The Silenced

doubling over as he lay on the sidewalk.

The other two were quick to respond, but not quick enough. Even as he was kicking, Nate had switched his phone to his left hand and had reached under his jacket with his right, grabbing the Glock he’d gotten from Julien.

The short one was pulling his own gun free, so Nate shot him first. The second guy didn’t even try for his gun. Instead he rushed forward before Nate could aim at him.

They crashed to the sidewalk, the attacker landing on top of Nate and nearly knocking the breath out of him.

The man reached for the gun, gripping Nate’s wrist with one hand and going for the barrel with the other. Nate rolled to his left and threw the guy’s weight off him. A movement beyond the man caught Nate’s attention. It was the first guy, the talker. He was pushing himself to his feet, a pistol already in his hand.

The guy on the ground didn’t see this, so Nate let the man twist his arm until the barrel was pointed at his partner. Nate pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the talker just below the neck, dropping him to the sidewalk in a heap.

The shot, having gone off less than a foot from the ear of the guy struggling with Nate, stunned him. Nate wrenched his hand free and pushed himself away along the ground. As the man clawed at his jacket, going for his own weapon, Nate shot him in the chest.

Three dead, and enough gunfire to wake up several blocks’ worth of potential witnesses.

Nate scrambled to his feet.

He spotted his phone and picked it up, but it was immediately apparent he would never be able to use it again. The display screen was smashed in and the frame was bent. Not wanting to leave it behind for the police to find, he stuffed it in his pocket, then began running down the street.

There were no sirens yet, but they’d be coming, and soon.

Nate headed back toward the Peugeot. As he passed it, he realized there weren’t three dead. There were four. “I’m sorry, Julien,” he whispered.

He ran as fast as his one and a half legs could carry him, circling around the neighborhood so that he’d approach the Metro station from the opposite direction. Ahead he could see the police had already arrived at the crime scene, the flashing lights of their cars reflecting along the buildings down Rue de Sully.

Nate again looked at his watch. He was ten minutes late. If Liz had done as he’d asked, she should have already called Quinn, and he would have told her to get the hell out of there.

He was just about to descend the stairs when she called out to him. “Nate!”

She was across Boulevard Henri IV, standing near the entrance to a small park. He waited for a break in the traffic, then jogged over to her.

“Why are you still here?” he asked.

His tone made her pull back a couple of inches. “I didn’t know—” Her voice faltered.

“Did you call Quinn?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Why not?”

“I heard the gunshots. I thought they’d killed you. I didn’t know what to do.”

He pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. She resisted only a second, then grabbed him tightly. She’d been as concerned about him as he’d been about her.

“It’s okay. I’m fine,” he said. “But we need to get out of here.”

“Those were shots, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “They tried to kill you?”

“They didn’t try hard enough.”

“Will they come after us?”

“Not those guys,” he said.

“No?”

He knew she didn’t really want to know the truth, so he just shook his head, and he guided her away.

Chapter 36

“We should have heard from them by now,” Quinn said.

He and Orlando were at opposite ends of the street, watching Annabel Taplin’s apartment building. They had their comm gear on, so were in constant contact.

“You told him to get Liz out of town, so that’s what he’s doing,” Orlando said. “He’ll call in as soon as he can.”

“I know, I know.”

A large vapor cloud formed in front of his face as he let out a breath. The weather had taken a decidedly colder turn that morning, and even with a muffler wrapped around his neck and the collar of his jacket flipped up, Quinn was freezing.

“We should have just staked out her office again,” Quinn said. It was almost 8 a.m. and so far no sign of Annabel. Perhaps the building had been a ruse.

“Why don’t you go grab some coffee,” Orlando told him. “I can watch things here.”

“I’m fine. I’m just …”

“Annoying me?”

“Sorry. I’m fine.”

“Keep it up and I’m sending you home.”

Seven minutes later, movement in front of the building made him forget the fact he was losing feeling in his cheeks. “Is that her?”

Orlando was positioned closer. “It’s her.”

“Finally,” he said. “I’m heading for the station.”

They had made the assumption that Annabel would use the Russell Square Underground station like she had the night before. Quinn headed there first, while Orlando kept Annabel in sight in case she went somewhere else.

If Annabel stuck to her script and did a reverse of her trip home, she would go one stop to Holborn, then switch to the Central Line. So Quinn went straight to the platform and found a spot against the wall halfway down, blending into the rush-hour crowd.

He glanced up at the display screen hanging from the ceiling. The next train was due in three minutes, with another five minutes later. He then turned so he could see the platform entrance, and waited.

Annabel arrived just as the sound of the first train began rumbling through the tunnel. She walked through the crowd, passing within five feet of Quinn, before stopping, her eyes never straying in his direction.

Orlando showed up a few seconds later. She eased her way through the other commuters and into position directly behind Annabel. The train whooshed into the station with a sudden roar, and the waiting commuters acknowledged the arrival by pushing themselves closer together.

As the train slowed to a stop, there was a pause, then the doors slid open. As one, the crowd lurched forward. Annabel entered the car and grabbed ahold of one of the poles. She turned back toward the door just as Quinn entered.

He didn’t even try to hide.

The look on her face was at first blank, then confused, as if she recognized him but wasn’t sure from where. Then, almost as quickly, her eyes went wide.

Quinn raised a finger to his lips as he reached out with his other hand and grabbed the same pole she was holding on to.

Her eyes darted around. “You’re fine where you are,” Orlando whispered into her ear. She was beside Annabel, pressing up against her.

Annabel looked at her, then glanced down at where their bodies made contact. Quinn knew she was feeling the barrel of Orlando’s hairbrush against her ribs. An adequate substitute for a concealed gun under the