More blinking, as Cillian propelled his mental wheels faster. Then his eyes glinted, a hint of that crafty thug coming back as he said, "Then I call them, and they know where you're staying, and they'll come get you, and it'll go bad then, Jack. Really bad."
"Bullshit. If they knew my hotel? They'd know how to get to me. Avoid all this crap."
Cillian kept insisting they could get to Jack. Covering his ass because the truth was that they hadn't said what they'd do if Cillian failed. The answer was obvious. Cillian failed, Cillian died, so he was trying very hard to convince Jack there was no escape here.
As for the last question--what if Jack refused their job--he supposed there was no need to ask that. They'd take it out on Nadia. Compel him to accept by threatening her. By torturing her.
Which meant there was only one answer here. Only one variable he could control.
Get the fuck out of Ireland and find Nadia.
7 - Nadia
There are places you hear about so often that you can picture them. I remembered when Jack and I talked about going to Egypt, seeing everything we'd read and heard about. I have images of all those historic sites. The reality would probably be a disappointment because I can't help but picture them in a historic setting, with endless sands and smog-free skies.
Yet I have mental images of other places, too. More personal places. Quinn's condo is one of them. He's never talked about it specifically. My images come from scattered bits of conversation.
You're painting the lodge? Yeah, I need to do that, too. My walls are builder beige . . . and I'm the second owner.
Hold on, I'm moving into the living room. Someone's having a BBQ out back and they sound like they're on their third case of beer. Let me close the patio door first. That might help.
Nearly broke my neck on the stairs today. Who the hell carpets stairs?
Trust me, you don't even want to see my basement. There's one corner for my weights and the rest is floor-to-ceiling crap. When my family needs to store a few boxes, they bring them to my place.
I moved through Quinn's condo, and it was like being in a dream version of a place I've visited a hundred times. Not quite right, but familiar enough.
Diaz and I came here to hunt for more information, but I'd taken a few minutes alone to orient myself. It was uncomfortable, being here. I'd never visited before, and even if that had been my choice and not his, this felt like an intrusion. This place was unmistakably Quinn's, in a way I wouldn't have imagined. I suppose homes are always a reflection of whoever lives there. I'd just never experienced it so strongly before.
I walked through his condo and I saw him there, felt him there, swore I could even smell him there. When a voice spoke from a distant room, I spun, for a moment thinking I was hearing him, too.
The voice was Diaz's, of course. I hadn't wanted him here. Hadn't even wanted him in Virginia with me. As a cop, I'd been accustomed to new partnerships, but I've grown spoiled, and if it's not Jack or Quinn at my side, I'd rather work alone. Yet Diaz wasn't just some random guy tagging along. He was a professional. A professional what? No idea. Contrapasso agents don't share their backgrounds. Hell, I don't even dare ask his first name. I did know he was a skilled investigator, like all their agents. Which meant I couldn't afford to refuse his help. I'm not sure that was even an option.
Our search centered on Quinn's desktop computer. He had a laptop, but that was for his work--his legit work--so anything he'd kept on this job would be on the desktop. His security was set up by Contrapasso, another condition of employment. They said it was to guarantee he had the best security possible, but he knew it was so they had access. It was one of the things that had kept me from signing up. Today, I was glad they'd done it.
Their security didn't make the computer accessible remotely. Quinn's data was completely fire-walled. That left him safe from cyber attacks. It also explained why we were in his condo, rather than connecting to his home network from some safer location.
Quinn's search history showed he'd definitely been doing research on his target. Hours of prep work, digging through every news article and cross referencing wherever possible. He'd found a home address, vacation home address, work address, cell numbers, car license and registration.
"One thing I'm not finding?" I said. "Any record of that plane ticket."
"Here," Diaz said. "Let me try."
He ran a few things across the screen, his fingers flying as fast as Evelyn's when she was working her Internet magic. He pulled up some piece of software I'd never seen, one that apparently hunted for deleted data on the hard drive.
