderly man climbed out. There was no mistaking his face. He was the older version of the wavy-haired twin in the Young Leninist photo, and the middle-aged man from the headshot in Annabel Taplin’s folder.

The murderer.

The faux Trevor Robb.

The Ghost.

He was smiling an ugly smile.

“I’m afraid this was a career-ending job from the beginning. For a last assignment, I’m sure it wasn’t as satisfying as you would have hoped, and for that I apologize.”

The Mercedes and the Audi pulled to a stop behind the Ghost’s car.

“What are you talking about?” Quinn asked, wiping the water from his face.

“You know about the people I’ve had removed. You obviously know about the late Mr. Robb. I’m afraid you are too dangerous to me alive. I can’t have that.”

“So you’re just going to kill me?” Quinn said.

“You and your new friends,” Palavin said, glancing back toward Petra and Mikhail. He smiled. “Yes. I know who you are. Dombrovski’s puppets. Mercer was kind enough to take photos of each of you in Maine before he killed your friend.” He looked back at Quinn. “So kind of you to team up with them. Makes things so much more neat and easy.” He then said something in Russian.

Mikhail spat several words back.

Palavin laughed, then said in English, “A fool’s quest to think you could best me.”

“So you and your two men there are planning to take on all of us?” Quinn asked.

“Me and my two men?” He waved toward the two cars behind his. “There’s far more than just the three of us.”

“If that were true, shouldn’t there be a third car? I mean, in addition to the two cars that were shadowing you, didn’t you have another one following me?”

Palavin cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. “So you had your own surveillance,” he said. “So what? My third car is just down the road, making sure we’re not disturbed.”

“No,” Quinn said. “It’s not.”

Even from this distance, he could see doubt flash across Palavin’s face. He stepped toward the Mercedes.

“Stop,” Palavin ordered. His gaze flicked to the man standing with Liz. “Fedor!”

The man raised a gun to Liz’s head.

“She’s dead if you come any closer,” Palavin said.

“I don’t think so,” Quinn said.

The
thup
of a bullet passing through a suppressor was all but drowned out by the rain. Fedor collapsing to the ground dead, though, was impossible to miss.

Liz, jerking in surprise, let out a disbelieving shriek as she looked down at Palavin’s driver.

“Get down!” Quinn yelled at her.

On the left side of the car, Mercer drew his own gun. But before he could aim, Quinn dove to his right, his hand reaching out for the pistol Fedor had dropped. As his fingers curled around the grip, a bullet pierced the air a few inches above his back.

Quinn rolled forward so he was against the car, out of Mercer’s direct line of sight.

The rain muffled a lot of the other sounds, but Quinn could still hear the doors of the Audi and other Mercedes opening further down the driveway.

“Kill them all!” Palavin yelled.

“Give it up, Quinn. You don’t have a chance,” Mercer demanded as he popped out from around the end of the car, his gun trained on the place he thought Quinn would be.

But Quinn had used the noise of the rain as cover and had moved along the front of the car, stopping a few inches shy of the corner. When Mercer came into view, Quinn was much closer than the other man expected.

“I don’t think so,” Quinn said as he pulled the trigger.

Mercer twisted to his right just enough so that the bullet caught him in his shoulder instead of his heart. He yelled out in pain and fell to the ground, his gun landing with a thud on the wet gravel a few feet away. Still in survival mode, he tried to grab at it, but Quinn kicked it out of reach.

“You keep moving like that, you’re going to bleed to death,” Quinn said, pointing the gun at him.

“What are you waiting for?” Palavin shouted toward the backup cars from his crouched position behind the car door. “Take them out!”

The sound of weapons being drawn and slides being pulled back could be heard by everyone, even in the rain. But no triggers were pulled.

Quinn moved around the door until he could see the Ghost, then pointed his gun at him. “I’m sorry,” he said, acting embarrassed. “Did you think those were
your
men in those cars?”

The blood drained from the Ghost’s face as he turned to look behind him.

There were eight men, each with guns trained on the former KGB agent. On Quinn’s earlier command, Nova and his men had “dropped the hammer” on the Ghost’s backup cars, then procured the vehicles for themselves.

Orlando stepped out from the bushes near the pond, adding a ninth gun to the mix.

Quinn motioned for her to get Liz, then he pulled Palavin to his feet.

“You can’t kill me,” Palavin said. “I’m under the protection of MI6. If anything happens to me, they’ll hunt you down and make you pay.”

“Really? That’s what you’re counting on? Some tenuous, outdated relationship with British intelligence?” Quinn smiled, then leaned in close. “Who do you think gave me your phone number? MI6 is done with you.”