at the time, but in the years since, he’d realized it had turned out to be a very useful skill. Nate would be going through the same training the following year.
Quinn removed a thin rectangular metal box from the case he was still carrying, then flipped a switch near the top. He could feel a slight vibration as the detector came to life in his palm. Taking his time, he worked his way around the truck. The detector remained silent, picking up no evidence of any tracking devices. True to his word, Albina had left the truck clean.
Quinn returned the scanner to its case, then walked around to the rear of the container. A part of him wanted to make sure Albina hadn’t pulled a bait-and-switch and put something else in the box, but the real reason for the check was that Quinn needed to confirm for himself that the dead man inside was indeed who Jorge had said he was.
He did a quick scan to make sure no one was near, then opened the door.
Again the stench. Bad, but not as bad as it had been in the confines of the warehouse. He climbed inside and pulled the door closed behind him.
He pinched his nose closed with one hand, forcing himself to breathe through his mouth. With the other hand, he pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and turned it on.
The corpse was in pretty much the same place it had been when he’d seen it last—still against the wall, halfway back on the right side. He walked over and gently used his foot to roll the body onto its back.
For a couple of seconds, he all but forgot where he was. He stared down at the bloated face. Even with the disfigurement and the low light, there was no mistaking the features. It was Markoff.
“Everything all right?” Nate asked over the radio.
Quinn blinked.
“Time to go,” Quinn said.
Quinn drove the rig east through San Bernardino and over the Cajon Pass toward Las Vegas. He exited a few miles later at Highway 395 and headed north into the Mojave Desert. Nate followed a half-mile behind in the BMW, watching for tails.
The desert had once been hundreds of square miles of nothing but sagebrush and dirt. Both were still there, but over the years the occasional town had popped up, creating pockets of forced green in the endless brown landscape. It was by no means a full-scale human invasion. There were parts where you could drive for nearly fifty miles without seeing anything more man-made than the distant high-power lines or some out-of-date billboards or the occasional abandoned car rusted to a deep brown and half buried in the sand by a flash flood.
There were roads, though. Dirt ones, branching off from the highway and winding miles into the nothingness. Some were well worn by traffic, perhaps indicating a home in the distance. Others looked as though they’d been abandoned for dozens of years.
It was easy to lose things out here, things that wouldn’t be found for a long time. And if you did the job right, things that would never be found.
Because he rarely took work so close to home, Quinn seldom had a need to come out this way. Of course, that didn’t mean he was unfamiliar with the terrain. One always had to be prepared.
About twenty miles before Randsburg, there was a little-used dirt road that led off to the southeast. Quinn made sure the only other car in sight was his own BMW, then turned the rig down the road, slowing to navigate the uneven terrain.
It took thirty minutes to reach a suitable spot. The road first went past several hills before dipping into the deep ravine. Not far beyond where Quinn stopped, the road seemed to disappear, as though its destination had been washed away by one of the spring storms, giving it no reason to continue.
By the time he got out of the cab, Nate had caught up to him in the BMW. Quinn motioned for his apprentice to park behind the truck. He then walked around to the container’s doors.
In the distance, the sun was approaching the horizon. Night was less than an hour away.
Quinn reached up, hesitated for only a second, then flung both doors open all the way. He almost didn’t notice the smell this time.
Behind him, he heard the door to the BMW open and shut, then footsteps approaching the truck.
“Coveralls, gloves, and plastic sheeting,” Quinn called out without looking around.
“What about the gasoline?”
“Not yet.”
As Nate returned to the car, Quinn climbed inside and walked over to the body. He couldn’t imagine what had led to Markoff being entombed in a shipping container. Sure, Markoff had once been CIA, but he’d taken an early retirement the previous winter, bored stiff by the desk job at Langley he’d taken only months before.
The only answer was the sound of Nate’s footsteps outside the back door.
“Here,” his apprentice called out.
Quinn turned toward the back. Nate was standing on the ground, only the upper third of his body showing above the lip of the container. In one hand he held up a pair of coveralls and gloves.
Quinn looked down at Markoff one more time, then headed toward the opening to get changed.
They worked quickly and efficiently. Nate, more times than not, seemed to anticipate Quinn’s next request, helping to keep conversation to a minimum.
Dealing with Markoff was first. They wrapped his body in the sheeting, then placed him across the hood of the BMW, securing him in place with several lengths of rope. Next, Nate donned a breathing mask, and used a portable paint sprayer to douse the interior of the container with gasoline.
