continued to expand. The signs were there—a handful of new homes in various stages of construction.
The houses that were already established were a mix of one- and two-stories. Each house was set on a large lot, but unlike the West Coast, no one in this part of the world seemed to believe in fences. There was no way to know where one property ended and another began.
Quinn turned down Blackmoore’s street. There were mailboxes at the end of each driveway, their addresses prominently displayed. It didn’t take long before he found Blackmoore’s.
He drove past the driveway, then pulled onto the grassy shoulder a couple of lots away.
“What are we doing here?” Tasha asked.
“I need to talk to someone.”
“Derek Blackmoore?”
Quinn shot her a surprised look.
“You said his name on the phone,” she said.
He nodded once, remembering. “Just stay here,” he said.
“Is he someone who can help find Jenny?”
“I’ll be back in a little bit.”
He quickly got out of the car to avoid any further conversation, then slipped his gun under his waistband at the small of his back.
Derek Blackmoore had been a spy runner for the Agency. Quinn had never met the man himself, but he had heard plenty of stories from Markoff. Blackmoore had been Markoff ’s handler more times than not. This was before the older man had been forced into retirement as a scapegoat for intelligence gaffes during the second Gulf War.
“He had nothing to do with it,” Markoff had told Quinn later. “He was all buttoned up. It was some asshole above him who hadn’t listened to Blackmoore’s warnings, then the guy turned around and pointed the finger at him.”
Markoff had once said Blackmoore was the only person in the business other than Quinn he trusted completely. There was no bullshit between them, no hidden agendas.
So if Markoff had trusted him when they’d worked together, maybe he’d trusted him enough to let him know what was going on now. It was a long shot, but at the moment, every move Quinn made was a long shot.
Blackmoore’s house was set back from the road down a long driveway. It was on a gentle slope that dropped away from the road for about a hundred yards before it rose again on the other side of the small vale. Quinn could hear running water down where the two hills met. A brook, probably barely deep enough to get your feet wet.
Lights were on in Blackmoore’s house. Quinn took that for a good sign. He would have hated to wake the old man up.
He walked slowly down the driveway, making sure he was in sight of the front window at all times. If he wanted any chance of getting help out of Blackmoore, then sneaking up on the old spook would not be a great idea.
He climbed the three steps up to a wide porch that wrapped around the front of the house, then approached the front door. But before he could knock, he heard a voice behind him.
“What do you want?”
Quinn turned quickly, expecting to find someone standing there, but there was no one.
“I said, what do you want?”
This time the voice came from his right. Quinn looked over, but he was still alone.
He searched the shadows in the direction the voice had come from, then saw it. A tiny speaker hidden in the eaves of the porch overhang. The voice had been crystal clear, so it had to be top-of-the-line.
“Answer the question or get the hell out of here.”
This one was from the left, but Quinn didn’t look this time. Instead, he approached the front door, stopping only a foot away.
“Mr. Blackmoore, I need to talk with you.”
“I’m not interested in conversations. Get your ass off my property before I call the police.” This speaker was just above the door.
“Steven Markoff sent me.”
Silence.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” Quinn said.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Jonathan Quinn.”
Silence again.
“Prove it.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“Tell me how you met Steven.”
