The Unwanted (38 page)

"I did get a hit from the license plate on the car you were following, though," Chang said.

"What kind of hit?" Tucker asked.

"Police found it in Brossard, on the other side of the St. Lawrence River."

"You got prints from inside?" Tucker asked, hopeful.

"No. It was clean. But we did go ahead and check motels in the area. The car matched a description given by a man staying at a Comfort Inn that night. There were three people, actually. Two men and a woman. One of the men and the woman stayed together. The other had his own room. They left the next morning. No one knows exactly what time, they just left their keys in the rooms."

"Did you get any names?" Tucker asked.

"The couple registered as Mitch and Sissy Booth. The other guy as Vince Salas. But they were phony. Home addresses didn't check out."

"How did they pay?"

"Same credit card for both rooms," Chang said. "The name on it was Mitch Booth. It was good, but I back-checked. It's the only time it's ever been used."

Prepared false IDs. No prints. A disposable car.

Professionals.

"What about security cameras? The motel had to have one."

"You're going to love this," Chang said.

"What?"

"They had a jammer."

Tucker said nothing.

"The camera in the motel office takes stills every ten seconds, low res. At the beginning of each day, they burn the previous twenty-four hours to disk. My guy got a look at the night the people you're looking for checked in. But at the time they would have been in the office, the pictures were just digital crap."

"So other than knowing where they stayed, you've got nothing?" Tucker said.

"Not exactly nothing," Chang said. "There is another camera. Parking lot security. Whatever type of jammer they were using, it looks like it had to be within thirty feet or so of a camera for it to work."

"So you got them on the parking lot camera?"

"Yes. It's from a distance, and not very clear, but it's something."

"Send it to me."

"Should be in your email now."

"Thanks," Tucker said, then hung up.

His laptop was in a shoulder bag next to his desk. He pulled it out and booted it up. Mr. Rose's technicians had installed a wireless system that worked throughout the facility, so as soon as his desktop appeared, he activated his email. The message from Chang was there, complete with two attachments. He highlighted both and opened them.

The first showed a grainy nighttime shot of a parking lot. There were dozens of cars parked in neat rows. Though the photo was black-and-white, he thought one of the cars parked next to the motel building looked very much like the car he had followed in Montreal. Beside it were three people. The two closest had their backs to the camera and were opening the doors on the passenger side of the vehicle. One was the woman. She was short and thin, but other than that she was unidentifiable. On the other side, facing the camera, was the second man. But his head was lowered in preparation to climb into the car, leaving only the top visible. He could have been anywhere from eighteen to sixty.

Tucker brought the second image forward. Same angle only a few seconds later, he guessed. The woman who had been climbing into the back seat was just a shape through the rear window now. The driver had also disappeared.

But the man who'd been getting into the front passenger seat was still there. It looked like he was just about to slide in, but in doing so he had turned and given the camera his profile.

Tucker leaned in toward the computer screen. There was something about the man. Something familiar.

He knew if he just concentrated for a minute, it would come to him. He switched back to the first shot, looking at the man's back. Nothing special there. Lean, but not thin. A little under six feet tall. He looked strong—not rippling-muscle strong, but useful strong. Like he was the kind of guy who could do a lot of things.

Tucker clicked on the second picture. It confirmed what he'd seen in the first. A man of action. He flipped between the photos, letting the images dance on the screen in front of him.

Back.

Profile.

Back.

Profile.

Back.

Profile.

Stop.

All of a sudden he was remembering snow. Not the snow that capped the peaks just outside the entrance to Yellowhammer. German snow. Berlin snow.

Jonathan Quinn.

That's who he was looking at. Jonathan-fucking-Quinn. Tucker had last seen him on a sidewalk in Tiergarten in the middle of Berlin almost a year and a half earlier. They'd made a deal. Tucker had given up his boss's whereabouts, and Quinn had let him walk away alive.

Jonathan Quinn.
Goddammit.

He looked back at the first picture, this time concentrating on the woman getting into the back seat. Like before, he could only see her back, but now that he knew what to look for, her hair and her height gave her away.

Dark, probably black, and a little longer than it had been in Berlin. As for her height, she didn't even look like she cleared the top of the Jetta.

Orlando. She'd been on that sidewalk with Quinn and Tucker. There had been murder in her eyes. His murder if she had had her way. Couldn't really blame her. He'd been involved in the abduction of her son, after all. But a deal was a deal, and Quinn had made her keep it.

If Tucker's and Quinn's roles had been reversed, he wasn't so sure he would have been as honorable as the cleaner had been. Honor, he knew, was mostly bullshit anyway.

The other man had to be Quinn's assistant.
What the fuck was his name?
Tucker realized he wasn't sure he had ever heard it. Didn't matter anyway. Quinn was the important one.

But in reality, their presence didn't change anything. Tucker seriously doubted Quinn and his team even knew about Yellowhammer. How could they? Even if they had been able to get to Marion and talk to her, they would have learned nothing, because she knew nothing. Tucker was sure of that now. He believed her story about the African girl. Playing the part of the good Samaritan, she had unintentionally gotten in the way. That had been all there was to it.

