tween the stacks of containers. This time only Ne Win and Lian followed. It took Quinn nearly ten minutes before he found what he wanted. The container was dark blue, and on the side in large white letters were
the words baron & baron ltd. He looked at Lian, then pointed at it. “That one,” he said. After Lian opened the container door, Quinn carried the body in
side, then dropped it on the floor. He didn’t pause or even look back as
he exited. Once Quinn was back outside, Lian closed the doors. “It would be good if that one went out to sea soon,” Quinn said to
Ne Win. “And it’ll be a shame when it falls off the deck in the middle of nowhere.” “Yes,” Ne Win said. “A shame.”
“Exactly when did you tell me there was a chance I might be
killed?” Murray demanded as Quinn opened the door of Ne Win’s car. “Not now, Kenneth,” Quinn said. Quinn and Tasha climbed into the back with Murray and the con
gressman. It was a tight squeeze, but they made it work. Murray was obviously agitated, but the congressman was quiet, staring down at the floor, not looking at anyone.
In front, Lian switched places with Ne Win’s other man in the driver’s seat, while Ne Win climbed into his customary spot. There wasn’t room for everyone, so the other man had to wait for someone to come back and pick him up.
As they started to drive away, Guerrero finally looked up. “She worked for me for a year,” he said like he couldn’t believe his own words. “I had her to my house for parties and meetings. I saw her at the office almost every day.” He turned to Tasha. “When you told me she was there to kill me, I...I couldn’t believe it. Why? Why would she do that?”
Quinn looked out the side window. “Because that was what she was told to do.”
The congressman sat quietly for a moment, his breaths deep and even. Finally he looked from Tasha to Quinn. “Perhaps you should tell me everything. And Mr. Drake, you can start by giving me your real name.”
Quinn thought for a moment. There was no way they were going to tell the congressman everything, but they could tell him enough.
“I’m Jonathan Quinn,” he said, starting off with a lie.
Like Richard Drake, Jonathan Quinn wasn’t his real name, either.
Nate was in surgery until almost midnight. He was in a small private hospital west of downtown. Dr. Han—not a surgeon himself— had seen to it that Nate got the best help possible. And Quinn, through Ne Win, had promised substantial reimbursement for every-one’s silence.
Quinn and Orlando waited in a small windowless room. Ne Win was there, too. But he kept getting phone calls, so he’d excuse himself and walk outside to take them.
“Lots of stuff on news tonight,” Ne Win said during one of his lulls between interruptions. “Everyone talking about gunfight at Maxwell. Think there are some dangerous people in town.”
“There were,” Quinn said.
“Congressman go on CNN International, too. He say he in wrong place at wrong time. He say some helpful locals get him to safety. No one mentioned assassination attempt.”
Quinn grunted. That was good. But in truth, he didn’t really care what happened at this point. He didn’t care much about anything except Nate and Orlando.
He had left Los Angeles because he was worried his dead friend’s girlfriend was in trouble. Now she was dead, and he was the one who had pulled the trigger. He tried not to think about it, but he was doing a lousy job of it.
Orlando seemed to sense what he was going through. She put a hand on his back and slowly rubbed the base of his neck. She said nothing, which was just another testament to how well she knew him. If he needed to talk, she’d be there. He knew that.
It was another thirty minutes before Dr. Han came into the waiting room.
“He’s in his room now,” the doctor said. “He’s a tough one. That was a lot of blood he lost, but he never stopped fighting to stay alive. He’ll be okay. Well... considering...”
The doctor led them to Nate’s room.
“He won’t stir until the morning,” Dr. Han said.
“We won’t stay long,” Quinn said.
The doctor looked at Quinn, then at Orlando, and finally at Ne Win. “I think you could all use some sleep also,” he said, then left.
Quinn stood next to his apprentice’s bed. There were wires and tubes everywhere, making Nate look like an unused marionette waiting for his puppet master to wake him up.
His face looked serene and unscathed. Quinn could almost believe that Nate was fine, that all would be back to normal soon. But then he allowed his gaze to move away from Nate’s face, first to the shoulder that was covered in bandages, then toward the end of the bed.
There was a little bump jutting up from the sheets where Nate’s left foot was. But where his right should have been, there was nothing. The amputation was from just above where the break had occurred near the midpoint of his shin.
The foot could have stayed, but it would have never been useful. Nate would have been forever crippled. Of course, he was forever crippled now, Quinn knew, but at least he had the chance at the appearance of normality.
Prosthetics had come a long way. At least that’s what Orlando had said when Quinn had been forced to make
