The Collected (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) (22 page)

“Up and over,” he said.

They found a point where the top barbed-wire strand drooped, no longer taut. They climbed over one by one, all avoiding getting snagged, and headed toward the building.

It was set back a good hundred yards from the fence, with wild grass and weeds covering the wide expanse between the two. To the far side of the structure they could see part of a long, flat road to nowhere that could only be a runway.

As they neared, Daeng stopped and crouched down, looking at the ground. “Look,” he said.

In the dirt was an imprint, several feet long but only a few inches wide.

“Helicopter,” Orlando said.

Daeng nodded, and pointed at a less obvious, parallel imprint. “If Moreno was telling the truth, this must be where he landed.”

“At least we’re at the right place,” Quinn said. “Let’s have a look inside.”

There were two doors along the side of the building facing them, each made of metal that had seen better days. Quinn was about to head toward the one on the right when the other one opened, and a man in a uniform stepped out, holding a gun.

“
Esta es propiedad privada. No pueden entrar aquí,
” he said, telling them they shouldn’t be there. He motioned back toward the fence. “
Regrésense a su coche. No pueden estar aquí.
”

 “
Buenos días
,” Quinn said, and continued in Spanish, “Captain Moreno told us we’d find you here.”

“I don’t care who sent you. You can’t be here.”

“Captain Moreno from Monterrey? I’m sure you remember him. He was here a few days ago.”

Caution crept into the man’s eyes. “Who are you?”

“Duncan. DEA.” Quinn held his hand out. The man didn’t take it, so Quinn shrugged and said, “These are my colleagues, Travers and Song. We’ve been running a joint investigation with the Federal Police in Monterrey.”

The man’s expression remained the same. “No drugs here.”

“We realize that,” Quinn said. “We’re here about the prisoner transfer.”

“Prisoner transfer?”

“Yes, the man who Moreno escorted here and handed over to the other agents. Were you not here? He said you were here. Are you…um…um…” Quinn turned back to Orlando, as if looking for help remembering.

“Diaz?” the man offered.

“Yes, Diaz.”

“That’s me.”

“And weren’t you here?”

Diaz looked at them one by one. “I need to see your IDs.”

“Really?” Quinn huffed, exasperated. “Moreno was supposed to have set this up. I get the impression you didn’t know we were coming.”

“No.”

“That’s just great.”  He looked at Orlando. “Get him on the phone.”

She pulled out her phone and pretended to dial.

“No,” Quinn said. “Don’t call Moreno. Call Grayson in DC. Have him get ahold of Director Arroyo at CISEN.”
Centro de Investigación y Seguridad Nacional
was Mexico’s chief intelligence agency. “Let him deal with his screwup.”

Orlando nodded and walked several feet away, her phone to her ear.

Diaz eyed her nervously.

“Don’t worry,” Quinn said. “I’m sure you’ll get a call in just a minute to straighten all this out. Wouldn’t want to be in Moreno’s shoes right now. Though I guess he might not be the only one who hears the wrath.”

The man licked his lips, looked at Orlando again, and said, “It’s okay. No problem. What is it I can do for you?”

“That’s very cooperative of you. I appreciate that.” Quinn glanced over at Orlando. “Never mind. We’re good.”

She said something into her phone, acted like she was disconnecting the call, and slipped it into her pocket.

Quinn looked back at the guard. “So, were you here during the prisoner exchange?”

“Yes. I was here,” Diaz said. He quickly added, “But I stayed out of the way. Only unlocked the doors they wanted.”

“Good. That’ll make things easier. We need to take a look at the room where the prisoner was held. Can you please take us there?”

“Um, sure. Yes. This way.”

Quinn turned to Orlando and Daeng. “Travers, you’re with me. Song, wait out here. Have a look around.”

Both Orlando and Daeng took a step toward Quinn, stopped, and looked at each other as if saying, “I thought I was Travers.”

Quinn looked directly at Orlando. “Travers, let’s go.”

She gave Daeng a quick, smug smile as she joined Quinn.

As soon as they passed inside, Diaz flicked on a flashlight and led them down a long, dim corridor. Given the appearance of the building from the outside, the interior was surprisingly clean and in order. Doors lined both sides of the hallway. All were closed so there was no telling what was in the rooms.

