Brett Battles - Shadow of Betrayal

“How’s Mom?”

His sister—technically his half-sister—sighed. “How do you think she is? She’s glad he’s better, but she’s still concerned. She keeps checking on him to make sure he’s all right.”

“I was just asking, Liz.”

There was silence for a moment. “She tells me you haven’t visited them for a long time. You need to come out here.”

At the time, he was just getting ready to leave for Ireland. “I can’t come right now.”

“Of course not.”

“But I will come soon. In a few weeks.”

“Whatever. Do what you need to do, Jake. I just thought you’d want to know.”

Before he could say anything else, she’d hung up. He’d called his mother next, but she was evasive, doing her best, as always, not to burden Quinn with anything she felt he didn’t need to worry about.

Now that the jobs in both Ireland and Boston were complete, he knew he had to go see his parents. They’d be in Minnesota now, summering in the home Quinn had grown up in. He’d stop by on the way back to L.A.

“What are you thinking about?” Orlando asked.

“Nothing,” he said as they stepped out of Strega, an Italian restaurant in Boston’s North End. He hadn’t told her about the call from his sister.

There was a slight chill in the air. Quinn could feel Orlando shiver under his arm, so he pulled her small frame closer to help warm her up.

“Thanks,” she said.

She tilted her head up, and he leaned down and kissed her.

“Well, I was thinking about something,” he said as they walked down the street with no specific destination in mind.

“Thought so,” she said, an eyebrow raised. “I assume it hurt. Maybe you should leave the thinking to me.”

It was a playful argument they’d had often, each claiming to be the more intelligent one.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said again, “about our location problem.”

“What location problem?”

“The fact that you’re not geographically available to me when I need you.”

“Wait,” Orlando said, the hint of a wicked smile on her face. “You need me?”

“Shut up,” he said. “You know what I mean.”

“We’re a hell of a lot closer than we used to be,” she said.

“True enough,” he said. “But I was just—”

“Hold on.” She pulled away a little. “We’re not moving in together. Not yet. We’ve already talked about that.”

“I know that.”

He eased her back against him. But as he was about to explain what he meant, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Annoyed, he pulled it out and looked at the display, then glanced at Orlando.

“It’s Peter,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe you should just let him go to voice-mail.”

It was a good idea. Quinn tapped the Reject prompt on the phone’s touch screen, then put the device back in his pocket.

“I didn’t mean move in together,” Quinn said. “But I thought maybe I could get a place up there. I don’t have to be there all the time. I mean I’d definitely not be there when you’re in Vietnam, but when you’re in town … you know, I could, I could be up there, too. Close by. It’ll make things easier for us.”

He looked down at her, expecting some resistance. What he’d learned since they’d become involved was that she had a fierce independent streak, and was very protective of her own space. A product, perhaps, of her previous relationship experience with Quinn’s late mentor, Durrie.

But both her lips and her eyes were smiling. “I like that idea.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. What? You thought I wouldn’t?”

“I … eh … I don’t know what I thought.”

Quinn’s phone began vibrating again.

“Dammit,” he said. He pulled it back out. “Peter again.”

“Let him leave a message.”

“That won’t work,” Quinn said. “He’ll just keep calling until I finally answer. He’s done that before.”

“Then whatever he wants, just tell him no.”

“Like that’s an option.”

Quinn touched Accept on the screen.

“What?” Quinn said.

“I need you in New York,” Peter said. “I have something for you tonight.”

“I can’t make it there tonight. I’m not even close.”

There was a second of silence. “You’re in Boston, Quinn. I have a plane waiting. You can be here within an hour and a half.”

Quinn could feel his tension returning. “How do you know where I am?”

“Does it really matter? Remember our deal. No questions.”

“You’re a son of a bitch sometimes, you know that?”

“I’ll text you with the plane info as soon as I get off.”

“What if I’m busy?”

“You’re not.”

Quinn started to tighten his hand around the phone, but made himself stop. “This is number two,” he said, knowing this would mean delaying the trip to see his parents for a few more days. But getting Peter that much closer to being off his back would be worth it. “That leaves one and we’re through.”

“I can count,” Peter said. The line went dead.

“So,” Orlando said as Quinn slipped the phone back into his pocket. “We’re going somewhere?”

Quinn and Nate stood in the hallway of an abandoned apartment building in New York, a few feet away from a doorway that had been blown out by some kind of explosion. There was debris everywhere: splintered chunks of wood, a twisted metal door frame, and bits and pieces of plaster. The room beyond the gaping doorway was a pit. A nub that had once been the concrete landing stuck out no more than a foot and a half into the room, but beyond that there was nothing.

Shining his flashlight inside, Quinn was just able to make out a pile of wood and concrete approximately twenty feet down. It wasn’t an entire floor’s worth of wreckage, but it was enough for a staircase.

“It looks like the best places to attach the ropes are there and there,” Nate said, pointing up at the ceiling.

Quinn looked up at the spots his apprentice had indicated, happy that Nate was talking about something other than the Yankee game Quinn’s phone call had pulled him away from.

Nate had found a couple of large gaps in the ceiling that exposed some of the building’s support structure. The damage looked old, perhaps caused by water, or vandals, or neglect.

“Do it,” Quinn said.

Nate picked up the end of one of the ropes. “I need a boost.”

Quinn laced his fingers together and moved up next to the hallway wall. Nate put his free hand on Quinn’s shoulder, then raised his left foot and put it into Quinn’s palms.

“One, two, three,” Nate said, then pushed himself up, straightening his left leg—his good leg—so that his head almost reached the ceiling. “Good. Hold me steady.”

Quinn tilted his head up and watched as his apprentice looped the rope through the gap and around one of the beams before tying it off. As Nate stepped down, he tried to hide a wince, but Quinn noticed.

“I’m fine,” Nate said.

“That’s not what it looked like to me,” Quinn said but immediately regretted it.

“I’m fine. A cramp.” Nate’s face was tense, serious. “We all get them.”

As if to emphasize his point, he reached down and picked up the end of the second rope.

“I’m ready, let’s go,” Nate said.

Quinn moved three feet to his left and made another cradle with his hands. Nate repeated the task with the new rope. When he stepped down this time, he stared Quinn in the face and didn’t wince. But it didn’t matter. Quinn couldn’t help remembering Nate lying unconscious on a Singapore street, his foot mangled by a car that had purposely rammed into him. It had been Quinn’s call to remove the foot. It had been the right decision, but that didn’t make Quinn feel any less responsible.