A SHRILL RING JOLTED QUINN AWAKE. HE OPENED HIS

eyes and pushed himself up. The room was dark, lit only by faint light filtering in through the window. Outside, night had descended over the city.

He looked to his left. His new phone was on the bed next to him, its ring not one he was accustomed to. He picked it up and thumbed the screen to disable the security lock.

“Hello?” he said.

“Quinn?”

Still a little disoriented, it took Quinn an extra second to recognize Peter’s voice.

“Are you there?” Peter asked.

“I’m here. Sorry.”

“Is this a bad time?”

“Hold on, okay?” Quinn said. “Just give me a second.”

Quinn set the phone back on the bed, then walked into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face.

He looked at his watch—9:23 p.m. It had been over six hours since he had returned to the room that afternoon. Sleeping that long had not been part of his plan. He frowned in self-annoyance as he

walked back into the bedroom and picked up the phone.

“I’m back.”

“You all right?” Peter asked.

“I’m fine,” Quinn said. “You have something for me?”

“Something, yes. But not an answer.”

Quinn nodded to himself. He’d figured as much. His request of Peter was to see if he could find out what Markoff had been up to. Since Markoff had once been CIA, it was possible Peter could pull a few strings and see if anyone at the agency knew anything about their former employee’s recent activities. What he hadn’t told Peter was that Markoff was dead. No sense setting that alarm off yet. “What did you get?”

“Word is no one’s talked to Markoff in weeks. He just kind of disappeared. No one seems worried, though. He’s retired. Maybe he went on a vacation.”

Quinn frowned. “Disappeared and no one knows where?”

“Maybe he has other friends he’s told.”

With the exception of Jenny, Quinn didn’t think Markoff had any other friends outside of the business. “You think he’s taken a freelance job?”

“Perhaps, but I couldn’t turn anything up,” Peter said. “What makes you think he’s not sitting on a beach somewhere relaxing?”

“Okay,” Quinn said, making no attempt to answer the question. “Thanks.”

“Don’t forget our deal,” Peter said.

Quinn hung up.

The taxi followed the Potomac River north, staying on the Virginia side until the Key Bridge took them into Georgetown. The address Steiner had given Quinn for Jenny’s D.C. home was on one of the numbered streets that ran north and south throughout the city. Quinn had the driver drop him off two blocks away on M Street.

The night was pleasant, no real need for a jacket, but Quinn wore one anyway. It was thin, more a windbreaker really, but what was most important was the built-in holster on the inside, under his left arm. His gun and suppressor fit snuggly into the customized space.

As usual, there were plenty of people out on M enjoying the warm late summer night in the bars and restaurants. Quinn weaved his way through a group of college-aged kids. Two were wearing Georgetown sweatshirts, and all looked like they’d been drinking for a while.

Instead of turning down Jenny’s street, Quinn kept walking, taking only a quick glance down the cobblestone road.

It was one-way with the exit at M Street. Compared to the main road, it was a morgue. The only cars on it were parked, and no one was on the sidewalks. Like elsewhere in Georgetown, it was lined with brick townhouses —some painted white, some yellow, some gray, and some left in natural brick red.

He continued to the next intersection, then turned right. He found himself on a street very similar to the one Jenny supposedly lived on. He walked down the empty brick sidewalk a half block, then turned onto the walkway of a darkened townhouse. He took the three steps up to the door, paused like he was pulling his keys out of his pocket, then checked back the way he had just come.

The road was empty. He was alone.

He descended the stairs and continued down the street, away from

M. He had checked a map online before leaving the hotel, so when he reached the end of the block, he was not surprised to find that instead of an intersecting street there was a canal.

It was the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal, more commonly known as the C & O. In the 1800s, it had been used to move goods from northern Maryland to D.C. and back. Now its sole purpose was to add to the area’s historical character.

The canal cut a wide east-west swath through Georgetown. Not only was there the rock-walled waterway, but

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