Becoming Quinn (17 page)

•    •    •

All the spaces closest to Van Buren were taken, so Jake kept driving until he found a spot about two-thirds of the way into the giant lot, up against the fence and far from the entrance. He turned off his engine, and retrieved the cardboard sunscreen he kept folded on the back seat, then propped it up against the front windshield. If there was one thing he’d learned since living in Phoenix, it was how quickly the sun could damage the interior of a vehicle. Case in point, the crack in his dash just above the glove compartment.

Protection in place, he grabbed his bag and climbed out of the car.

•    •    •

Durrie slowed as Oliver turned his Civic into an empty spot.

Yes or no?
he thought, giving himself a last chance to change his mind. But the answer was still the same. He rolled forward until his car was blocking the Civic. From the movements inside he was sure Oliver hadn’t noticed.

Durrie grabbed the weapon out of his kit bag, and quickly exited his sedan. By the time Oliver opened his door, Durrie was standing just ten feet away.

•    •    •

Jake didn’t notice the man until after he’d shut his door and turned toward the parking lot. He thought the guy wanted to get into the car next to his, and was just waiting for Jake to get out of the way.

“Hi,” he said. “If you move back, I can get out, then you can leave.”

When the man didn’t respond, Jake took a hard look at him, and was about to ask what his problem was, but the words caught in his mouth.

It was the third man from the Lawrence Hotel, the one who’d entered the elevator and been briefly acknowledged by the light-haired guy. There was no mistaking him.

Jake took a step forward. “I’ve got a plane to catch. So if you’ll excuse me…”

He kept moving as if he were going to push past the man, but halted in his tracks when the guy raised his hand. In it was a weapon, not a traditional pistol, but something that looked like a cross between that and a Taser device Jake had seen a demonstration of at the station.

“You’re not going anywhere,” the man said. “Trust me, it’s better this way.”

Jake let his breathing grow even. At best he had one chance, so he couldn’t afford to blow it.

“What do you want?” he asked, casually positioning himself in the middle of the space between the two cars that fenced him in.

“At the moment that doesn’t matter.”

“I kind of think it does,” Jake said.

“Yeah, well…sorry.”

The man pulled the trigger.

Jake had anticipated the move, and brought his bag up a half-second before four tiny darts, each attached to a wire, shot out of the end of the weapon.

As soon as they pierced the side of the bag, Jake threw it at the man, then whirled around and rushed toward the fence. Slowing prior to reaching it, he turned again and hopped onto the hood of his Civic, then started to run from car to car, jumping the gaps.

His gaze searched the parking lot, looking for anyone within earshot. He knew if he could get someone’s attention, it might be enough to deter the man from pursuing him. But the lot was huge, and the closest person was standing next to the building where the shuttle bus stopped, looking in the other direction.

Jake chanced a brief look back. While the man’s car was still parked behind his, there was no sign of the man himself.

As Jake jumped from the hood of a Volvo onto that of an SUV, he could see trouble three cars ahead—a minivan with basically no hood at all. He altered his path as he neared, then jumped higher than usual when he came to the gap, his hands reaching for the van’s roof. But his foot slipped as he took off, and his stomach hit the edge where the roof and side met, bending him at the waist like an L.

Momentarily stunned, he hung there for a second.

Keep moving!

His legs heard the message first. They began scrambling around the side of the van and over to the windshield. One foot reached the glass, but something grabbed his other.

He looked back and saw the man holding fast to his ankle with one hand. In his other hand—

A needle!

Jake tried to kick back with his foot, but the man was strong and had been ready for this. To counter, Jake pushed up from the roof, and started to turn onto his back, intending to lash out at the man with his other leg. But just as he pivoted onto his hip, he felt a prick in his calf. The man immediately let go of his ankle and stepped back.

Jake lost his grip and slipped to the ground. He staggered a moment, but was able to remain on his feet. “What did you do to me?” he yelled.

“You’ve seen me before, haven’t you?” the man asked.

