Orlando scooped up some more food and held it in the air between them. “You or me?”
Nate picked up his fork again. As he shoved it under the vegetables, he knocked a piece of chicken off the plate and onto the tray.
Orlando smiled. “It’s good that you’re angry.”
“Go to hell.”
“I mean it. You can use that.”
He put the food in his mouth, chewed it, then said, “Use it for what?”
“For your rehab. So that when you come back to work, you’ll be even better than before.”
“As a cleaner? I already told you I physically couldn’t do it anymore.”
“There’s no way you can know that. Prosthetic devices are pretty amazing these days.”
“So the doctors have told me,” Nate said.
“I was reading on the Internet today about a guy from South Africa who’s missing parts of
“As what? A mascot?”
“Track and field. He’s a runner.”
That made him pause. “A runner?”
She nodded. “How much do you want this?”
“It’s all I want.”
“Then make it happen,” she said. “Work your ass off. Use the time to study and learn everything you can. Throw yourself into your rehab and your training.”
He wanted to believe her, but then he thought about his mentor. “Quinn won’t go for it.”
“He might think you won’t be able to do it, but he’ll give you the chance to prove him wrong.” She smiled. “And I might have a little influence over him.”
She stood up. “Are you going to finish eating everything?”
He smiled a little.
“Oh, progress,” she said.
“Have I told you to go to hell yet?”
“So are you going to finish?”
“I’m going to finish.”
She took a step toward the door, then turned back. “I’m not just talking about the food.”
“I know.”
A whole year had passed since his injury, and he had used the time well. He had done exactly as Orlando had suggested. He’d studied the subjects he was going to need for the job: learning how to fly a plane, perfecting the French he’d taken in high school, expanding his knowledge of chemistry, memorizing the makes and particulars of over a hundred types of trucks and cars, getting a start on Spanish and dozens of other topics large and small. He’d also pushed himself hard in his rehab, surprising his physical therapist and even himself.
Quinn had paid for everything, even purchasing a whole set of prosthetics that could be used under various conditions. First Nate relearned to walk, then to run. By the time Orlando had talked Quinn into taking him out on a job again, Nate was running several miles a day and hiking a couple of times a week in the hills that ran through the middle of Los Angeles.
Quinn’s skepticism had soon disappeared. And Nate’s own belief that he would one day become a full-fledged cleaner had returned.
“I told you you could do it,” Orlando said to him a few months earlier.
“Did you?” he said. “I don’t remember that.”
She eyed him critically. “You know, you’re still Quinn’s apprentice. I could make sure you get some pretty lousy assignments.”
“You really think you have that much influence over him?”
She huffed. “Excuse me?”
Nate smiled.
“Excuse me. Sir, excuse me.” The voice was female, both distant and close at the same time.
Nate pushed the eyeshades up. The flight attendant was leaning down next to him, haloed by sunlight seeping in through the windows.
He pulled the earplugs from his ears. “Yes?”
“Your friend thought you might like to have some breakfast before we land,” she said. “But you’ll have to eat fast. We’ll be on the ground in forty minutes.”
Nate glanced over to where Quinn had been sleeping. His mentor was now sitting upright, a plate of food on a table in front of him, a cup of coffee in his hand.
“I’ll have a cup of that. Black.” Nate paused. “Better make it two.”
Chapter 8
There was a blue Toyota Camry waiting for them at the airport. Quinn climbed behind the wheel and popped the trunk so Nate could throw their bags in back, then he reached under the seat. There he found a thin manila envelope.
Inside were three sheets of paper and a hotel keycard. He glanced through the papers. Two of the sheets were maps. The first covered an area that included Portland, Maine, in the east and a small town called Gorham about ten miles to the west. Someone had marked the map with one blue X in the vicinity of Gorham, and a smaller black X closer to Portland, just north of the airport. The second map was a detailed close-up of Gorham showing a couple of dozen streets — a single blue X on this one corresponding to the blue one on the wider map.
The third page was an info sheet.
BLACK — Holiday Inn Timothy Garner, Room 211
BLUE—23 Main Street, Gorham 1:30 p.m.
The passenger door opened, and Nate climbed in.
“What do we got?” he asked.
Quinn handed him the papers, then started the engine.
The black X indicated the location of the hotel they would use as their base. They had already been checked in to room 211 under the name Timothy Garner. The key card would allow them to avoid contact with the hotel office. The blue X was the meeting site. Where the actual job was to take place had not been indicated.
“Not giving us a lot of time to relax and see the sights,” Nate said.
Per the info sheet, they would need to be at 23 Main Street in a little less than five hours to meet with a man named Donovan.
“We’re not here on vacation,” Quinn said.
“Speak for yourself. First time I’ve ever been to Maine. Isn’t this where they’re supposed to have the good lobster?”
Quinn rolled his eyes, then pulled out his phone and tossed it to Nate.
“Check in with Orlando.”
It was always smart to have a point person who knew what they were up to, especially when the location was an unfamiliar one. Quinn’s go-to in these situations was always Orlando. It was more at her insistence than his request, but he wasn’t complaining.
“No, it’s Nate,” Nate said into the phone. “We’re here.” He listened for a moment. “No. All smooth.” A pause, then he looked at the papers Quinn had given him. “The Holiday Inn on … um … Riverside Street. West side of Portland.” Again he listened, then looked back at the papers. “The rendezvous is in the town of Gorham. Twenty- three Main Street. We’re expected to arrive by one-thirty.… Yeah, this afternoon … He’s driving.… Okay, I
