Shadow of Betrayal

“But Iris?” Her eyes pleaded with him to understand.

“We haven’t given up, okay? We just need to try and figure out where she’s—”

“I know,” Orlando said.

Quinn looked at her.

“I know what they’re going to do,” Orlando said.

“What?”

“It’s not the leaders they’re after, not directly.” She turned her laptop around so Quinn could see it. “It’s their wives.”

“Wives?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.

But on the screen was the itinerary for the First Lady of the United States. And there listed in bold, and to begin at 9:30 a.m.: Spouses’ Tour of the R. J. Oliver School of Special Education, Morro Bay.

Quinn stared at the screen. A school focused on the teaching of the mentally disabled. A wonderful photo op for the spouses of the G8 leaders — seven women and one man, the husband of the German Chancellor. A public face of caring while God knew what their other halves were discussing behind the closed doors of Hearst Castle.

“What is it?” Marion asked.

Quinn looked at his watch: 8:20. Seventy minutes. Less than that really, because once the VIPs were on-site, it would be too late.

“You’re staying here,” he said to Marion, his tone dead serious.

“No way,” she said.

“Then we’re all dead,” he said. “You. Us.” He paused. “Iris.”

Her stare was defiant, but he could see hesitation creeping in. After a moment, she started unconsciously chewing on her lower lip, then she nodded.

“Good,” he said. “We passed a motel a couple blocks south of here, remember?”

Another nod.

He pulled some cash out of his pocket, peeling off two hundred dollars.

“Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Use a false name. Something easy to remember.”

Orlando snapped her laptop closed. “Nate,” Orlando said, nodding toward the window.

Nate was standing in front of the cafe, next to a Nissan Maxima.

Quinn dropped a few bucks on the table to pay for the coffee, then stood up.

“Please bring her back,” Marion said.

“That’s the plan,” he told her.

* * *

The closer they got to San Luis Obispo, the more police and Highway Patrol cars they saw. No checks yet, but Quinn knew there would be some ahead.

“Get off here,” Orlando said, glancing up from her computer screen.

The sign read Los Osos Valley Road.

“Not the PCH?” Nate asked. The Pacific Coast Highway was the direct route from San Luis Obispo to Morro Bay.

“This’ll get us there, too,” she said. “Just comes in from the back side.”

Nate nodded, then turned up the off-ramp, stopping at the top. “Which way?” he asked.

“Left.”

They passed through the outskirts of San Luis Obispo and entered a more open farm country framed to the right by a series of dramatic hills.

Quinn’s phone began to vibrate. Though Peter’s name was on the display, it wasn’t Peter’s voice that spoke. It was Sean Cooper, the guy who had gotten them the car in New York.

“Where’s Peter?” Quinn asked.

“There’s a team of federal investigators sitting in his office right now.”

“What the hell?”

“He gave me his phone once we realized what was going on. Told me to leave and call you.” It sounded like Sean was walking fast, his breath audibly punctuating each word.

“Where are you?” Quinn asked.

“Out. Near the National Archives.” D.C., of course. Where the Office was located.

“So what you’re telling me is that I shouldn’t expect any help,” Quinn said.

“That’s what I’m telling you.” A pause. “One more thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t call us. It’ll be … safer for you that way. If things calm down, we’ll be in touch.” Another hesitation. “I’m sorry.”

Quinn hung up. There was nothing more to say.

* * *

When they reached Los Osos, they turned onto South Bay Boulevard. According to Orlando, that would take them to State Park Road, which wound around the local golf course before becoming Main Street in Morro Bay.

“What’s the plan?” Nate said.

“We get as close to the school as we can,” Quinn said.

“And then?”

And then … That was the real issue. Quinn had been trying to figure the best answer to that question since they’d left Marion in Shell Beach. One solution had come to mind, but he was hoping to come up with a better one before he had to act.

“Just drive,” he said.

A minute later Nate eased off on the gas. Ahead, five cars were stopped in the road. Parked on the shoulder at the front of the line were two Highway Patrol cars.

Checkpoint, Quinn thought.

Quinn pulled his SIG out of his backpack and slipped it under his seat. Though the last thing he wanted to do was use it, it needed to be accessible. He heard the zipper on Orlando’s backpack open a second after his. Their thoughts once again parallel.

“Orlando and I are here on vacation,” Quinn said, creating a quick legend. “Nate, you live up here. We’re visiting you, so you wanted to show us Morro Bay.”

“Got it,” Nate said.

“The car?” Orlando asked.

“Don’t worry,” Nate said. “No one will notice it’s gone for another couple hours.”

Quinn looked at him, a question on his face.

“Grocery store cashier. She was rushing to get to work on time. Never saw me.”

Nate pulled to a stop behind the last car in line. There were only two officers manning the checkpoint. One stood near the center of the road, leaning down to talk to the drivers as each car approached. The other stood just off the blacktop. His job was to observe, and react if needed. Low-level security, trying to weed out the obvious crazies.

Slowly the line inched forward. The officer seemed to be spending no more than a couple minutes or so with each vehicle. Just enough time to get a vibe from those inside, and check the trunks. So far, no one had been turned back.

As the car in front of them finished its check, Quinn said, “Nice and relaxed.”

Nate eased the car forward, then rolled his window down.

“Morning,” the officer said.

“Morning,” Nate said.

“How you doing today?” The officer’s gaze moved through the cabin, stopping for a second on Quinn and Orlando.

“Doing well,” Nate said. “Can’t beat the weather.”

The officer smiled. “Are you locals?”

“I am,” Nate said. “Arroyo Grande. My friends are visiting. Thought I’d take them out and show them the