"Nothing," he said. "I'll get someone on that. We confirmed the ticket existed and was in his name, but we didn't dig deeper. I'll find out how it was purchased and from where. Good catch."
That was the advantage to working with Contrapasso--as good as Evelyn was, they had access even she couldn't match. That's what happens when you have attorneys, judges, FBI agents, CIA agents and more on the payroll. Part of the price for those members joining is providing that access, even if it risks their jobs. Contrapasso isn't about furthering a career or padding one's income. It's an ideological choice. Which is why I struggle with not joining. I share their ideology. I'm just not ready to take the leap and risk the rest.
We finished the search, and I compiled my notes, checking for any gaps.
"Okay," I said, straightening as I turned to Diaz. "Show me the last place your GPS picked him up."
I was in a coffee shop, sitting by the window, watching the building where Contrapasso had lost contact with Quinn. I'd told Diaz I needed to do this alone, to focus on my thoughts, but that was bullshit. Even if he'd have sat and said nothing, I'd have felt obligated to talk to him, to hash this through with him. And he wasn't the person I wanted to hash it through with.
I checked my phone. No call from Jack, which I expected but still . . .
I fingered the numbers on my cell. Maybe a quick call?
Except this wouldn't be quick. Nor was it important enough to break the rules for. I just wanted to talk to him.
I pocketed the phone and sipped my coffee as I gazed at the building. It housed the office of a private investigator the family of Quinn's target had hired when the daughter took her own life. It made sense that Quinn would have gone there. It also made sense the GPS tracker stopped working late at night. This wasn't a Marshal case--Quinn wasn't going to walk in, flash his badge and question the investigator. He'd have been breaking in to copy the files. Quinn needed to be absolutely sure his target was guilty before he began figuring out how and where to pull the hit.
So all that made sense. But the rest . . .
Damn it, Jack. I wish you were here. I really need someone to talk to.
No, I need you to talk to.
Then talk.
I heard his voice, that laconic tone, as if even those two words had to be pulled out by force. I looked up at the chair across from me. Of course he wasn't there. But I could picture him. He'd sit with his back to the building because that didn't concern him. This was my job. He'd do what I asked, but otherwise he'd be there only as a sounding board. He'd drink his coffee, comfortable in the silence, waiting for me to break it.
I checked the phone.
Nope, gotta do it this way. Just don't talk out loud. Makes people wonder.
I smiled and shook my head.
What doesn't make sense? The job?
No, it was exactly the kind of opportunity Quinn would jump at.
Yep.
That's all he'd say, but even in my imagination, I heard more in that word. Enough that it made me stop and think.
It seemed tailor-made for Quinn, didn't it?
Yep.
And what about the airline ticket? I can't say Quinn would never pull a stunt like that . . .
Jack snorted.
Yes, he might. But there was no reason to do it now. He didn't know Jack was away. I hadn't hinted we were having problems.
Yeah. Why now? No
point.
If Quinn hadn't bought that ticket, who had? The obvious answer? The people who'd "discovered" it. Contrapasso.
According to them, Quinn had been wearing a GPS tracker that his attackers somehow found and disabled the moment they grabbed him.
Either way, suggests one thing.
That if that tracker really had been disabled, whoever took him knew it would be there.
My cousin's killer had turned out to be the lawyer who helped get a "not guilty" verdict for her alleged killer. A lawyer who'd turned his attention to activism, which got him recruited by none other than the Contrapasso Fellowship. He turned out to be only one of a handful of rotten apples. One of his confederates who'd walked away clear of the whole mess? The same guy who came to visit me just before my missed call from Jack. Diaz.
8 - Jack
Jack stepped off the plane in Baltimore and turned on Cillian's phone, holding his breath until he confirmed he hadn't missed any texts or calls. In other words, the goons hadn't grabbed Nadia yet.
With some trepidation he switched on his own phone. Part of him wanted to see a message from Nadia. But part of him feared that, too--if she found a way to make contact, it might attract the attention of her pursuers.
There were no messages from Nadia.