“Hell, yes, I’ve seen you before,” Jake said. “You were at the Lawrence Hotel. You had something to do with the murder out on Goodman Ranch Road. Don’t think I’m not going to turn you in.”

The man eyed him curiously for a moment. “How did you know?”

Jake felt a sudden disconnect from his skin, as if a thick layer of foam had been injected between it and the tissue beneath. “What did you do…to me?”

“Looks like we both have questions.” The man paused. “I’d sit down if I were you. Less chance of bruising when you fall.”

Jake was having a hard time understanding what he meant. Less chance of…
what?

Suddenly he bumped into the van.

“Sit down,” the man told him.

Jake did.

“What…what…” Jake desperately searched for other words, but none came.

The man was at his side now. “Don’t fight it.”

Jake felt his body turn and realized the man was moving him. Soon his back was leaning against the van.

“Don’t fight it,” the man repeated, his voice becoming a distant whisper. “Don’t…”

Jake heard no more.

24

The call came exactly five minutes after the plane Jake was supposed to be on had taken off. Durrie didn’t need to check the caller ID to know that it was Peter. He left the phone sitting on the table by the door, unanswered. He wasn’t ready to talk.

The truth was, he was still stunned by what had happened at the airport parking lot. Not so much by Oliver’s ability to improvise and almost get away—that was admirable to be sure but not entirely unexpected. No, it had happened moments before that, when Durrie had confronted him. The ex-cop’s eyes had flared in sudden recognition.

He had
seen
Durrie before.

Then, after he had drugged the kid, Oliver had said, “You were at the Lawrence Hotel.” Timmons and Larson had not been the only ones Oliver had picked out.

Unbelievable.

The mobile home they were in was located forty-five minutes south of Phoenix, off Interstate 10. It was in the middle of a large piece of nothing, its nearest neighbors miles away on their own little plots of barren land. It had been the safe house for the mission the previous month. If things had gone wrong and any member of the team had needed to hole up somewhere, this was where they would have gone.

Durrie knew he and Oliver couldn’t stay there for long. It may have been a safe house, but it was also a location known to Peter and the Office. They needed to drop completely off the map, someplace no one would ever be able to find them.

The problem was, there were a few things Durrie still had to take care of in Phoenix. He’d been paid for a job, and he had no intentions of not fulfilling his duties. He figured he could use the mobile home for at least six hours, maybe even up to half a day before someone showed up to check it.

From the outside, the trailer looked like just another sad, old home, closer to the end of its usefulness than the beginning. But this was no off-the-assembly-line clone. This was a specially built, composite-fiber-reinforced-frame structure, with an interior layout that was functional and could serve a variety of needs. One of those potential needs was met by the inclusion of a detention cell.

The room was just wide enough for a narrow bed and a toilet. In deference to the heat of the desert, it was air conditioned, but otherwise soundproofed.

Durrie lugged Oliver inside, and laid him on the bed. He then retrieved the large bottle of water he’d purchased during his morning prep, and put it in the room on the floor. Chances were, Oliver would remain unconscious until he came back, but if he didn’t, the bottle would be there if he was thirsty.

Durrie closed the door, then engaged the double bar system that secured it to the walls, ceiling and floor. In the living room, his phone was ringing again. He picked it up, and slipped it into his pocket, once more ignoring Peter.

Outside, he reprogrammed the lock with a new combination, then looked at his watch. He’d give himself four hours just to be safe. That should be enough.

•    •    •

It felt as if someone had taken a hatchet to Jake’s skull. The pain radiated in a line just off center, from an inch above his left eye all the way back to the nape of his neck. Slowly, he moved a hand to his head and carefully touched his hair, sure he would find a gaping wound. But there was no blood or exposed bone. Whatever was causing his distress was on the inside.

The day came back to him in bits and pieces, like images caught in a strobe light. The man with the weapon, Jake’s attempt to get away, falling onto the van, then the man again, a needle in his hand, and finally the prick on Jake’s skin.

