[Quinn 02] - The Deceived

Quinn, though, remained where he was.

He pulled the other SIG out of the bag and attached the suppressor, then moved as far back from the street as possible, blending into a nook where two buildings met.

The engine gunned as the motorcycle cleared the traffic jam and started moving up the road toward his position. The only question now was whether the driver was trouble or just a civilian.

But that question was soon answered. Dark suit. No helmet. Caucasian.

Trouble.

Quinn waited until the motorcycle was only a few seconds away, then stepped out of his hiding space into the dull light of a distant streetlamp.

The instant the driver saw him, he started to bring the motorcycle to a skidding stop.

Then the flap of the man’s jacket flew up, revealing a gun underneath, and a hand reaching for it.

Thwack.

Quinn’s bullet knocked the rider off his bike.

Quinn waited only long enough to make sure the man wasn’t getting up, then started running after Orlando and Jenny.

Ahead the road curved to the left. Just before he reached the bend, Quinn checked over his shoulder one last time.

He cursed under his breath. Someone else was coming up the road. This time on foot, and fast. A light in front of one of the houses caught the man’s face for a split second. Blondie.

As soon as Quinn took the bend, he stopped worrying about sticking to the shadows and raced up the street, the messenger bag banging painfully against his back.

Orlando and Jenny were nowhere in sight.

Good, he thought. While he acted as the distraction, Orlando would take Jenny someplace safe.

At the next intersection, Quinn turned left, heading up Ann Siang Hill, and followed the road all the way to the park at the end of the street.

Ann Siang Hill Park was not much more than a corridor between the back sides of the buildings lining Ann Siang Road and Amoy Street. Narrow strips of grass and small trees grew on each side of a red tile and concrete path. At intervals there were old-fashioned lampposts providing just enough light so no spot was completely dark.

Quinn slowed as he reached the path, masking the sound of his steps by keeping to the grass. The path wound through the buildings for several hundred feet before opening up into a patiolike area at the top of the hill. At the edge of the patio, there was a spiral staircase leading down to another path running behind the homes on Amoy.

Quinn paused near the top, focusing his attention back the way he had just come.

At first, there was only the distant noise of the city. Then there was something more. Soft but rhythmic. Footfalls. Someone on the path, heading his way.

He stepped on the spiral staircase, padding softly down the steps to the bottom. Then instead of continuing on the lower path, he slipped under the stairs, finding a dark spot beneath the deck, surrounded by vegetation.

He slipped the strap of the leather bag over his head, allowing himself a moment to roll his shoulder back and forth, relieving some of the stiffness. Next he popped the mag out of his gun. He was only down one bullet, but he had been trained never to be satisfied with less when he could have more. From a box of ammo in the bag, he retrieved a new cartridge, reloaded, then returned the mag to its home in the grip of the pistol.

He could hear the person on the path above clearly now. Not quite running, but not walking either. When Blondie reached the patio, his pace slowed, but didn’t stop until he stood at the overhang, twenty feet directly above Quinn.

Quinn remained motionless, his breaths long, deep, and silent.

For thirty seconds, there was no sound from above. Blondie shuffled to the left. Five feet, no more. Silence again.

When he moved a second time, it wasn’t back the way he had come, as Quinn had hoped, but rather down the spiral staircase.

Quinn took another deep breath, keeping himself loose and ready. Each tread in the spiral staircase was a separate metal triangle connected to a central pole, and beneath was a riser that went halfway down to the next tread, but left a gap of open air. He aimed the SIG through the gap that was level with his eye line.

As Blondie descended into the target zone, Quinn could first see shoes, then a pant leg, then the man’s hip, his waist, and, as Blondie neared the bottom, his torso.

As soon as the man set both feet on solid ground, he stopped, his body still.

The guy was good, Quinn thought. Very good. He worked quietly. He had patience. And he’d tracked Quinn up Club Street and into Ann Siang Hill Park.

Quinn moved his finger onto the trigger. Once Blondie moved away from the stairway, he would have a clean shot. Whether he liked it or not, it was a shot he needed to take. A man like this wouldn’t stop until he found Jenny, so he had to be removed.

Off to the right down the lower path, a twig snapped. Blondie tensed and took a step back toward the stairs.

There was the murmur of voices. A man and a woman, both speaking in Mandarin. Their conversation was loud and peppered with bouts of laughter. Several seconds later, they staggered into view, the man more drunk than the