“Are you all right?”
There was no movement at all.
As she reached underneath to pull him up, she touched something sticky and wet.
“He’s been hit.” She manhandled him onto the seat, then reached up and flipped on the dome light. The front of Moody’s shirt was dark with blood.
“No,” she whispered.
She put her fingers against the man’s neck. There was a pulse, though faint. “He’s still alive,” she said.
She unbuttoned Moody’s shirt and peeled it back. More blood, but no entry wound.
She moved her hand over his torso, slipping it around the man’s side, then stopped.
“Bullet hole,” she said. “Right side. Near his kidney.”
She ripped off part of his shirt and pressed it against the wound. But even as she applied pressure, she realized it was too late. Moody’s chest barely moved as he took a breath. It rose once more. The third time was even fainter.
There was no fourth.
“Should I find a hospital?” Mikhail asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
“Is he …?”
She locked eyes with Mikhail in the rearview mirror. He took a deep breath, then nodded.
“What now?”
“Find us another car. We’ll leave the body here.”
Mikhail turned at the next street, then said, “I meant, what are we going to do now?”
“I know what you meant.”
She only wished she knew the answer.
“I assume we’re going to avoid Portland,” Nate said once they were back in the car.
Quinn nodded. “Head south.”
Nate pulled out into the street. “Boston?”
“New York.”
It would take a few hours longer, but as a place to disappear, New York couldn’t be beat.
Quinn stayed tense as they worked their way through southern Maine. He wasn’t worried about getting caught. He was disturbed by the presence of the Russian woman. Unlike in L.A., here she had actually blown the operation. How could she have known? Was Wills’s organization compromised? If so, that was a huge problem. The Englishman had paid for three weeks of Quinn’s time, which meant that potentially there were still over two to go. That was a lot of time for something even worse to happen.
Quinn looked out the window and stared at the sky, trying not to think about the job anymore.
The Milky Way punched millions of holes in the dark night, the stars twinkling their ancient brilliance. In the distance, a single light moved to the west, a plane flying from one unknown point to another. Along the road, trees that were no more than dark shadows rushed by solo and in groups with no discernible pattern.
A memory hit him, unexpected and hard.
He was in the back seat of his family’s car. Beside him, his sister.
Liz was probably six at the time, which would have made him fourteen. In the front his mother sat in the passenger seat and, as usual, his father was behind the wheel. Outside, it was night, and the trees of Minnesota, much like the trees of Maine, flew by the window like a dark, silent army.
Liz yawned, then leaned over and laid her head in his lap. Automatically, his hand went to the side of her head, stroking her long hair so that she’d fall asleep.
“Good night, Jake,” she said groggily.
“Good night, sweet pea,” he replied.
Quinn’s phone buzzed in his pocket again, jerking him out of the past.
It was a text from Orlando, sent when they were in position outside Moody’s house. He had forgotten about it.
Call Me
This was no simple request to touch base. Orlando wasn’t like that. If she’d been thinking about him, and wanted him to know, that’s what she would have said. If she had something to talk about, but could wait, she would have said that, too. A simple CALL ME meant do it now. Urgency in her simplicity.
The phone began to vibrate in his hand. He looked down. A call this time, not a text. On his screen was a single word: WILLS.
“David,” Quinn said.
“I just got off the phone with Donovan,” Wills said. “What a disaster!”
“Yeah,” Quinn said. “Pretty much.”
