Brett Battles - Shadow of Betrayal

He took a step forward, then peered through the window.

No one. Only a map, half-folded and jammed between the two front seats.

Oteros car , Quinn decided.

The evidence wasn’t perfect, but the fact that the map had been stowed between the seats instead of tossed onto the passenger seat could very well have meant there had been two people riding up front. But more than that, the half-open map itself was a better indication that this wasn’t the assassin’s car. The assassin would have been following Otero, not worrying about how to get to the final destination. In fact, he wouldn’t even have known where the final destination was.

Quinn ran back to the highway, then headed north again.

He knew he had to be close now. If Otero had been the one the assassin followed, his vehicle couldn’t be too far away. He probably had been able to place a tracking bug on the Mondeo, then had sat back and followed a mile or two behind. Any closer and Otero would have noticed. But once the Mondeo had stopped moving, the assassin would have closed the distance, parking as close as he dared without drawing attention.

“Car,” Nate said.

Quinn stopped instantly, and turned to the south as if he could see Nate on the road in the distance. “Is it him?”

“No,” Nate said. “It’s about a mile off, heading toward us. But it’ll be here in a minute or two.”

“Make sure whoever it is doesn’t see you.”

He could hear the car now, too. It wasn’t as loud as the two cars earlier had been, apparently traveling at a more civil pace.

As Quinn turned back toward the north, he heard the unmistakable sound of an engine starting. It was close, maybe another fifty feet ahead of him, and off to the right, hidden by the brush.

Quinn raced forward, his SIG in his right hand. In seconds, he saw the path the car had taken into the brush. It was another old rutted road that probably hadn’t been used in years.

“It just passed me,” Nate said. “Delivery van. One guy up front. Didn’t see anyone else.”

Quinn could hear the van on the road behind him approaching. And ahead, he could also hear the assassin’s car. Its engine was only marginally louder than the van’s.

Almost at once there was light in front and behind him. The van was cresting a small hill and soon would be completely visible to Quinn. And on the rutted path ahead of him, reverse lights, bright in the dark night, and warning all that the assassin was about to back out.

Quinn slipped behind a tree five feet from where the dirt road met the highway. He glanced to the south. The van had come into view and was traveling down the blacktop, showing no signs of having noticed the lights from the assassin’s car.

And on the dirt road just ahead of him, Quinn could hear the tires of the assassin’s car begin to move along the ruts toward the highway.

The timing was horrible. If they didn’t run into each other, then it would be damn close. And any kind of incident would bring out the local officials. Quinn couldn’t have that.

He moved around the tree and pushed through a couple of bushes until he was standing at the edge of the rutted road. The highway was fifteen feet to his left, and the assassin’s car was only five to his right.

Quinn raised the SIG and pulled the trigger without any further thought.

There was the all too familiar thup as his bullet passed through the suppressor, followed instantaneously by the crunch of the rear window safety glass as it was ripped from its frame. Red lights flashed as the assassin stomped on the brakes.

On the highway behind them, there was the double tap of a horn, a friendly “Hey, I’m out here” from the van, then a second later the sound of the larger vehicle as it passed by and continued on in the night.

Quinn stayed focused on the assassin’s car. It was a four-door hatchback that could have been picked up at any rental place on the island. Only the good people at Hertz weren’t going to be too happy with the blown-out window and whatever other damage Quinn’s shot had caused.

The assassin had ducked out of sight below seat level. Going for his gun, Quinn knew. But he had no idea how many people he was facing, or where they were positioned. Any defense he would put up would be a guess.

Quinn took four quick silent steps through the brush parallel to the car. This being Ireland, the driver’s seat was on the right, the side nearest him. As he drew level with the driver’s side door, he could see the assassin hunched low. The man was checking his gun to make sure there was a round in the chamber.

Quinn squeezed the trigger of his SIG again, a warning shot through the driver’s side window. It ripped the air only inches above the assassin, then exited through the window on the other side.

The man froze.

Quinn motioned for him to put the gun down.

Though they killed for a living, he knew of no assassin who had a death wish. When pushed into a corner, they would bide their time, and wait for an opportunity to use their skills in an attempt to extract themselves from a bad situation.

Quinn’s new friend, though, seemed to be working from a different handbook.

At first he pretended to set the gun down, but as he did, the barrel turned toward Quinn.

Before the man could get a shot off, Quinn pulled his SIG’s trigger for a third time. This time it was no warning. The bullet smashed through the man’s palm and grazed the bottom edge of the pistol’s grip, sending it spinning to the floor, out of the man’s reach.

“I’ve gone almost a mile and haven’t found anything,” Nate said in Quinn’s ear. “I don’t think he’s out this way. I mean, I would have seen him by now, right?”

CHAPTER

4

QUINN WAITED UNTIL NATE GOT THERE BEFOREdoing anything about the wounded man’s hand. He had Nate search the trunk for something that might work as a bandage.

“He’s got an overnight bag in here,” Nate said.

There was the sound of a zipper, then a few moments later Nate held up an expensive-looking black shirt.

“Hugo Boss,” he said. “That work?”

“Perfect,” Quinn said.

Nate tossed the shirt through the window at the assassin.

“Wrap that around your palm,” Quinn said. “Probably should make it tight. You’re quite a bleeder.”

The man did as Quinn suggested. It wasn’t easy, and he had to start over more than once, but no one was about to give him any help.

Quinn glanced at Nate, then looked back into the car. “You all right?” he asked.

Nate’s face was sweaty, and even in the low light Quinn thought he could see red splotches on his apprentice’s neck.

“I’m fine,” Nate said.

Quinn looked over again, this time his gaze moving momentarily down toward Nate’s legs.

“It’s fine,” Nate said, noticing Quinn’s line of sight. “No problems. I just ran over a mile to get back here, for God’s sake. You’d be sweating, too.”

Maybe , Quinn thought. But he said nothing. He’d only allowed Nate to accompany him this time because he was tired of saying no. That, and Orlando had argued it was time.

“If you keep putting it off,” she had said, “you’ll never know what he can do. And after a while, you’re going to start hurting his confidence.”

A cleaner without confidence was either working in some other field or more likely dead. So Quinn had reluctantly agreed to let Nate come along, all the time wondering if his missing lower leg, replaced now by a man-made prosthesis—albeit state-of-the-art—would be a hindrance or just an annoyance. So far, much to Quinn’s surprise, it had been neither.

“Clear his weapons,” Quinn said, nodding toward the bleeding man in the car.