He did, however, have a voice mail and two texts from Evelyn. Nothing more than, "Call me," and maybe the frequency of those made it seem urgent, but that was just Evelyn. If she wanted to speak to him, goddamn it, he should be available to speak.
He sent back, "Busy," and headed to the car rental area, his carryon slung over his shoulder. His bag held nothing suspicious--he kept his work gear in storage or purchased it on-site.
He was in the car rental line when Evelyn called. He let it ring three times, enough to earn him, "Aren't you going to get that?" glares from the others waiting to be served. Then he answered, grunting a hello.
"Good to hear you too, Jack-o."
"Busy."
"Yes, I got the message. Minimalist, even for you. I know you're working, but I want to talk to you about Dee."
He stiffened. Before he could speak, Evelyn said, "I'm concerned about her going after Quinn. I understand she's worried but--"
"Fuck this phone."
"What--?"
"Damn tech. Never fucking works. You still there?"
"Yes, I'm right--"
"Hello?"
"I said--"
"Can't hear a fucking thing. Goddamn it. Look, I'm busy, okay? Working. You got a problem with Dee? Call Dee."
He hung up. Then he switched his phone off and headed back into the terminal. He found a payphone, turned on his cell, and sent Evelyn the number. It was encrypted, of course. Some code she'd made him memorize years ago. He could still remember bitching about that. Fucking codes, Evelyn? I'm a hitman, not MI6.
Like the tech, the codes seemed like overkill and most of the time they were. Nadia got a laugh out of hitmen in books and movies--top-notch assassins trained in every imaginable martial art, Olympic-level marksmen who carried the kind of tech found only in sci-fi movies. They could kill anyone, anywhere, and leave no trace.
The truth was that your average hitman killed by walking up to a target and shooting him. That was getting tougher these days, with cell phone and street security cameras. But that was still the most common kind of hitman. Jack wasn't that kind. He was a helluva long way from the Hollywood version, though. Today, he was damned happy for that code.
It was twenty minutes before the phone rang, which told him Evelyn had driven to a payphone herself. Meaning she understood the seriousness of the situation.
"I fucked up," he said when he answered the phone.
"I'm not your damn priest, Jack. What the hell is going on?"
"Just told you."
"Just confessed, you mean, which means Dee is in trouble, because that's the only person you're going to feel guilty over. But unless you're the one who took out Quinn--and some days, I wouldn't blame you--I have no damn idea what's going on."
"It was a trap."
"For him? Her? You? Can you use a few more words, Jack? If Dee's in trouble--"
"It was all a trap. My job in Ireland. Taking Quinn. Getting Dee to go after him. It's connected. I'm overseas. Kidnap Quinn. Lure Dee out. Grab her. Get me to take a job."
A moment's pause as she pieced that together. "All that to hire you? Whatever happened to picking up the phone? Oh, wait. I know. Someone is inching toward retirement, shutting down all avenues of contact so he can play Grizzly Adams in the middle of nowhere with Jane."
"Tarzan."
"What?"
"It's Tarzan and Jane. Not Grizzly Adams."
"Do you actually want my help or do you want to test my pop culture knowledge first?"
"Getting old. Gotta check."
"Fuck off, Jack. The point is--"
"Point is you're wasting time. Giving me shit. Yeah, that's always fun. But save it. This job? Wouldn't have taken it. Even before Dee. Cillian says it's cartel shit."
Evelyn let loose a few creative curses. She also stopped hassling him. She was the one who'd counseled him to keep his distance from cartels. The mob had rules and codes of conduct. Sometimes fucking stupid rules and codes of conduct. But they had honor. If the cartels had honor, it didn't extend to people like Evelyn and Jack.
"Need you to call Dee," he said. "Tell her--"
"No."
"Don't pull your shit. Not now. Call Dee. Warn her. Find out where she is--"
"So you can run to her rescue?"
"Doesn't need rescue."
"Exactly, which is why you are going to stay the hell away from her. You want to blame yourself for this? Fine, but don't compound the problem by running to her side. She's a helluva lot more careful than Quinn. That's the advantage to being a woman. We don't go striding into danger, King Shit, thinking we can handle all comers."
