Brett Battles - The Destroyed

There was really no question where she needed to be.

The next call came much sooner than Peter had expected, no more than six or seven minutes after the first.

“We got her,” Michaels said.

Peter could feel Olsen’s expectant gaze on him, but he kept his expression blank. “Yes,” he said into the phone. “Finding her is our top priority, so any reasonable expenditure is approved.”

Michaels got the message loud and clear. “I’ll call back in five.”

“Even twice that amount would be acceptable.”

“Ten, then,” the operative said and hung up.

“All right. I’ll expect an update soon,” Peter said into the dead air, then hung up.

“What was that about?” Olsen asked.

“I thought you were listening. Should have been pretty clear.”

Olsen stewed for a second. “They need to spend some cash.”

“You were listening.”

“What are they going to spend it on?”

“That wasn’t specified. They just needed to know what they were authorized to do.”

Olsen frowned as he looked back at his computer. “That kind of thing should have been set up ahead of time. You don’t really run the tightest of ships, do you?”

Peter rose from his chair. “I’m not running a ship at all. I’m running a real-world-adapt-when-necessary operation. If you don’t like it, you’re more than welcome to take over.”

He picked up his pack of cigarettes and headed for the door.

By the time Michaels called back, he was once again locked in the bathroom of the bar around the corner.

“You have her now?” he asked.

“Yes. I arranged for the use of a safe house south of the city.” He then told Peter what had happened. When he finished, he paused before saying, “The guy with her was definitely Quinn.”

“The one you shot?”

“Yes. My order was for a warning shot, but…”

“But what?”

“My guy’s adrenaline was running a little high. He pulled it, and the bullet hit Quinn somewhere near his throat.”

Peter was stunned. “Is he dead?”

“We didn’t stay to find out.”

“Well, find out now!”

“I’ll get right on it. What do you want us to do with the girl?”

What, indeed? That question had been swirling around Peter’s head since Michaels first called. Knowing now that Quinn was definitely involved didn’t make coming up with an answer any easier.

The problem was that what he owed clients like Mygatt and Green was nothing compared to what he owed people like Quinn.

He swore to himself. What he needed was more time and information so he could figure this mess out and decide how to handle things.

“Keep her wrapped up there for now,” he told Michaels. “And contact me as soon as you know more about Quinn.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll have to call in some extra help, though. I want to make sure we can cover this place around the clock.”

“Fine. I’ll call you back when I have more instructions.”

Peter disconnected the call, but didn’t put the phone away just yet. There was one person who might know where Quinn was, and if he was still alive.

After five rings, a prerecorded generic voice kicked in. “Please leave your message after the tone.”

He thought about hanging up, but instead waited for the beep to end, and said, “Orlando, it’s Peter. If he’s in any condition to talk, I need him to call me right away. Can you help?”

The only light entering the room came through the dime-thin space between the bottom of the door and the floor. Not daylight, though-weak incandescence from the other side.

Mila had no idea what was out there. A corridor? Another room? There was no way to know. She’d been instructed to leave her blindfold on until after they’d locked her in her cell.

Her room was equipped with a mattress on the floor and a plastic bucket in the corner, nothing else. When she walked it off, she determined it was eight feet square. There were no windows, boarded up or otherwise, and the walls were made of stone so there was no chance she could find her way through them.

It was becoming harder and harder to keep from admitting she’d failed. She wanted to believe an opportunity would present itself, and she’d be able to get away so she could finish what she’d started, but there was a growing part of her that was convinced she was done, that there was no way she would ever breathe free air again.

She knew how this was going to go. They would come in. They would question her. And, eventually, she would tell everything. She’d have no choice. Torture in the twenty-first century was a science. There were specialized methods now that always produce results.

Once she’d been wrung dry, they’d kill her like they’d meant to years before.

I can still get away, she thought, her defiant voice growing less convincing every hour. I have to. I have to destroy him.

If I don’t, no one will.

“Here we go,” Nate whispered into his comm as he crossed the street. What had happened outside Julien’s place, the others showing up when they did, had not been a coincidence. There was no question in Nate’s mind that there was some other reason for it, and the more he thought about it, the more he became convinced of what it had to be.

“Copy,” Daeng said. He was gazing through the front window of the butcher shop as if contemplating what he might buy for dinner.

Nate knew by now their images had already been picked up by Giacona’s security system. While the gun dealer had hopefully dismissed Daeng, Nate would be instantly recognized. Suppliers such as Giacona were always happy to see clients, but were not as keen on unscheduled visits.

Nate walked straight up to the door next to the butcher shop, made his presence known through the intercom, and pulled the door open as soon as the lock buzzed. As he passed over the threshold, he applied the piece of duct tape he was holding in the palm of his hand over the lock, then let the door close behind him. His other hand was already in his pocket, curled around the grip of his gun.

As he knew it would, the door at the far end of the hallway opened, and a smiling but somewhat bewildered Giacona stepped out. With him was another man, larger, no smile, and carrying a Smith andWesson Bodyguard 380 pistol in plain sight.

“Quinn,” Giacona said. “This is unexpected.”

Before Nate could even answer, he heard one of the hallway doors behind him open, and the sound of someone moving into a position that cut off any potential retreat.

Without moving his lips, he said as quietly as he could, “Set.” Then he raised his voice. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Giacona shrugged. “Of course. I’m always happy to answer questions from good customers, but maybe you can come back when it’s a little more convenient.”

“It needs to be now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Giacona said, his smile unwavering, “but now is not good for me. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“Let me make sure I’m clear. You’re saying you don’t want to help me?”

“When did I say that? I’m saying I cannot help you at this time. Perhaps you can come back in the morning? Say, nine thirty?”

“ Now would be better.”

At the street end of the hall, the door flew open. Unable to help themselves, both Giacona and the man with him looked past Nate to see who had come through their supposedly locked door. That was all Nate needed. He pulled out his gun and took two steps forward before they refocused on him.

The large man started to raise his pistol, so Nate shot him in the wrist. The Smith amp; Wesson clattered to the ground. The guy tried to pick it up with his uninjured hand, so Nate sent a second bullet into his foot. The man yelled and staggered back against the wall.