Brett Battles - Shadow of Betrayal

“I can’t just take her to the compound.”

Jan stared at her for several seconds. “Then leave her here. I’ll give her to the soldiers when they come back.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Of course,” she said. “Of course, I’ll take her. I’m sorry.” She paused for a moment, the beginnings of a sob caught in her chest. “I’m just… scared.”

The look on Jan’s face was tense. There was no smile, no friendly sparkle in his eyes like Marion had seen on previous visits. “You should be.” He leaned down until only a foot separated his face from her. “Listen to me. They’ll keep looking for her. You need to get her away. Far away. Once you do, you need to disappear. Don’t let anyone know where you are. These people will find you. And once they have the girl, they’ll kill you.”

“If I can get her out of the city, they’ll have to give up. They’re just local soldiers.”

“Forget about the soldiers,” Jan said. “It’s not the soldiers you need to worry about. It’s the people the soldiers are working for. Those are the people you need to be concerned with. They’re not local. They’re not even from Africa.”

She didn’t understand what he meant, but it was obvious he had no intention of explaining more. Without saying another word, he guided her through the orphanage to the back door she had snuck through less than two hours before.

“Go,” he said, all but pushing her through the door. “Iris’s life depends on you.”

The door closed before she could respond.

She looked down at the child. Iris’s eyelids were heavy.

“That’s right,” Marion said. “Sleep. Just sleep. I’ll take care of you.”

Once the girl’s eyes closed, Marion began retracing the steps that had brought her to the orphanage, not knowing how she was going to keep the promise she had just made.

CHAPTER

3

QUINN USED THE SAME PATH HE HAD EARLIER INthe day when he’d returned from his last check of the church. Only this time it was dark, and if that wasn’t hindrance enough, it seemed as if all the bushes that lined the trail had grown significantly larger in the several hours that had passed. He had to take extra care not to sound like a herd of roaming sheep.

In his right hand was his SIG, and in his left, the small wireless microphone that paired with the receiver hanging on his ear. Keeping his eyes on the path, he reached up and attached the mic to his collar.

“Give me a constant update,” he whispered. “I’m not going to be able to say much, so just keep talking.”

“Got it,” Nate said, his voice overamplified and crackling.

“You’re killing me,” Quinn said. “Turn down your gain.”

There was a pause, then Nate said, “Better?” His voice sounded almost normal.

“Yes. Thanks,” he said.

Two minutes later he came to a small open field. Though he was pretty sure the assassin in the tree wouldn’t be able to see him, he kept to the dark shadows at the edge of the clearing.

“He’s still in the tree,” Nate said. “But he’s moved back, closer to the trunk. Harder to see.”

He’s expecting company , Quinn thought. Waiting to see if his victims have backup anywhere close by.

“I still don’t see signs of anyone else. I think he might be working alone.”

Quinn wasn’t ready to concede that possibility yet. He’d seen too much in his years in the business, seen too many people who had been killed because they underestimated their opponent. He removed the sound suppressor from his jacket and attached it to his weapon. Any shot Quinn took at this point wouldn’t be to scare the guy, it would be to hit him.

“I’ve got no movement from the men on the ground,” Nate said.

There wouldn’t be. They were all dead the second Quinn and Nate had seen the muzzle flashes on the screen. The assassin got the first three shots off before any of the men in the church could react. The range was not much more than thirty yards. So close it was almost cheating for a trained marksman. Kill shots, all of them. No question. The only reason there’d been a delay before the fourth man was killed was that the assassin hadn’t had a clean shot. So he’d waited a few seconds for the man to panic, and run for someplace new to hide, then bang. Four dead.

“Wait,” Nate said. “I think he’s climbing down.”

Quinn had reentered the trees on the far side of the pasture and was once again fighting the underbrush. He guessed he was about a minute away from the old church grounds. From this direction, he would reach the graveyard first.

“He’s on the ground, but staying close to the tree. I can see his weapon, though. Hold on, let me zoom in.” There was a pause. “I think it’s a Galil.”

That would make sense, Quinn thought. A Galil sniper rifle using subsonic rounds could be silenced effectively. Plus the weapon was light and easily portable. An excellent choice.

Ahead Quinn could see the trees thinning. Beyond would be the graveyard. He slowed as he reached the edge of the woods, and crouched down low. Less than ten feet away from where the trees ended was a ragged row of headstones. They were old and weathered, several to the point of being unreadable. Between the stones grass had grown high, and here and there a tree or a bush had taken root. But none had grown too large. Quinn guessed that every few years someone came out and cleared away the vegetation, a last act of respect for the dead parishioners who were otherwise forgotten.

“I’m here,” Quinn said, keeping his voice as low as possible. “Behind the graveyard.”

“He’s around the right side of the church from your position,” Nate told him. “Probably about your two o’clock.”

“Okay.”

“Quinn.”

“What?”

“Peter wanted me to remind you not to let him get to the bodies.”

“That’s kind of what I’m trying to do, isn’t it?”

“And … em … if there’s any way you can subdue him, that would be best,” Nate said. “Peter said he’s got a couple guys heading our way right now. Should be here in thirty minutes.”

“That’s a joke, right?”

“Would you like me to patch you through to him directly?”

“No,” Quinn said, trying hard to keep his voice from getting too loud. “I’m really not in a place where I can have a chat with—”

“Movement,” Nate said, cutting him off.

Quinn froze in place.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“He’s heading toward the church. He left the rifle behind the tree, and is carrying a pistol now. Looks like a SIG.”

Quinn stood up and weaved through the graveyard toward the church, the building’s bulk between him and the assassin, shielding him from view.

“I see you,” Nate said. “You’re both closing on the building at the same rate.”

Quinn sped up, moving to his left as he did, toward an opening that had probably once held a beautiful stained glass window. He knew from his earlier reconnaissance that the window would provide a clear view of the interior of the church. He crouched beneath the sill.

“Okay,” Nate said. “You’re there first. He’s stopped at the body outside the church. He’s checking the pockets … hold on … okay, he’s rolling him over and checking the back pockets … the dead guy doesn’t seem to have anything on him … okay, he’s getting up again … now he’s heading for the church.”

Quinn checked that the suppressor was securely fastened to the barrel of his SIG.

“He’s stopped just outside a doorway,” Nate continued. “It’s the one directly across from where you’re at.”

Quinn pictured the interior of the church in his mind. The window he stood beside, the door the assassin would walk through, the positions of the bodies on the sanctuary floor, the possible hiding places, the escape routes, everything. Then he took in a steady, silent breath, knowing what he would do. Peter was going to owe him big-time after this.