How long ago that had been, he had no idea. He only knew whatever hope he’d had of fighting off the man disappeared with his own consciousness.

He lay unmoving, willing the pain to subside. While it didn’t go away completely, it became more manageable after a while, enough so that he decided he could try opening his eyes. Either he’d gone blind or he was surrounded by complete darkness. He could see absolutely nothing.

He touched the surface he was lying on, and discovered it was a thin mattress sitting on top of a wire-mesh frame. On his right side, there was empty space beyond the frame, but on his left, it butted up against a wall.

Knowing that any sudden movement might bring his pain back, he slowly swung his legs into the open area, and eased himself into a sitting position. His foot banged into something, stinging momentarily and making him realize he wasn’t wearing his shoes. He carefully moved his foot back over, touching the object and feeling around it. It seemed to be metal with sides coming out of the floor and an opening on top. A toilet, he thought.

Moving his hand in front of him, his fingers quickly came in contact with a wall only a few feet away. He slid them across the surface, finding a crease that must have denoted a door, then touching a switch.

Without hesitating, he flipped it up, and a weak light, recessed in the ceiling, came on.

As much as he was glad to know he wasn’t blind, he almost wished he’d left the light off. The space was tiny. Other than the bed and the toilet, the only other thing in the space was a bottle of water sitting near the door.

His tongue involuntarily pushed against the top of his mouth at the sight of it. Before he even knew what he was doing, he picked it up and unscrewed the top. As he raised the open end toward his mouth, he hesitated.

Drugged?

He sniffed the opening. Smelled like water, but that didn’t mean anything. Reluctantly, he screwed the cap back on and set it down. He couldn’t afford to take a chance.

He stood up, and took a closer look at the door. There was no handle on the inside, and nowhere else he could get a grip on it. There were two panels in the door. One was at the floor, and was large enough to slip a plate of food through. The other was at eye level, a rectangle about two inches high and five inches long, covered by Plexiglas on Jake’s side and a piece of metal on the other that probably could be slid out of the way so someone on the outside could look in.

He pressed his ear against the rectangular panel, trying to pick up any noise that might give him a better idea where he was. But he could hear absolutely nothing. With little else he could do, he collapsed back on the bed.

Conserve your strength
, he thought.
Be ready for any opportunity
.

It wasn’t much of a hope, but it was hope.

•    •    •

In the days leading up to this one, Durrie had arraigned for movers from two separate companies to show up at Berit Davies’s townhouse and Jake Oliver’s apartment at just after noon. To prevent any unnecessary questions, he had sent a letter to the homeowner’s association for the woman’s townhouse a week earlier. He informed them about the move, notified them that cleaners would be coming in the next day, and that the condo would be listed for sale within a few days after that. Ms. Davies, the letter said, had taken a government job back east, and to assist in the move, her new agency was taking care of the details. This was not unheard of, so no one would question it.

Durrie had thought the trickier one would be Oliver’s place. Though he was able to arrange for the movers and cleaners ahead of time, he couldn’t contact the landlord until after Oliver was out of the way. But, to his surprise, it turned out that Oliver had already given notice, so the landlord barely even reacted to the news that the movers were coming so soon.

Durrie made several trips between the places, monitoring the moves without actually making his presence known. While he did this, he made several calls to confirm that utilities had received their final payments and would be turned off on time. On one of his trips between places, he dropped change-of-address cards into a mailbox, and soon all their mail would be diverted to private P.O. boxes—in D.C. for Davies, and Houston for Oliver. From there, the mail would be forwarded through several other blind addresses before arriving on someone’s desk at the Office. Any mail that arrived before the changes took effect would be forwarded by the management of each facility.

Once he was sure there would be no problems at the two residences, he moved onto the last item on his list: selling Jake’s Civic. It went easy enough. Though the deal the used car place gave him wasn’t particularly fair, he wasn’t going to haggle. After the details were taken care of, one of the dealership’s employees gave him a ride to a rental car agency a block from where he’d parked his car. Done, he headed back out of town.