Jack snorted a laugh.
"You got something to say, Jack-o?"
He didn't answer. She was right about Dee and Quinn. However, as a generalization, the rest was bullshit. Evelyn herself was the one who'd stride in, guns blazing, while Jack hung back and assessed. Not as much a gender disparity as a difference in personality.
"You're right," he said. "About Dee."
"Good. So she'll make it tough on them, which means they'll need to keep her under surveillance, which means you cannot show up or, being a cartel, they're liable to get pissy and just shoot her to punish you for screwing up their plan."
"Fuck."
"Yes, fuck, Jack. At the very least, they'll realize their scheme is ruined and Quinn will have outlived his usefulness. Maybe you wouldn't be too broken up by that, but you wouldn't be dancing on his grave either. More importantly, Dee would blame herself. Because she's good at that, kind of like someone else I know. Dee won't want Quinn dead, so it's best not to let Quinn die, right?"
"Yeah."
"Slow down and think. I know you aren't being reckless--otherwise, you'd have called me from Ireland or, worse, called her. But for you, this is panic. Just stop and think it through. All the way through."
He shifted the receiver from one hand to the other, trying to squelch that roiling in his gut that said he was already moving too slowly, that Nadia was in danger and goddamn it, he was only a couple hundred miles away and--
He inhaled sharply. Panic. That's what he was feeling. The last time he'd even come close . . .
He squeezed his eyes shut and swore he could still smell the smoke.
He'd gone to get cigarettes. His shift at the mechanic's had ended, and he'd walked halfway home before remembering the cigarettes. His brother, Tommy, was out, and he didn't like Jack's brand, and it wasn't like he could run and grab a pack himself. Not after he'd nearly lost his leg in the mission that got their two other brothers killed. The mission that made Jack tell the guys in charge to go fuck themselves. He'd warned them their plan wasn't safe but who the fuck was he? Some kid whose only fucking talent was
killing people. He'd quit the group and refused to go back, and all he'd wanted that day was to get cigarettes for Tommy. So he'd gone back for them, and when he returned to that same spot, a mile from home, he saw the smoke. He dropped the cigarettes and he ran because it didn't matter if he couldn't see where that smoke came from. He knew. He just knew.
"Jack?"
"Yeah." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay. You're right. But I gotta let her know. Gotta figure out a way--"
"I'll tell her."
He shook his head. "Can't use her phone--"
"I have a plan."
9 - Nadia
"I'm going home," I told Diaz as I met up with him in the parking lot.
"What?"
"My caretaker called. There's a power-supply problem at the lodge and if we don't get it fixed by Thursday--when we're fully booked with a corporate retreat--we're screwed."
"Okay . . ." he said slowly. He was at his car, talking over it, his hands on the roof where I could see them.
"I wanted to help," I said. "I still do, and if I can, I'll come back, but really, you guys can handle this. You have actual investigators. I'm just an ex-cop who never even made detective."
"But you're good. Damned good. We could really use--"
"I can't, and I feel like shit about that. But my real-life job comes first. I understand that's an inconvenience, me coming here and then cutting out on you . . ."
He shook his head. "I'm glad you came, and of course I wish you could stay, but you're right about the lodge. It's important for all our agents--and potential recruits--to have an outside life." He stepped back. "Can I give you a lift to the airport?"
"I have my rental," I said, pointing at it.
"I know. But I'm guessing you're flying out of DC and traffic's a bitch this time of day. With two of us, we can take the commuter lane. I can have the rental agency pick up your car."
I shook my head. "I'll be fine, thanks."
"Let me write down some alternate directions for you. Back roads. They'll take you a bit out of the way, but at this time of day, it'll be worth it. I'd suggest not booking a flight until you're there, to be safe. They run frequently enough that you'll have no problem getting one."
I thanked him as he wrote out directions. Then headed for my car. As I was getting in, Diaz called to me, "Wait! That gun I lent you--"