“Can I help you, sir?” the man said.
“Maintenance elevator?” Quinn asked, not missing a beat.
“And why would you need that?”
Quinn looked at him like he was an idiot. “To do some maintenance.”
The left side of the guy’s mouth rose even higher. “Perhaps you should come with me first.”
Even though he knew there was little chance of it working, the maintenance ploy had been worth a try. Quinn acted like he would cooperate. As he came abreast of the guard, the man said, “Keep going. There’s a door at the end of the hall. We’ll-”
Whatever else he was going to say was lost in the expulsion of air that rushed from his lungs due to Quinn’s unexpected gut punch. Even before the guard’s wind was completely knocked out, Quinn had twisted the man’s arms behind his back, and quick-walked him down the hall to the maintenance elevator. Using his foot, Quinn pushed the call button.
The doors opened just as the security man started to get his breath back. Thankfully, the car was empty. Quinn forced the man inside, and did the same toe trick on the button for the lower basement.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the guy sputtered.
“Kicking your ass.”
Quinn shoved the man’s arms upward.
The man screamed and moved forward, trying to alleviate the pain. That was exactly what Quinn was waiting for. He pushed hard on the guy’s back, ramming the guard’s face into the side of the car with a loud smack.
“Fuck!” the guy yelled.
“Want me to do it again?”
“No, man. No.”
Something dripped on the floor. Blood, probably, but Quinn saw no need to check. There was a soft bong, and the doors opened again.
The lower basement was not a place most people went. Maintenance only, mainly pipes and electrical systems and the kind of things no one ever thought about. Quinn pushed his companion out of the car and took a look around. Off to the right were two large storage rooms he had checked out on his initial recon. He used his free hand to open one of the doors then shoved the guard inside.
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you’re in a shitload of trouble,” the man said.
“You couldn’t be more right about that.”
He shoved the guy’s arms up even higher, then rammed the man’s head into the wall. The security guard dropped to the ground, unconscious.
“I’m sorry,” Quinn said. “You should have just pointed me to the elevator and kept walking.”
He jammed the lock as he went out and shut the door. Even if the guy did wake up soon, he’d have a hard time getting it open.
Without giving the guard another thought, Quinn took off, sure that he was already too late. He worked his way through the labyrinth of the lower basement until he reached the small, closed-off hallway.
Like the door he’d tried on the main floor, this one was locked, but this time he was able to pick it open. The dark hallway beyond had mainly been used when the hotel was being built. Now its only real purpose was as an unintentional shortcut to a group of storage rooms that had a separate stairwell and elevator.
Quinn used the light on his phone to navigate to the other end where a second door-this one unlocked-led into the back of one of the storage rooms. Whoever had packed the place had the foresight not to put any of the wooden crates that took up a majority of the space all the way against the walls. What had been left was a two- foot gap. Quinn had to shimmy sideways down it until he reached the slightly less narrow walkway running through the middle of the room.
When he reached the storage room door, he withdrew his SIG Sauer P226 and attached a sound suppressor to the end of the barrel.
He stepped into the corridor.
There were seventeen separate rooms down here. The one Mila should be in was marked 21AY. It was six down and on the other side.
Quinn padded quietly along the cement floor, his head cocked, listening for any noise ahead.
Reaching the door to 21AY, he slowly opened it, and stared in surprise at what he saw inside.
CHAPTER 11
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
Orlando loved Quinn. There was almost nothing he could do that would change her feelings. She even understood his self-imposed exile. Hell, she’d helped him set it up, putting him in touch with Christina in Bangkok in the first place.
He had been so damaged when he left, she wondered if he would ever recover. She wished she could do more for him, but Quinn wasn’t wired that way. Maybe in time she could help, but this first part, this finding himself again, had to be all him.
Why she’d acted annoyed with him when he called, she didn’t know. Perhaps it was just the way she thought most people would act in a similar situation, and she’d just fallen into it naturally. Perhaps, subconsciously, she’d wanted him to know his recovery wasn’t just about him. She was here, too, waiting for him, hurting for him.
Whatever he would discover at the end, she didn’t care. If he wanted to get out of the business entirely, and leave the world of secrets behind, she was fine with that. If he wanted to stay, take on some more work, she could handle that, too. She just wanted him to get to a point where he could decide which it was going to be.
Now this business with Mila had forced itself into his recovery. What his role in it was, she didn’t know. But she was worried it would prevent him from finding his peace again.
Her biggest concern at the moment was the fact he hadn’t worked in nearly nine months. Sure, he was good, the best probably, but was he sharp enough at the moment to return to the field? What if this business with Mila got him killed?
That was the one outcome Orlando dreaded over all others.
There was no question in her mind she would do everything she could to help Quinn, to give him what he needed, to hopefully keep him safe.
She had watched the video Peter had uploaded more times than she probably needed to. The raw, stark security footage was devoid of emotion, and, because of that, oddly riveting. Empty concrete one moment, distorted bag of guts and bones the next. Even seeing the man in the baseball hat check the body-knowing it was actually Mila-was fascinating.
The whole thing was a mix of the surreal and the hyper-real.
When she finally forced herself to quit watching, she turned her attention to identifying the dead man. The news reports were useless. In the initial articles she found, the police were quoted as saying the name of the victim was as yet unknown. Follow-up reports yielded the same. The only things the police would say were that the man was Caucasian, had no ID, and had jumped.
The first part, yes. The second, perhaps. The last, she didn’t believe at all.
After three days, there were no additional reports. The world had moved on to other, more pressing news. A foreigner committing suicide off a new high-rise hotel might be bad for business, but it didn’t hold the public’s attention for long.
The killer would know his name, of course, but she was willing to bet that someone in official authority knew who he was, too.
To see if she was right, she hacked into the Dar es Salaam police network, and scrounged around for any information concerning the incident. The problem was, Swahili was not one of the languages she knew, so she had to rely on the date and the phrase “Majestic Hotel” to guide her.
Still, it didn’t take long to uncover the report. Scanning through it, she looked for any names that she could use as touch points for further searches. None stood out. The only thing she could find were three references to another number that had a similar pattern to the incident’s case number. Some other event that might be tied to