They'd been hunting her not so much to get the child back, but because they were worried she'd known more than she did. She'd been a potential leak that needed to be stopped. Tucker's fault, really. He knew that. The army colonel he'd hired in Côte d'Ivoire had been too heavy-handed. Tucker had told him a less direct approach was best. Fewer questions that way. And much more cooperation. But the man had gone in with a whole squad, acting all tough and demanding. Stupid.

Tucker closed his laptop and leaned back in the chair. The only thing that stopped him from giving the order to get rid of the Dupuis bitch at that moment was the
what if
floating in the back of his mind.
What if
Quinn had actually made it this far?
What if
it was one of the cleaner's team poking around outside the fence? Or better yet,
what if
it was Quinn himself who had tripped the motion sensor?

Tucker liked to believe he was always thinking ahead and preparing for all the different possibilities. Covering his own ass just in case. If Quinn somehow got the upper hand—which Tucker thought very unlikely—Marion Dupuis could then become a bargaining chip. Tucker could play to Quinn's honor again, giving him the woman and walking away clean. Or better yet, he could use Dupuis to trap the cleaner, then threaten to kill the woman if Quinn didn't tell him everything he knew. It would be an interesting experiment to see how far Quinn's honor went.

Tucker couldn't help but smile at the possibility.

Marion was getting worried. She'd been locked in her dark cell for hours without another visit from the Australian or the old man with the creepy eyes. From the little experience she'd had, that was unusual. Until now, they hadn't let her go for more than two hours without another round of questioning.

She kept time by pacing the cell and brushing the fingers of her hand along the wall, letting them guide her so that she wouldn't run into anything. She slowed her pace so that it took a full thirty seconds to make one circuit, then began counting laps, one minute for every two, an hour for every 120.

A couple of times she lost count and had to estimate, but she didn't stop until she reached 800. By her estimate over six and a half hours. But it wasn't her legs that stopped her. It was her fear.

Six and a half hours and no visitors?

No one had even come to see if she needed to use a toilet. She didn't. She hadn't drunk enough liquids in the last twenty-four hours to warrant that.

Something must be wrong,
she thought. Could they have decided they didn't need her anymore, and were just going to let her die?

Maybe everyone was gone. Maybe there was no one left here but her.

She started breathing faster as her fear took a sharp turn toward panic.

Without even realizing it, she began circling the room again, hoping to reassure herself that she'd get out of here. Somehow. But it didn't work. She knew her life, the life she wasn't ready to give up yet, was almost over.

No.
Not just her life, she reminded herself.

"God, please," she said out loud. "Please watch over Iris. Don't let them hurt her. Please. Don't let them."

CHAPTER
27

"DAMMIT," NATE SAID.

Quinn looked up. They had been trying to move into a position with a better view of the guardhouse. Nate had been on point, fifteen feet in front of him. He was still there, but instead of standing, he was on the ground. Quinn raced forward, his eyes darting around as he knelt down next to his apprentice.

"Are you hurt?" Quinn asked.

There was a pause. "I tripped on something," Nate said. "A bush, I think."

Quinn tried to give Nate a hand up, but Nate said, "I'm fine." Then pushed himself to his feet unaided.

Nate was about to start up again, but Quinn stopped him. "Wait. Did you hear that?"

In the distance he had heard a scrape. Like a shoe slipping on rock. But the sound didn't come again.

"What was it?" Nate asked.

"I think someone's out there."

"A guard?"

"Must be." Quinn thought for a moment. "Go around the right side of that hill." He pointed at a mound of rock rising ahead of them another fifty feet. "I'll go left. Let's meet back here in ten minutes."

Nate nodded.

"And Nate," Quinn added as Nate was about to leave.

"What?"

Quinn smiled. "Don't trip."

Tucker had grown impatient waiting for word about the possible intruder, so he had the guard at the gate patch all communications with the search team to his radio. Now he sat staring at the small black unit on his desk, listening to bouts of dead air between bursts of digitally encrypted transmissions.

"Base to four," a voice said.

The two-man team had been joined by the four men Tucker had sent. The man in the guardhouse was Base, while the searchers were numbered two through six.

"Four," another voice replied, his tone hushed.

"Status."

"Grid H-3 clear."

"Move to H-4."

"Roger."

"Base to five."

"Five here," the new voice said. Before Base could ask for a status, he went on. "I have a visual. Repeat, I have a visual."

"Grid?"

"A-2. Near the fence. Looks like a male."

Tucker couldn't help himself. He picked up his radio and pushed transmit. "What's he doing?"

There was a pause, then five said, "He's prone. No movement."

"Is he injured?" Tucker asked.

"Doesn't appear to be. His eyes are open and active."

There was dead air for a moment.

"Base requests instructions," the man at the guardhouse said, his question directed at Tucker.

"Is he alone?" Tucker asked.

"I haven't seen anyone else," five said.

Tucker thought for a moment. "Have your man stay there and keep an eye on him. Report any movement. Have the others move in and check surrounding area to make sure he's alone."

"Roger," Base said. "Five hold position. Two, four, and six sweep grid points B-2, B-3, and A-3. If clear, proceed to A-4. Three, move to A-1 to cover any potential forward movement by intruder."