Quinn heard movement on the other end, then Palavin’s voice, muffled and unintelligible.
The two front doors opened, and the driver and the front passenger got out. The driver was about Quinn’s height, and at least fifty years old. Quinn had never seen him before.
The passenger was different, though. Quinn knew exactly who he was.
“Hello, Mercer,” Quinn said.
Mercer sneered at Quinn.
The driver opened the rear passenger door and leaned inside. When he stood back up, he had Liz with him. She looked scared.
“Now the bags,” the Ghost said over the phone.
Quinn slipped the phone into his pocket, then pulled the bags out of the van and walked them over to the car.
On the road in front of the property, two cars appeared—a Mercedes and an Audi. A moment later they turned down the driveway.
“What is this?” Quinn yelled.
The rear passenger door on the other side of the S600 opened, and an elderly man climbed out. There was no mistaking his face. He was the older version of the wavy-haired twin in the Young Leninist photo, and the middle- aged man from the headshot in Annabel Taplin’s folder.
The murderer.
The faux Trevor Robb.
The Ghost.
He was smiling an ugly smile.
“I’m afraid this was a career-ending job from the beginning. For a last assignment, I’m sure it wasn’t as satisfying as you would have hoped, and for that I apologize.”
The Mercedes and the Audi pulled to a stop behind the Ghost’s car.
“What are you talking about?” Quinn asked, wiping the water from his face.
“You know about the people I’ve had removed. You obviously know about the late Mr. Robb. I’m afraid you are too dangerous to me alive. I can’t have that.”
“So you’re just going to kill me?” Quinn said.
“You and your new friends,” Palavin said, glancing back toward Petra and Mikhail. He smiled. “Yes. I know who you are. Dombrovski’s puppets. Mercer was kind enough to take photos of each of you in Maine before he killed your friend.” He looked back at Quinn. “So kind of you to team up with them. Makes things so much more neat and easy.” He then said something in Russian.
Mikhail spat several words back.
Palavin laughed, then said in English, “A fool’s quest to think you could best me.”
“So you and your two men there are planning to take on all of us?” Quinn asked.
“Me and my two men?” He waved toward the two cars behind his. “There’s far more than just the three of us.”
“If that were true, shouldn’t there be a third car? I mean, in addition to the two cars that were shadowing you, didn’t you have another one following me?”
Palavin cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. “So you had your own surveillance,” he said. “So what? My third car is just down the road, making sure we’re not disturbed.”
“No,” Quinn said. “It’s not.”
Even from this distance, he could see doubt flash across Palavin’s face. He stepped toward the Mercedes.
“Stop,” Palavin ordered. His gaze flicked to the man standing with Liz. “Fedor!”
The man raised a gun to Liz’s head.
“She’s dead if you come any closer,” Palavin said.
“I don’t think so,” Quinn said.
The
Liz, jerking in surprise, let out a disbelieving shriek as she looked down at Palavin’s driver.
“Get down!” Quinn yelled at her.
On the left side of the car, Mercer drew his own gun. But before he could aim, Quinn dove to his right, his hand reaching out for the pistol Fedor had dropped. As his fingers curled around the grip, a bullet pierced the air a few inches above his back.
Quinn rolled forward so he was against the car, out of Mercer’s direct line of sight.
The rain muffled a lot of the other sounds, but Quinn could still hear the doors of the Audi and other Mercedes opening further down the driveway.
“Kill them all!” Palavin yelled.
