The Collected

He examined the rest of the block, then pointed at a building two down from Pullman’s. “That’s one.”

Orlando grabbed the bag from the back, and they exited the car. There was a narrow alcove entrance at the left edge of the building Quinn had singled out. From inside their bag of tricks, he removed the set of picks, and had the lock opened in seconds.

As he’d hoped, on the other side of the door was a staircase leading to the second floor. There was also a standard alarm keypad mounted to the inside wall. On it, a red light blinked rapidly. Orlando disabled the system by using a set of custom-rigged wires that linked the keypad to her phone, where an app she had written herself to override dozens of different types of security systems did the rest of the work.

Free to move around, they headed up the stairs, located the access to the roof, and were soon standing outside again. From there, it was simply a matter of jumping a three-foot gap onto the next roof, then stepping over an even smaller opening onto the roof of Pullman’s place.

There they paused while Orlando extracted from the bag the two SIGs and matching sound suppressors. She handed one set and a spare mag to Quinn, and prepped the second pistol for herself.

Once his suppressor was in place, Quinn removed from the kit the small metal cylinder that contained the syringe, and slipped it into his pocket.

“Ready?” he asked.

She gave her suppressor a final twist. “When am I not?”

Timothy Pullman was freaking out. He had never received a call from another broker like the one he’d had late the previous evening.

Sure, it could have been legit, but he didn’t believe that for a second. Would Quinn really have left Pullman’s number as a contact? Did anyone ever do that? He’d never heard of it before.

In the hours after the call, he’d moved through his apartment, sitting down on the couch or the bed or a kitchen chair, but never for more than a few seconds before his nerves made him stand back up and walk around again.

Fucking money, he thought. You’re an idiot, idiot, idiot!

He should have never taken this job. He should have thought about it more when it was offered to him, but he hadn’t been able to see through the piles of cash, and the dangled possibility it would lead to more.

Lead to more. What a joke.

While his client had dutifully come through with the payment, the man had also conveniently fallen off the map. The timing of which, incidentally, coincided with the job going to shit.

The hit hadn’t been the problem. The target was dead. There was no question of that.

But the cleanup?

Something had gone seriously askew, and Quinn-who Pullman had been hearing for years was the cream of the crop-had disappeared without a trace. That might not have been so bad if police hadn’t discovered the body in an abandoned van just outside Monterrey. And that might not have been so bad if the body had been unidentifiable. Unfortunately, with the exception of a well-placed bullet hole and a few burn marks from a fire that had been quickly extinguished, the dead man was apparently in perfect condition. The police had no problem identifying him as a powerful Mexican senator, and former United Nations official.

If word got around about how disastrously things had gone, Pullman would have a hell of a time drumming up any new business. But it wasn’t business, or even the potential lack thereof, that had kept him awake all night.

It was the phone call.

“I was given your number by a cleaner named Quinn,” the woman had said.

Whoever she was, she wasn’t some broker waiting for Quinn to show up. Pullman was sure about that now. So who, then? Probably more importantly, who did she represent?

His biggest fear was that the senator had ties to the northern Mexican drug cartels. It hadn’t been mentioned in any of the news reports, but he knew all those political types, especially in that part of the world, had to have their hands in someone’s pocket. What if the senator’s cartel friends had already discovered that Pullman had been involved in the assassination?

Perhaps they had captured Quinn, and tortured Pullman’s name and number out of him. That stopped him pacing for a moment.

Jesus. If that were true, he was toast.

Those bastards weren’t just dangerous, they were unrelentingly vicious, and wouldn’t be content to just kill Pullman.

Not long after midnight, he’d retrieved his Colt.45 pistol from the safe in his room. Being on the administrative end of projects, and never having to go out into the field himself, he’d only used the gun a few times at a firing range, with less than spectacular results. But he felt better having it in his hand as he continued carving a path across his floor.

He next wondered if there was a way they could figure out where he lived.

He’d always been careful never to let anyone know where his place was. Even his family had no clue. And when he craved companionship, he paid for a few hours of Jessica’s time in a cheap motel room across town.

The phone call. Could they pinpoint his location through that?

He didn’t think so. He’d paid good money for some equipment that was supposed to prevent anyone from doing that. Granted, it wasn’t quite top of the line, but the guy who sold it to him promised it was more than adequate.

More pacing, more questions.

Run?

Don’t run?

Threat?

Not a threat?

At 5:57 a.m., he still had no answers.

At 5:57 and five seconds, the floorboard behind him creaked.

Pullman stood near his couch, staring at the wall, a cannon of a gun dangling from his hand. Quinn and Orlando, having already checked the rest of the apartment and confirming there was no one else present, watched him from the shadows across the room.

Finally, Quinn gave Orlando a nod, and he moved forward, making it to within ten feet of the man before the floorboard groaned.

Pullman started to turn, his gun rising. Quinn took two quick steps forward and grabbed the gun. A boom filled the apartment as Pullman pulled the trigger, the bullet flying over Quinn’s shoulder and into the ceiling.

Quinn wrenched the gun out of the man’s grasp, tossed it behind him, and slammed the butt of his SIG into the side of Pullman’s head.

Pullman wheeled backward, a shout of surprise and pain escaping his lips. Quinn followed right after him, this time whacking an open hand against the man’s ear.

Pullman jerked in response, his hand flying up to protect himself as he cried out again.

Quinn grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him at a stuffed chair next to the couch. When Pullman’s legs hit the seat, he crumbled backward.

“Please, please,” the broker said, his hands raised protectively in front of his face. “This is all a mistake.”

“You’re damn right it is,” Quinn said. “I am not a fan of being shot at.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…Look, I didn’t realize who he was. Okay?”

Quinn cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. “Didn’t realize who who was?”

“The senator. Um, uh, Lopez. Right? That’s his name, I think…Yeah, yeah. Senator Lopez. I swear. I didn’t know.”

Senator Lopez? Who the hell was this guy talking about?