“What do you-” Eric paused. “What…who was he?”
“A hired front,” Quinn said.
“For who?”
“Does it really matter?” Quinn asked. He didn’t know the answer himself. That was part of the information that had been blacked out in the report.
Eric was silent for a moment, then said, “So I’m just supposed to die?”
Maybe if they had called an ambulance immediately, Eric might have had at least a small chance of living. But that would have compromised the operation. The industrial park would have been flooded with local law enforcement. And worse, the media would have gotten a hold of it.
Quinn and Durrie’s instructions had been clear: Keep a lid on everything.
Quinn gave Eric a half-hearted smile but said nothing.
“Who are you?” Eric said. But he didn’t stay conscious long enough to hear the answer.
After several seconds, Quinn put a finger to the man’s neck. There was still a pulse, weak but steady. Eric Maleeny was apparently a fighter and he was going to hang on as long as he could.
Quinn remained kneeling next to the man as he considered his options. What if Durrie’s initial assessment of Eric’s condition had been wrong? What if the bullet the man had taken hadn’t done as much internal damage as Durrie had thought?
If that were true, then Quinn held Eric’s life in his hands. More specifically, in his right hand that was pressed against the injured man’s torso. Quinn knew if he removed it, Eric would probably die quickly. But what if pressure was maintained? Could they keep him going long enough to get medical help?
There were horrible things in Quinn’s job that had to be done, but an actual killing hadn’t been one of those things yet. That didn’t mean he couldn’t kill. He had just always assumed that if he had to, it would be out of self- preservation.
Killing Eric would not be self-preservation. Eric was not even the intended target. When the operations team had confronted Eric and his buyer, it was the buyer who had put up a fight so it was him the bullets were meant for. Somehow one had found its way into Eric’s gut.
If it had been the buyer Quinn had been kneeling next to, he would have had no problem standing up and walking away. And while Eric was not an innocent, Quinn couldn’t bring himself to be the man’s ultimate executioner.
He came to a decision. Quickly, he moved his hand, pulled off the guy’s shirt, ripped it into a long strip then wrapped it around the man’s torso and tied it off as tightly as he could. As soon as he was finished, the blood flow once more slowed to a trickle.
Quinn rose to his feet just as his mentor reappeared at the end of the building.
“We done yet?” Durrie asked.
“Bring the van over.”
Quinn’s answer seemed to satisfy Durrie. The senior cleaner turned and walked off toward where they had left the van.
Quinn squatted down and worked his arms under Eric’s body. With a grunt, he lifted the man and moved him several feet away from where he had been resting, then set him back down.
The ground under where Eric had been was covered in blood. Quinn grabbed a couple of the towels Durrie had brought over and placed them over the mess.
As the blood soaked into the towels, he removed the rubber gloves he’d been wearing and pulled on a fresh pair. From his pocket, he retrieved a powerful palm-size flashlight and began a detailed scan of the immediate area. He needed to see everywhere there was blood or signs of the traumatic event that had occurred there. Not surprisingly, most of what he found was confined to a couple of feet around the section of parking lot where Eric had collapsed.
An engine started not too far away. A few moments later the van came around the corner and headed in Quinn’s direction, lights off.
Quinn slipped the flashlight back into his pocket. As soon as Durrie pulled to a stop a few feet away, Quinn opened the side doors. The cargo space was covered with several thick plastic sheets. Near the back was the body of the man who had met with Eric. Durrie had already wrapped him loosely in his own plastic cocoon. There were several items just inside the door. Quinn reached in and grabbed a large plastic garbage bag, the heavy-duty- strength kind.
In it went the two blood-soaked towels. What was left on the asphalt now was more a damp stain than anything else.
Durrie got out of the cab and came around the front, pulling on his own set of rubber gloves.
“Most of the blood is contained right here,” Quinn said, motioning to the area Eric had been in. “There are a few spots off to the left and one three feet, straight out.”
“Why’d you move the body?” Durrie asked. “Now you got extra stains to deal with.”
“It’s fine,” Quinn said. “There’ll only be a few spots there.”
“It’s going to look odd.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Why’s his shirt off?” Durrie took a couple steps toward Eric. “Is that a bandage? Son of a bitch, he’s not dead?”
Quinn picked up the towel-filled garbage bag, intending to toss it in the van. “No.”
“Then finish it.”
“No,” Quinn said, his voice more strident than even he’d anticipated.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
As Durrie took a step toward Eric, Quinn dropped the bag and quickly moved to intercept his mentor. He got there just before Durrie reached the unconscious man and put himself between them.
“Let him be,” Quinn said.
Durrie starred at his former apprentice. “What are we going to do with him, then? Take him home and order a pizza?”
“The operational goal was to take him alive. He’s alive, so we’ll take him in.” The goal
“He’s a traitor, Johnny,” Durrie said. “He was selling secrets. In my book, that puts him pretty damn close to the bottom rung of humanity.”
“But it’s not our job to kill anyone. It’s just to clean up the mess.”
Durrie continued to stare. “Did you learn nothing when you were studying under me? Our job is to do what’s necessary. Sometimes it’s a little more involved than others.”
“Leave him be,” Quinn said.
There was a moment of tense silence, then Durrie leaned back. “Finish up. I’m going to wait in the van.” He turned, started walking away, then stopped. “You’ve got a soft spot inside, Johnny. Someday that’s going to get you killed.”
Once Durrie was inside the van, Quinn got back to work. He tossed the bag of towels into the cargo hold, then went over and loosened the lid on the five-gallon bucket of paint.
Before he took the lid all the way off, he examined the scene again. He had to do this part just right, make it look natural so that no one would suspect anything.
Once he was satisfied, he removed the lid, picked up the bucket, and positioned himself at the appropriate angle to the bloodstained asphalt. He first lifted the bucket chest high, then heaved it forward, tilting it so that the open end was falling toward his intended target.
There was the initial splat of paint hitting the ground. It was followed almost immediately by the thud of the bucket doing the same. Quinn jumped back to avoid being hit by stray splashes of paint.
Cleaning 101: cover up and misdirection. Sometimes you could clean an operation zone so well no one would suspect anything had ever happened there, but that was more exception than rule. More often, some evidence couldn’t be completely eradicated, things like bloodstains on asphalt. In those cases, it was misdirection that took the lead.
After Quinn’s little foray into modern art, almost the entire stain was covered in a thick layer of paint. There
