Brett Battles - The Destroyed

“A pro?”

Jergins grabbed a small stack of stapled papers and tossed it to Quinn. “Here’s her info if you want to take a look.”

Quinn reached down to pick up the report, planning on tossing it back and saying that wasn’t necessary, when the picture on the top page caught his attention.

Eastern European-looking face. Shoulder-length brown hair. Slight frame.

Mila Voss.

He acted like he was reading the paper, but in reality he was fighting to keep any emotion from showing on his face. Once he felt he had control, he flipped through the other pages, looking for any information that might tell him why she’d been targeted for death. But, not unusually, no cause was mentioned.

As if disinterested, he set the papers back down and turned to Kovacs. “You’re right. A little trouble maybe, but not much. I’ll make sure I have access to spare fixtures or anything else that might need to be replaced. But if you can avoid any breakage, I’d appreciate it.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t let it get that far.”

Jergins took over and talked about the basic setup. Quinn listened and nodded in all the right places, but barely heard any of it.

“For you,” Jergins said, slipping two hotel key cards across the table.

Quinn pushed thoughts of Mila to the side as he picked up the keys and tried to focus. One had a slight notch along one edge as if someone had banged it against the corner of a table. Otherwise, the two keys were identical. He knew one would be to the room Mila was to be killed in, and one would be to the room where he would be expected to wait until he was needed, but which was which and what were the room numbers? Had Jergins already told him and he hadn’t heard?

He held up the one with the notch. “And this one is to…?”

“The job site on the seventh floor.”

Quinn nodded, and glanced down at the table. “Do you have a floor map? I’d like to see exactly where it is in conjunction with exits and other rooms.”

“Yeah,” Jergins said. “There’s one here somewhere.” He started looking through everything. “Whit, down by you.”

Kaufman picked up a piece of paper and handed it to Quinn. Kovacs leaned over so he could see it, too.

“There,” the assassin said. He pointed at the room marked 739. Then he touched 753, a little farther down the hall. “And that’s your room. But one floor up, of course.”

“Sure. Thanks.” Rooms 739 and 853. He burned the numbers into his memory.

Jergins wanted to go through the plan one more time. Quinn said that was a great idea, and once again listened without hearing, all the while wanting to rush out of the room.

When they were finally done, he said his goodbyes, then forced himself to walk leisurely through the suite and into the hotel corridor. During the full ten minutes it took him to reach the street, he refrained from doing anything that would seem out of character. There was just no way to know if someone might be watching him, someone who may have realized he actually had a connection to the target.

One thing was for certain-the Office had no idea Quinn even knew Mila. Peter would have never given Quinn the assignment.

Mila, what the hell did you do?

As he moved south down the Strip, he worked through all of his options. Being the professional he was and with his outstanding reputation, he knew he should ignore the fact that he’d learned the target’s name and just do the job he was hired to do. He wasn’t the guy pulling the trigger, after all. In his capacity, he could at least see to it that her remains were treated with respect.

But as noble as that might be, it rang hollow when considering he was in position to stop it from happening at all. Doing so, though, could mean putting his own life in danger, not to mention jeopardizing his career. If he did intervene, he would have to be exceedingly careful.

Are you really considering this? You’ll have to pull it off without screwing up everything else. Is that even possible?

Though he currently had no answers to those questions, he realized there was one thing he could do. Granted, if he did nothing else, it would be a passive-aggressive approach to solving the problem. But it was a start, and hopefully he would come up with a more definitive plan prior to Mila’s arrival at Planet Hollywood.

He ducked into a casino and found as quiet a spot as possible near some unused slot machines at the back. Even though it was after midnight in Europe, he made the call anyway.

“ Oui,” a deep baritone voice said.

“Julien, it’s Quinn.”

“Quinn, my friend. Comment ca va?”

“I’m fine. Thanks. Are you free right now?”

“You have a job for me?”

“I do.”

“I have something I’m supposed to do that starts on Sunday.”

“Can you get out of it?”

Julien was quiet for a moment. “I suppose. Is this a good job?”

“I’m sure you won’t want to miss it.”

“Where?”

“Las Vegas.”

“Vegas? I have not been there in many years. I like this idea. When do you need me?”

“Tomorrow, as early as possible.”

“Tomorrow for me? Or tomorrow for you? It’s already Saturday here.”

“Tomorrow for me. Today for you.”

“I don’t know if I-”

“Find a way, Julien,” Quinn said, his tone dead serious. “I need you here.”

The humor that normally ran through Julien’s voice vanished. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

Quinn hung up and made a second call. “Jergins? This is Quinn.”

“What’s up?” the team leader asked.

“I’ve been giving it some thought, and I think I’m going to bring in a man to help out. It’ll just keep things smoother.”

“Sure. Do you have a name?”

“Not yet. I’ll make some calls.”

“All right. As soon as you know who it is, let me know. Peter wants a listing of all those involved.”

Having zero intention of actually doing that, Quinn said, “No problem.”

ROME, ITALY

It had been a quiet night outside Julien’s apartment building. Quinn had taken the second shift, the hardest because it split sleep time in half, or it would have if he had actually fallen back to sleep when he returned to the room. Eventually, he gave up trying and went out for a long walk around the city.

When he returned, Nate was dressed and about to head down for the breakfast that came with the room.

“You going to go relieve Daeng after you eat?” Quinn asked.

Nate gave a hesitant nod, and said, “I have someone I need to meet first.”

“Oh? Who?”

“If you haven’t noticed, we’re a little equipment shy. I thought it’d be good to gear up a bit.”

Of course, Quinn thought. “Bianchi?”

“No. He’s out of the business.”

“What?”

“Heart attack.”

“Dead?”

Nate shook his head. “Just scared the hell out of him apparently. He left the city and moved in with a daughter somewhere in the south.”

In the past, Quinn would have been up on news like this, but during his exile, the world had moved on. “Who took his place?”

“Several players have stepped up, but none to Bianchi’s level. The guy I’m seeing is named Nicholas Giacona. I used him once before. Seems okay.”

I used him once before? Quinn was surprised. Nate had apparently been busy while he was gone. “You want me to come along?”

“Sure. You can help carry the bags.”

The taxi dropped them off two blocks from their destination. The area was crowded with cafes and shops and other businesses, but at this early hour, it was only the cafes serving breakfast that were open.

“It’s up this way,” Nate said.