[Quinn 03] - Shadow of Betrayal

Hammer Building, toward the tar lake.

“What are they doing?” he said.

“Hold on,” Orlando whispered.

Quinn picked up his pace as much as he could without drawing attention.

Five seconds passed. Then ten.

“What’s going on?”

Nothing.

Screw drawing attention. He began to run, leaving the path when it veered to the left, and instead keeping to the grass that grew behind the Pavilion for Japanese Art. When he reached the end, he slowed again, then stopped behind some foliage that grew next to the building.

“Orlando?”

There was a single cough over the receiver. The message was clear. She was there, but she couldn’t talk.

“I’m moving in to help,” Nate’s voice broke in.

“No,” Quinn said. “Hold your position.”

“But she might need—”

“Just hold your position.”

Quinn peeked through the bushes, trying to see what was happening. But Orlando was too far away, and the black wire mesh fence that surrounded the lake was between them.

He pulled out his phone, accessed the camera function, then activated maximum zoom and pointed the lens toward the lake. The image on the display screen jumped wildly as he moved the lens from right to left. There was a couple walking down the path, holding hands. Beyond them, a couple of kids were trying to throw rocks over the fence into the tar. Nothing for a while, then near the east end of the lake, a man in a suit leaning against the railing and looking through the wire mesh at the mammoth caught in its daily struggle for freedom. A hard man. A man with the look. And five feet farther on, also looking through the fence, Orlando.

Quinn continued scanning past her for a moment. She had said two men. But there was only the one. Where had his friend gone?

“Nate,” Quinn said. “Up and moving. Head toward the cafe, then take the ramp down into the park. One of the suits is next to Orlando’s position. Don’t worry about him, I’m on that. But I don’t know where his partner is. Locate him. Do not intercept. Recon only at this point.”

“Copy that,” Nate said.

As he watched, Orlando pulled her camera phone out of her pocket and held it up to her eye, acting the part of tourist. She could pass, probably. But if the guy in the suit was a legitimate concern, something must have caused him to be interested in her.

“I think he’s made you,” Quinn said. “But you’re too public there. Let’s get him someplace we can deal with him. You think you can get him to follow you?”

A low, grunted “Uh-huh.”

“Good.”

Quinn thought for a second. The problem with a public place was that there was too much public around. But he knew one place that might work.

“Head west, behind the museum. There’s an observation pit of an old excavation area. It’s covered by a cinderblock building, but there’s an opening on the north side. When I was there a few minutes ago, no one was around. I’ll wait inside.”

Another grunt of understanding.

Quinn watched through his camera as Orlando straightened up and began walking around the east end of the lake, then turned and headed west through the park. The man in the suit didn’t move at first.

“Come on, you son of a bitch,” Quinn said.

After fifteen seconds, the man began to follow. Quinn waited to make sure it wasn’t just a coincidence, then said, “You’ve hooked him.”

“Great,” Orlando whispered, not sounding thrilled by the prospect.

Quinn slipped his phone back into his pocket and made his way to the observation pit.

The building was round, built with tan-colored cinder blocks, and encircled a small pit of tar that had long ago given up all its discoveries to the archaeologists who had worked it. Across the opening on the north side was an iron fence set several feet from the surrounding wall. It was painted burnt orange, and for as long as Quinn could remember, the gate had been closed and locked. This time was no exception. Beyond the gate a concrete pathway hugged the wall and spiraled down one level to a pit of tar. A short iron railing that matched the color of the gate lined the pathway to keep anyone from falling in.

Quinn retrieved his lock picks and set to work on the decades-old dead bolt that secured the gate in place. Once it was unlocked, he left it closed, then tucked himself into the small recess where the cinderblock wall met the fence.

“I’m just inside the opening,” he said. “I don’t think he’ll follow you in, so just get him close to the entrance so I can get behind him.”

“Copy,” Orlando said. “Should be there in one minute.”

Quinn counted off the seconds in his head. At forty-nine, Orlando spoke again.