Brett Battles - Shadow of Betrayal

A body safely stowed in the back of a van or the trunk of a car, and the vehicle racking up the miles from where the corpse had been found, lowered the risks considerably. From there, it was straight to a preplanned disposal site. The Irish Sea for one, or an after-hours crematorium, or a deep hole in some out-of-the-way spot. Usually Quinn would have two or three options lined up. Often, as had been the case in Ireland, there would be a team on standby to help him. Being prepared was what made him one of the best.

Unfortunately, none of that applied to the body riding in the trunk of their sedan.

“Christopher Jackson. Born March 6, 1949, in Tampa, Florida,” Orlando said.

She was in the front passenger seat, her laptop opened on her lap, as Quinn drove through the city. Nate was in the back seat, quiet but looking worried.

“He had been with the agency since the late eighties,” she continued. “Worked his way up. Did some time in Germany, Saudi Arabia, Lebanon, and South Africa before settling in at Langley. Seemed to be a specialist-at-large, moving from one division to another. Eastern Europe, Mideast, Latin America.” She looked up from the computer for a moment. “Building quite a résumé. Must have already been thinking about higher office.” Her gaze returned to the screen. “He was number two in the office of Russian and European Analysis on 9/11. He quickly moved up from there. Became Deputy Director of National Intelligence two and a half years ago. Married. Two sons. One’s still in college, Penn State. The other’s just passed the bar exam in D.C.”

“Politics?” Quinn asked.

“Nothing concrete here, but reading between the lines, he appeared to be a little right of center, but not much.”

“And nothing about him being missing?”

“Nothing.”

Then someone’s keeping it quiet , Quinn thought. The body was at least forty-eight hours dead. “Try Peter again,” he said.

They had already tried calling the head of the Office twice since leaving the not-so-abandoned apartment building, but both times no one had answered. The last time Quinn had talked to him had been in the building hallway after Peter’s men had arrived to pick up Al Barker. When Quinn told him about Deputy Director Jackson’s body, Peter’s initial reply was a shocked silence, followed by a quick “Get him out. I’ll call you back.”

Orlando switched her phone to speaker so they could all hear. After the fourth ring, Quinn was sure they’d be redirected to the generic voicemail message again. But then there was a click.

“Hello?” It was Peter.

“Where the hell have you been?” Quinn asked. “We’re driving around with the—” He stopped himself from saying, “the DDNI.” The chance anyone would be able to tap into his line was minimal. But minimal wasn’t impossible. “With … someone we’re not really interested in hanging out with much longer.”

“I’ve been making arrangements,” Peter said. “This is a delicate matter.”

“You think?” Quinn said, unable to subdue his annoyance.

“It’s not something that can just disappear,” Peter shot back.

“Stating the obvious, Peter. I need a location. Someplace I can drop him off.”

There was a pause. “I’ve been on the phone with a friend from Washington.”

Quinn tensed. He didn’t like the idea of bringing more people into this. “And?”

“And he’s going to take care of it.”

“Exactly when is that supposed to happen?”

“He’s to call me back in five minutes with an address. You’ll leave the car there, then walk away.”

“This is someone you trust?” Quinn asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re not setting me up, are you?”

“No. Of course not.”

Quinn paused. “Five minutes?”

“Yes. I’ll call you back as—”

Whatever Peter was going to say was drowned out by the crunch of a car ramming into the sedan’s rear bumper.

“Shit!” Nate said.

Quinn kept his foot on the gas. In the rearview mirror he could see the other car. It was a Ford Explorer SUV. One of its headlights had been damaged by the impact and had gone out. But that didn’t seem to discourage whoever it was behind the wheel. He was coming at them again.

Quinn pushed the pedal all the way to the floor, but it wasn’t enough. The SUV slammed into them again.

He glanced at the rearview mirror again, expecting to see the grille of the Ford preparing for a third hit, but the truck had dropped a car length back, and seemed content for the moment to just follow.

“Nate,” Quinn said. “Get a visual.”

There was a pause, then Nate said, “The front window’s tinted. I can’t see inside.”

“How long has he been behind us?” Orlando asked.

Quinn shook his head. “Not long. I checked less than a minute ago, and he wasn’t there.”

As always, Quinn had been keeping watch on the road both in front and behind. Twenty seconds before the initial hit, Quinn was positive the SUV had not been following them.

Orlando’s phone began to ring. It must have gotten disconnected sometime during one of the collisions.

“It’s Peter,” Orlando said, looking at the display on the mobile.

“Tell him we’ll have to call him back.”

Quinn looked back into the mirror as she talked to Peter. The SUV was approaching again. Quinn switched his gaze to the road ahead. The end of the block was coming up quick.

“Hold on,” he said.

He waited until the last second, then whipped the wheel to the right, taking the turn at near full speed. The Ford grazed the corner of his bumper as it shot by, causing Quinn’s car to weave to the left.

The sedan’s tires screeched as they tried to grip the surface of the road, then the car rocked in protest as Quinn straightened the wheel before it settled down.

Quinn looked in the mirror again. The truck had missed the turn and was no longer behind them. He flicked his gaze back and forth from the road to the mirror, expecting the truck to reappear. But it never did.

A half block ahead, several taxis were parked near the entrance to a small hotel. Quinn slammed on the brakes, bringing the sedan to a stop.

“Out! Both of you,” he said. “Grab a cab and follow me. If that guy comes back, see if you can get a visual. Coordinate with Peter. He should be able to get us some backup.”

Nate was out the door before Quinn finished speaking. Orlando hesitated only a moment longer.

“Be careful,” she said.

“Go, go,” he said.

He waited until they were climbing into the cab at the front of the line, then pressed down on the accelerator again.

If Quinn had been the follower, he would have gone up another block and circled around so that he might be able to catch up to his prey at the next intersection. As he neared the end of the street, he slowed and looked left, hoping to get an early glimpse of the truck if it was there.

It being night in New York City, he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure. There had to be dozens of cars within a one-block radius. The majority were cabs, but there were still plenty of private vehicles, including a fair share of SUVs. None, though, were missing a front headlight.

He turned right onto Park Avenue, heading south toward Grand Central Terminal. A few seconds later, he saw Orlando and Nate’s cab pull onto the road behind him.

Still no sign of the one-eyed SUV.

Quinn reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He placed his thumb on the touch screen, deactivating the security lock. Glancing back and forth between road and phone, he found Orlando’s number in his quick call list and touched it. As the line began to ring, he engaged the speakerphone, then set his mobile on the passenger seat, securing the end in the crevice between the back and the bottom cushions.