Brett Battles - Shadow of Betrayal

Adrenaline still pumping, he all but jumped out of the car. He had to force himself to walk, not run, around the front of the vehicle and onto the sidewalk.

The street was quiet. No one else was out. The only real noise was distant. Cars moving through the city as they did at all hours, a few horns. And sirens. More than on the average New York night. He tried to gauge their location and direction. None seemed to be heading toward him. Yet.

There was a Honda Prelude parked behind his Buick. He knew he’d have no problem getting in and getting it started. And its trunk would be large enough for the body of the Deputy Director.

Quinn walked over to the rear of his sedan, pulled out the key, and stuck it in the lock on the trunk. Only when he turned it, nothing happened. He tried pulling it open with his other hand, but there was only the groan of the vehicle’s springs.

The trunk lid wasn’t going anywhere. It had gotten tweaked during the accident, and would take equipment and time he didn’t have to open it.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Peter. “It’s Quinn,” he said.

“Where the hell are you?”

“You need to send someone for the car.” He gave Peter the address of the building closest to where he’d parked the Buick. “You have to make it quick. The cops are looking for it now.”

“Jesus. I told you to park it in a—”

Quinn hung up, then began walking. It turned out he wouldn’t need the Prelude after all.

CHAPTER

10

BY THE TIME QUINN MADE IT TO THE MARRIOTTMarquis Hotel in Times Square, it was almost 3 a.m. Even then, there were dozens of people about. It was New York after all, where the night people replaced the day people, keeping the city in constant motion.

Escalators took him up several floors to the main lobby level. As he stepped off, his phone began to vibrate. He wasn’t surprised by the name on the display. ORLANDO.

Instead of answering, he looked around, spotting her in seconds. She was across the lobby, standing against the wall. When their eyes met, she lowered her phone and smiled.

A moment later he spotted Nate standing several feet away from her. Quinn’s apprentice was scanning the room, doing what he’d been trained to do in these exact kinds of situations.

“Took you long enough,” Orlando said once he reached her. Per standard procedure, she’d refrained from calling him after they split up.

He gave her a condensed version of what had happened. When he finished, he asked, “Do you know if Peter got anyone to the car yet?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s here, you know.”

“In New York?” Quinn asked, surprised.

“No. I mean here in this hotel.”

That gave Quinn a moment’s pause. “Where?” he said.

“He’s got a room upstairs. He asked me to bring you up as soon as you got here.”

“He asked you to bring me up?”

“I didn’t say I would. We can just leave if you want.”

Quinn paused. Orlando’s suggestion was very intriguing, but after a few seconds he shook his head. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Peter’s room was on the twenty-third floor. The door opened as they approached it. That wasn’t surprising. Quinn had noticed several cameras placed discreetly along the corridor leading up to the door. Those inside had no desire to be surprised by unexpected guests.

Sean Cooper, one of Peter’s men, stood just inside the room holding the door.

“Quinn,” Cooper said.

“Sean,” Quinn replied as he and the others stepped inside.

“Heard about the accident,” Cooper said. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” Quinn said.

The room had two double beds, a rust-colored couch next to the window, a small desk against the wall, and a television cabinet. Your standard tourist room.

There was a computer on the desk. The screen looked like it had been divided into four images. Feeds from the cameras outside the room, Quinn guessed.

Peter was sitting on the couch, looking at them as they walked in. On a small round table in front of him was a tumbler filled with amber liquid and ice.

Quinn pulled out the desk chair and offered it to Orlando. But she shook her head and sat on the edge of the bed closest to the couch. Quinn took the chair for himself. Nate remained standing, taking up position a few feet behind Quinn.

A full minute passed before anyone said anything.

Peter finally shook his head and said, “That didn’t go as planned, did it?”

“Not exactly the way I would have wanted it,” Quinn agreed. “Did you get to the car?”

Peter picked up a television remote sitting next to his glass and pointed it at the TV. There was a half-second delay before the television came to life. Quinn had to swivel the chair around so he could see. On the screen was a commercial for a car rental agency.

He looked back at Peter, his brow furrowed.

“Hold on,” Peter said, but offered no further information.

The commercial was followed by another for food storage bags, then an ad for a national chain of restaurants. Once the restaurant ad faded to black, there was a moment of nothing, then the screen filled with a graphic animation: CNN Breaking News. Accompanying the graphic was a quick, driving piece of music emphasizing the importance of what was to come.

When the image wiped away, it was replaced by a night view of a city street. A hundred feet from where the camera was positioned were dozens of parked police vehicles, most with lights flashing. For several seconds there was only the noise of the city, then a female voice broke in.

“You are looking at a live shot along West Twenty-seventh Street near Broadway in New York City, where the tragic end of what looks like a kidnapping has been discovered.”

The TV image split into two boxes. One continued to show the scene on the street, while the other contained a shot of one of the overnight anchors, a woman, her hair and makeup perfect. Her face was taut, unsmiling, in the universal news anchor look for “this is serious.”

“I want to bring back CNN correspondent Daniel Costello, who has moved in as close as possible. He joins us via telephone.”

The shot of the anchor was replaced by a still image of a man in his mid-thirties. Under the picture the name Daniel Costello was printed in bold type.

“Dan, as I understand it, the police have still not made any official statements.”

“None so far, Connie,” Costello said, his voice distorted by the phone line. “We’ve been told that a press briefing’s been scheduled for ten a.m. Otherwise they’re pretty much saying nothing.”

“What about the identity of the victim?”

“Nothing has been released yet. What we do know is that the body of a man was found in the trunk of a car parked on West Twenty-seventh Street. Through other sources, we have also learned that the victim was a prominent public figure.”

“But no name,” the anchor said.

“No. There’s been some speculation here, but nothing concrete.”

“We’ve heard that the car in question was involved in some sort of incident earlier in the evening. Can you tell us what happened?”

“That’s right, Connie. Apparently the NYPD had received a tip about the car several hours ago. Sometime after midnight, one of their patrol cars spotted the vehicle and began pursuit. During the chase the car was involved in an accident at the corner of West Thirty-third and Broadway, sending one man to the hospital. After the accident, the car continued for several blocks until the driver either could go no farther, or decided he would do better on foot. At that point, the police were in a full-scale search, so it wasn’t long before the vehicle was discovered.”