Becoming Quinn

and away from any potential help.

The sketchy plan she had in her mind was to get to the next aisle, then race down one of the crossing aisles back to the building. But the man was quicker than she expected, and was only a few feet behind her. On an open straightaway, he’d have the clear advantage.

Yelling for help wasn’t an option, either. She’d never be heard over the sounds of the concrete plant. So she ran across to the cars parked in the next row, but instead of going straight through to the aisle beyond it, she twisted to the left, and turned down the narrow space where the two rows of cars were backed up to each other.

She heard the man smack into one of the cars as he followed her, his footsteps falling a bit further back. Ahead, two cars were backed so close together that their bumpers were touching. Not missing a stride, Berit jumped as she reached them, placing her hands on one of the trunks and using it as a pommel horse. This gained her another ten feet. A few more like that and she thought she could make her move back to the main building.

Opportunity came when the man let out a grunt as he clipped a spare tire mounted on the back of a Jeep and stumbled. She allowed herself a quick glance back, and realized this might be the best chance she had.

She turned down the next gap between cars, and knew in her gut she was going to make it. Her gut, though, hadn’t accounted for the bullet that slammed into her shoulder. She hadn’t even heard the shot, just a weird spit a half second before she was hit.

The bullet felt like someone had hit her with a boulder. Her body involuntarily pivoted to the right, whacking her against the car beside her. She tried to push herself up, but only managed to roll over then slide to the ground.

She wanted more than anything to just sit there, but she knew she had to keep moving, so she fell all the way onto her back and wiggled under the car. The pain in her shoulder was unreal, but it was either put up with it or feel nothing ever again. There was no question in her mind about that. Jamming her mouth closed as tightly as she could so no moans could escape, she continued toward the other side. She knew it would only be a temporary measure, but she hoped something — anything — would break in her favor.

She could hear him. He was three cars away, then two.

She stopped moving, and kept her breathing as quiet as possible. She heard him reach the spot where she had fallen when she was shot.

She wasn’t scared. She had never been scared. Startled, yes, and unnerved for a moment or two, but not scared. The overwhelming emotion she felt was anger — at the man for what he was trying to do to her, at herself for not coming more prepared.

After several frozen moments, the man moved again, coming down the gap. When he was just about parallel with her head, he stopped, pivoted slowly back around, and headed out. He then walked down the gap on the other side of the car before moving on.

She couldn’t believe it. She’d been given a break. For a few seconds, even the pain from her wound wasn’t enough to cut through her sense of relief.

She carefully turned her head to the left, glancing past the gap she’d fallen in and under the other cars. The man’s feet were nowhere to be seen. She turned her head the other way, and the smile that had unconsciously grown on her face vanished.

“I’ve got to hand it to you. You don’t give up easily.” The man was crouched in the gap, his head lowered so he could see her. “I’d really been hoping we could have played a bit more, but as disappointed as it makes me feel, it’s probably for the best.”

She once more considered yelling, but if she couldn’t have been heard above the machinery when she’d been running, there was no way in hell she would be heard from underneath a car.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“The last person you’re ever going to see.” His hand extended under the car. In it was the gun. It had an extra long barrel. A sound suppressor, she realized. That explained why she hadn’t heard the shot.

She started to squirm toward the other side.

“You’ll never make it,” he said. “It might take me a couple shots to get it right, though, so you’ll be in a lot of pain.”

She moved another foot, then stopped. He was right. Instead of looking at him, she closed her eyes. No way was she going to give him that satisfaction. Pushing everything else out of her mind, she thought about her parents.

How supportive they’d been no matter what she wanted to do. Her dad, whose first name graced the middle of hers. Her mom, whose kindness Berit wished she’d inherited more of. How sad she had been when they died.

But now she was no longer sad. In a matter of moments she would be with—

* * *

Durrie’s phone rang. Larson’s number. “What?” he said.

“I need you to do a little bit of that work you’re so good at,” Larson told him.

“What are you talking about?”

“What do you think I’m talking about?”

Durrie was silent for a moment as the realization of what Larson said hit him. “You bastard! What the hell were you thinking?”

“Are you done?” Larson asked calmly.

Again Durrie paused. “Where is she?”

17

“What?” Peter’s tone matched exactly how Durrie was feeling. “Who the hell authorized that?”

“Self-authorization,” Durrie said into his phone. He was in his car, parked in a supermarket lot, away from the other vehicles.

“Did you tell him he could do that?”

“Negative. He operated outside my specific instructions. He was told to only follow and observe. If anything came up, he was supposed to call in.”

“Well, he didn’t, did he? It’s still your responsibility.”

Durrie checked his rising anger. “I warned you not to send him back here. You can’t saddle me with this.”

“Go to hell, Durrie! You’re the on-scene agent in charge.”

Durrie said nothing. He was the on-scene in charge, but that didn’t mitigate Peter’s role in Larson’s actions.

On the other end of the line, Peter took a deep breath, then blew it out through his teeth. “Where is he?”

“I sent him to go get cleaned up and cooled off.”

“He was agitated?” Peter asked, surprised. Emotion had little place in the world they played in.

“He was…” Durrie paused, thinking of the right phrase. “Pleased with himself.”

“Dammit, what a mess. Give me a moment.”

There was a click as Durrie was put on hold.

Peter’s response about Larson was telling. Usually one of the most efficient men in the business, the head of the Office had apparently been unaware of Larson’s penchant for enjoying his job a little too much.

That’s what you got when you never really met the people you hired and had to rely on reports from trusted operatives — operatives who, like it or not, formed bonds with the people working under them. Some people, like Durrie, wouldn’t let that interfere with the job, and would report everything pertinent, good or bad. Others glossed over things they didn’t consider a problem. The people who usually employed Larson as their trigger man fell into the latter category, Timmons among them.