After turning down another corridor, Diaz finally stopped.

“This is it,” he said.

He pulled out a ring of keys, selected the proper one, unlocked, and opened the door. The room inside was dark. Diaz moved enough out of the way so that Quinn and Orlando could get a look while he shined his light through the space.

It was small and had no windows or vents, just a drain in the corner and a threadbare cot along the side. The room was a temporary holding cell, plain and simple.

“You put the prisoner in here yourself?” Quinn asked.

“I only unlocked the door. Captain Moreno and his men put him inside.”

“May I use your light, please?” Quinn said, holding out his hand.

Diaz reluctantly handed over his flashlight.

Quinn played the beam through the room, carefully examining the space in case Nate had been able to leave some kind of message. He spotted nothing.

When he was done, he stepped back and handed the light back to the guard. “How long was he held in here?”

“An hour, maybe two,” Diaz said. “I don’t remember exactly. I can check the log if you want.”

“Yes, please.”

Diaz led them back in the direction they’d come. Now that Quinn had seen the cell Nate had been in, he was sure most of the other doors along the corridor would open onto similar rooms. Low profile, out of the way, and with its own airstrip, it was the perfect transfer point for the problematic and unwanted.

Diaz’s office was a room near the building’s exit and about twice as large as Nate’s cell. Crammed inside were a desk, a small couch, and a television that was currently playing a security feed from outside the building, the same feed on which the guard had no doubt spotted Quinn and the others.  

Diaz stepped behind the desk and typed into his computer. “The prisoner arrived at 12:48 p.m., and left again at 3:06. So, over two hours.”

Without looking at her, Quinn knew Orlando had taken special note of the departure time. It was a more exact number than the estimate Moreno had given them.

“And how was the prisoner when he left?” Quinn asked.

“Fine, I guess. Why? Has there been a problem?”

“What do you mean, you guess? Either he was or he wasn’t.”

“I don’t know,” Diaz said, flustered. “I couldn’t see his face with that black bag over his head.”

Quinn leaned back. Moreno had not mentioned that little detail. “Of course. Right.”

Though in truth it changed nothing, the thought of Nate in a bag angered Quinn even more.

“The pickup team Moreno handed the prisoner off to—did you speak with them?” Orlando asked.

“No. Just like I said, I opened doors and stayed out of the way. That’s my job.”

“Good,” Quinn said. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. We’ll note that in our report.”

Worry once more crossed the guard’s face. “Report?”

“Routine,” Quinn said with a smile.

Diaz stood up as if he planned to escort them back to their car.

“No need,” Quinn said. “We want to take a look outside, then we’ll be on our way.”

“But the gate’s locked.”

“We got in. We’ll get out.”

Outside, they found Daeng waiting near the door.

“Find anything?” Quinn asked.

“Some rubber marks on the runway over there,” Daeng said, looking toward a spot just beyond the building. “No more than a week old.”

“We’re done out here, right?” Orlando said. “If I’m going to find where that plane went, I need a good Wi-Fi signal.”

Quinn nodded. “Yeah. I don’t want—”

“Hold on,” Daeng said.

“What?” Quinn asked.

“We seem to have picked up some interest.”

Quinn tensed.

“A car drove by a few times while you were inside,” Daeng said.

Frowning, Quinn said, “It was a dark blue Ford sedan, wasn’t it?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

Son of a bitch
.

CHAPTER 35

T
HIS TIME NATE
didn’t hear
the door to his cell open.

He had passed out, his mind in survival mode, cutting him off from all external input. What it couldn’t ignore, though, was the hand that grabbed his shoulder and shook.

Immediately, the pain that his unconsciousness had masked flooded back. Though it no longer felt like he was constantly being stabbed, the searing ache was almost worse.

“Get up,” Janus ordered.

He pulled on Nate’s arm as if he were going to roll him onto his back. Realizing this, Nate shoved the man’s hand away, and twisted up into a sitting position to avoid his wounds coming in contact with anything but air.

“You feeling better, I see. On your feet.”

“Why?” Nate croaked.

