[Quinn 04] - The Silenced

Another creak. This time in the hallway, not the bedroom.

He tensed, ready to move, but instead of heading toward the living room, the unseen person entered the bathroom.

A sudden splash of illumination spilled into the hall as the bathroom light came on. Quinn could hear the person going through the cabinet and drawers. Then there was the thunk of porcelain, and a second later the sound of water hitting water. From a distance.

Definitely not Liz.

The intruder was male.

Quinn moved into the hallway, anger bubbling just below the surface of his skin at this intrusion on his sister’s life.

When he reached the bathroom, he peeked between the door and the jamb. Two feet on the other side was the back right shoulder of a large man in a dark coat. Quinn estimated the guy was at least six foot three. His hair was covered by the kind of stocking cap favored by the reggae set from the seventies and eighties—loose and baggy, falling against the nape of his neck. The man was staring at the wall above the toilet in the time-honored tradition of males around the world.

The torrent of water began to slow, then finally stop. After a last push to clean out the pipes, the man bent down to zip himself up.

Without another thought, Quinn slammed the door into the man’s back.

A pained grunt was followed by the sound of the porcelain lid to the toilet’s water tank being jarred loose.

Quinn slammed again, harder.

Another grunt.

As he was about to go for a third time, the door smashed back into him, sending him flying against the door frame. His left arm flailed out, looking for something solid to hold on to, but found only the light switch and inadvertently flipped it off, plunging the room into darkness.

The intruder roared as he tried to get around the door. But the cramped space and his massive size slowed his efforts. When he finally shoved past it, Quinn unleashed a right hook to his jaw.

“Merde!” the man yelled.

Quinn hit him again, this time in the soft spot just below the ribs. The intruder doubled over, and Quinn grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him out into the hall.

The man stumbled for a few feet, then fell to his knees. Quinn jumped on his back, pushing him all the way to the ground, then began releasing punch after punch to the man’s kidneys and ribs.

Suddenly someone grabbed his arm. It was Nate.

“We can’t get any info out of him if you kill him,” Nate said.

Quinn held his position for a moment longer, breathing hard, then shoved the man between the shoulder blades and stood up.

“Search him,” he said, his teeth clenched.

“Laissez-moi!” the intruder yelled as Nate patted him down.

“Gun,” Nate said, his hand at the small of the man’s back.

He removed the Glock pistol from the man’s waistband and handed it to Quinn, then continued his search. There was a knife in the guy’s boot, but that was it.

“ID?” Quinn asked.

“No wallet,” Nate said.

“Qui etes-vous?” Quinn demanded, asking the man’s identity.

“Allez vous faire foutre.”

Quinn didn’t believe for a second his name was Go To Hell. “Qui etes-vous?”

“J’habite ici.” I live here.

“Bullshit,” Quinn said, then shoved the barrel of the Glock into the base of the guy’s head.

“Take it easy,” the intruder said in heavily accented English.

“One chance or I pull the trigger. What are you doing here?”

“Hey, no problem. I’ll tell you. Okay? Someone asked me to look around this apartment,” the man said. “So I look around. No reason to shoot me.”

Quinn leaned back, moving the gun from the man’s neck.

“Keep your hands where I can see them and turn over,” he said. “Slowly.”

Nate released the man’s shoulders, then got to his feet.

As instructed, the man turned over and lay on his back.

The intruder had a dark beard, long and full, sticking a good five inches out from his face. Above the growth, his eyes were bright blue, and looked as surprised as Quinn felt.

“Julien?” Quinn said.