“Back in the room,” he said to Marion.
“Why?” she asked.
He walked quickly up to her. “Because we don’t want to draw any attention.”
“Iris?” she asked.
“Inside, okay?”
As she turned to do as he said, she heard a familiar voice behind her call out.
“Goah.”
She whipped around. Nate had just emerged out of the back seat. In his arms was the one thing Marion wanted to see more than anything.
“Goah,” the girl said, smiling at Marion.
Marion rushed over and took Iris in her arms.
“Goah,” Iris repeated.
“Yes,” Marion said. “Goah. Goah.”
In Marion’s room, Quinn gave her an edited version of what had happened. There was no reason to let her know how close the girl had come to dying. If Marion sensed he was holding back, she didn’t say anything. She seemed content just to hold Iris and kiss the girl’s cheeks.
“We need to get her to a doctor,” Quinn told her.
“What? Why?” Marion said, scanning the child. “Is she hurt?”
“The implant,” Quinn said. “She needs to get it out.”
Marion touched the spot where the implant had been inserted. “Right. Of course.”
“I know a place in L.A. Very discreet. And once they’re done, we’ll get you home.”
A dark look crossed Marion’s face.
“Don’t worry,” Orlando said. “We’ll make sure the papers you have for her will hold up. Iris will be yours now and always.”
“It’s not that,” Marion said. “I’m just not sure where home is now.”
In the wake of the Morro Bay attack, and the subsequent washing up on a beach in Virginia of another high- ranking CIA official — this one named Chercover — the Office was disbanded. But as much as the FBI wanted to pin the bombings and murders on the negligence of Peter and his people, they couldn’t.
Quinn didn’t want to care. He was going to be through with the Office after this job anyway. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a sense of loss. No matter how annoying Peter was, the Office had, for the most part, done some decent work.
Now there was a void waiting to be filled.
The last conversation he’d had with Peter had been short.
“I’ll make sure your money is transferred before we close our accounts,” Peter had said.
Quinn frowned. It didn’t feel right to be paid to stop the murders of dozens of children, let alone the others who would have died at the school. But he realized there was something he could do with his fee. Marion. He’d deposit it in her account. Of course, the amount would shock her, so he’d have to send her a note first so that she didn’t do something stupid like tell the bank they’d made a mistake.
“I also thought you’d like to know about the children who’d been …” Peter seemed to be unable to finish the sentence.
“What about them?” Quinn asked.
“All but one survived. The doctors say he had a heart condition that just couldn’t handle the stress of being kept drugged for so long, followed by all the excitement at the school.”
“He?”
“A little boy. That’s all I know.”
Quinn paused as an image of the boy on the gurney squeezing his hand pushed everything else aside. Though he didn’t wish death on any of the children, he hoped for his own sanity that this boy was one of the living.
“One last thing,” Peter said. “You remember the man you caught in the apartment building in New York before you discovered the DDNI’s body?”
That seemed like years ago to Quinn. “Al, right?”
“Al Barker,” Peter said. “I was able to have one more conversation with him before the Feds showed up. I brought a picture of Hardwick with me that I’d taken from the NSA website. When he looked at it, he identified him as Mr. Monroe.”
“Monroe?”
“The landlord who owned the building. Remember?”
“What the hell?” Quinn said. Hardwick had
“I think we’ve been played,” Peter said. “I think we might have just done what the LP wanted us to do. But no one will believe me anymore. I’m out of the game. I just thought you should know so you can keep an eye on your back. Since you’re still in good standing, they’ll be concerned about you. You’re one of the few out there who know they exist and can cause them a problem.”
Quinn let it sink in for a moment. Even if they had been set up, there had been no choice. Quinn had to do what he’d done. The alternative would have been a disaster. “What are you going to do now?” he asked.
“Get drunk,” Peter said.
The line went silent for several seconds before it was replaced by the dead air of a disconnected call.
Nate sat behind the wheel of Quinn’s BMW, his brand-new prosthesis pressing down on the gas pedal. They were heading south toward L.A., having retrieved the now-dusty car from where they’d left it in the Alabama Hills.
“You still want me to take you straight to the airport?” Nate asked.
Quinn glanced at the clock on the radio. By the time they reached the city, there would be less than two hours before his flight.
“Yeah. Straight there.” Tonight he’d be sleeping in a hotel in Minneapolis, and tomorrow, after a long drive north, he’d be having dinner in his parents’ kitchen.
Quinn stared out the passenger window at the upsweep of the Sierra Nevadas. After a moment, he looked over at Nate.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“Yeah? What?” Nate asked.
“I was thinking maybe you’d like to move into the guest room of my place.”
Nate stared at the road ahead, his expression impossible to read.
“I’m not going to be around that much,” Quinn said.
“Where are you going?”
Now it was Quinn’s turn to stare out the window. “San Francisco.”
A smile cracked on Nate’s face.
“I guess I’m kind of asking you to watch my place for me,” Quinn said.
“What about my training?”
“Your training won’t stop.”
Nate looked skeptical. “Don’t jerk me around. I’m just going to be a glorified house sitter, aren’t I?”
Quinn didn’t answer for several seconds. When he finally did, he said, “No, Nate. You’re going to be a cleaner.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Help with this novel has come from various sources, some old, some new, and some I’m sure to forget to mention. Thanks to Jon Rivera, Helene Cariou, Lorena Philp, Jim Hardwick, and Tammy Sparks. All have provided