“You have appointment.”

No bag was placed over his head this time as Janus led him from the room and down the now-familiar stone hallway. Instead of taking him to the courtyard, though, Janus escorted him up an old staircase and out onto a large stone deck. For the first time, Nate was able to see beyond the walls of the building, but the view didn’t comfort him.

Water as far as he could see swept out from the building on three sides. The view of the fourth side was partially blocked by more of the stone building, allowing him to see only the hint of vegetation growing in that direction. At least it wasn’t more water.

“Keep moving,” Janus said with a nudge.

Janus half dragged him to a door at the edge of the terrace, pulled it open, and pushed Nate inside.

They went along a corridor, down a set of stairs, passed by several doorways, and into a room that was dimly lit despite the afternoon sun outside.

Harris was there, looking out at the ocean through a tinted window. There was an older, frail-looking man also present. He was sitting in a padded leather chair behind an ornate desk. In his hands was a tablet computer that he was watching intently while listening to whatever was playing through a set of earphones.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Quinn,” Harris said without turning around.

Janus gave Nate a push toward the guest chair in front of the desk, then let go of his arm. Nate staggered forward and had to grab the back of the chair to keep from falling down.

“Sit,” Janus said.

Exhausted, Nate did as ordered, sitting up as straight as he could so his wounds didn’t touch the back of the chair. Behind him, he heard Janus step out of the room and shut the door.

The old man’s gaze stayed fixed to the tablet, and he’d smile every few seconds. Behind him, Harris continued to stare out the window.

Nate used the silence to try to refocus his mind. He was in a hell of a lot of pain, and it wasn’t going away, but he couldn’t let it control him. If he did, he might as well give up. Which, of course, was not an option.

He steadied his breathing and channeled the pain to one part of his mind. He couldn’t make it completely disappear, but he was able to box it up enough to manage it. With each passing second of silence, more focus returned, so that when the old man finally set the computer down and pulled the earphones out of his ears, Nate’s mind was as sharp and ready as he could have hoped.

The man stared across his desk at Nate for a moment, then smacked his lips and closed the folder. “You are quite accomplished, Mr. Quinn,” the man said. Though he had an accent, he spoke English like he’d known it all his life. “What you do is almost like an art form, wouldn’t you say?”

He waited for Nate to respond, but Nate kept his mouth shut.

“Not like the others, I mean,” the man went on. “They have their specialties, but what you do takes a whole different mindset. The removal of the dead. The erasing of all signs that something had happened. Not just anyone could do that. Of all of you, you’re the one I come closest to regretting bringing here. Unfortunately, guilt by association is still guilt.”

Again he paused as if he expected Nate to say something, and again Nate disappointed him.

“This morning’s session was painful, I know. And I’m not going to lie to you. It’s only going to get worse.”

Nate almost kept silent again, but then decided, what the hell. “Thanks for the breaking news.”

A momentary spike of anger flashed across the old man’s eyes, but a second later he was smiling again. “I had you brought up here, as I did with all of your colleagues, to see if you understand why you are my guest.”

“That’s an easy answer. No.”

“I thought as much. Perhaps this will clear things up.” There was a pause that Nate was sure was meant to be dramatic. “Isla de Cervantes.”

Nate had heard of the place. Isla de Cervantes was a small but strategic island nation in the Caribbean Sea. The few pictures Nate remembered seeing of the place were the typical gorgeous beach shots like all the other islands in the region, but he’d never had reason to go there.

He stared at the man, his expression unchanged. “And?”

Once more, the hint of anger, then quick containment. “You have an actor’s face. I’m sure that comes in handy sometimes. But I’m told you have an excellent memory, which means there’s no way you could have forgotten.”

Nate ran the name through his mind, trying to recall if Quinn had ever mentioned it. He was pretty sure the answer was no. But that wasn’t surprising. His mentor had a way of not mentioning a lot of things.

“Maybe I remember. Maybe I don’t,” he said. “What does it matter? It’s not going to stop you from doing whatever it is you have planned.”

That was not what the old man wanted to hear. His chair scraped backward. Harris turned quickly around, and rushed over to help as the old man stood up.