Brett Battles - The Silenced

“They didn’t stop there, either,” Orlando said. “They’ve traced her to Paris.”

In a flash, the whole world came rushing back. He jumped into the cab and slammed the door closed behind.

“The bags,” he said to Nate.

Nate told the taxi driver where to go.

“Forget London,” Quinn said into the phone. “We need to get to Paris.”

“That’s the flight I booked you on,” Orlando told him.

Of course it was, he thought. She would have predicted his reaction, and anticipated the request. There was no one on the earth who knew him better than she did.

“My mother?” he whispered into the phone.

“They would have gotten her address off Liz’s file.”

For one of the first times in his life, Quinn felt paralyzed. Should he go to his sister or his mother? Perhaps he was overreacting. Perhaps the hacker had only been after information. Perhaps there was no threat.

Perhaps, but Quinn knew he would be a fool to not assume the worst.

Everyone had their weaknesses. The most common was family. That’s why most people in Quinn’s business did all they could to hide their pasts. Some specialities, such as op agents and assassins, were more likely to see threats in this area. Cleaners, not so much. If they ever ran into trouble, they were more prone to a direct assault than someone trying to leverage the people in their lives. But that didn’t mean Quinn didn’t worry about this possibility. And now that worry had become a reality.

“I made a few calls,” Orlando said.

Quinn shook himself back into the here and now. “Calls?”

“Steven Howard was in Chicago,” she said. “He’s on his way to Warroad to keep an eye on your mother now. Should be there sometime tonight. I’ve also rounded up Rickey Larson and Brent Nolan. They’ll be there by noon tomorrow. And I’m going, too.”

Quinn could feel some of the tension in his shoulders ease. “Thank you,” he said.

“What I need you to do is call her,” she said. “Tell her you have a friend who needs a place to stay. Say he’s working on a project, writing a book or something, and needs to go someplace quiet for a week or two. Tell her I’m going to bring him by. It’ll let us get someone in the house with her.”

“Good,” Quinn said. He knew his mother wasn’t going to like the idea, not this close to her husband’s death, but she’d do it for Quinn.

“Once I get everything settled, I’ll fly over to you.”

“You should stay with her.”

“They can handle things without me,” Orlando said. “You’re going to need me to help with the job in London.”

“Screw the London job. I’m not doing it.”

She paused a moment, then said, “We’ll talk about that when I see you.”

He was about to protest again, but realized it would be useless. She’d hung up.

Fall in Paris meant two things: cooler weather and fewer tourists. It wasn’t that there were no tourists, it was just that their number was a fraction of what it was during the summer months. In August, the streets and monuments were overwhelmed by what seemed to be a torrent of refugees from the Tower of Babel. In October, it was more of a trickle.

When Quinn and Nate had gotten into the taxi, Quinn had asked the driver to turn up the heat. It was hovering around forty-four degrees Fahrenheit, several degrees colder than it had been in New York, and more than two dozen less than it was back in Los Angeles. To Quinn it was now officially too cold. The cabbie had fiddled with a few knobs, but from what Quinn could tell the temperature hadn’t changed. He pulled his collar tight to his neck and looked out at the gray morning.

During the flight over he kept his eyes shut, hoping sleep would overtake him, but his mind only let him catch a moment here and there. By the time they landed, the only thing the attempt had been able to accomplish was to keep Nate from asking him questions. All his apprentice knew was that their destination had changed. Quinn had told him nothing else.

In the taxi, Nate tried again to find out what was going on. But Quinn cut him off with “Not yet.” Yes, he was going to have to tell Nate something, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. The thing he was most focused on was that he was going to have to see his sister. And no matter which scenario he played out in his mind, none ended with Liz happy to see him.

He had toyed with the idea of not letting her know he was there at all. He and Nate could set up a perimeter surveillance that might work well enough. They could shadow her, bug her apartment when she was away, plant a GPS chip in her purse or shoes to keep track of her no matter where she went. It would be tricky, but not impossible. Still, relying on a blip on a screen was not a comforting idea.

He knew he was going to have to bite the bullet and approach her directly. That still didn’t guarantee success. She might give him two minutes, or an hour. She might give him nothing, and then where would he be?

He would have to be careful in his approach, telling her just enough of the truth to get her cooperation. She already thought he was in international banking, so he could use that. Maybe he could tell her he was being targeted by a criminal organization that had a grudge with his bank. Maybe their problems were with Quinn specifically, and he feared the trouble might spread to her since she was in Europe.

Quinn frowned, then shook his head. The idea was ludicrous and convoluted. If it were true, why wouldn’t the police be involved? That would be the first question out of Liz’s mouth. She would poke holes in Quinn’s story he wouldn’t be able to plug fast enough.

He played a few more scenarios through his mind, but none proved any better. He needed something different, something believable. But what?

The cab stopped at the curb.

“Le Sorbonne,” the driver said.

On the other side of the intersection was the tan, stone, block-long Sorbonne, the world-renowned Paris university.

“Merci,” Quinn said as he handed the driver enough euros to cover the trip.

“Can you tell me what’s going on now?” Nate asked once they were on the sidewalk.

Quinn stared at the Sorbonne for several seconds, knowing it was time. But how much to tell? Everything, a voice in his head said. Orlando’s voice. “Come on.”

They turned right at Rue des Ecoles, walking on the opposite side of the street from the main entrance to the school. He eyed the people going in and out the front doors on the off chance Liz would be among them. No such luck. A short block down and to the right was a small park. Quinn led Nate inside.

The park was enclosed by an iron fence lined with bushes and trees that made it almost impossible for anyone on the outside to see in. Much of the vegetation was showing its fall colors. Scattered around the park were granite statues and a few benches.

In addition to Nate and Quinn, there were only three other people present. Two were reading books, while the third, an older gentleman, seemed interested in some birds on the path. None were threats.

Quinn motioned to a bench in a deserted corner. They sat. It was over a minute, though, before he finally spoke. “What I’m going to tell you goes no further than between you and me.”

“How’s that different from anything else?”

“This isn’t anything else. This isn’t about a job.”

“Orlando?” Nate asked, unable to keep the worry from his voice.

“No. She’s fine.”

“Okay. Then, what is it?”

Quinn stared at Nate, his face hard. “I have your word, your blood oath, that you will never tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”

“Of course you have my word. You shouldn’t even have to ask that,” Nate said. “What the hell is going on?”