The Collected

distance from a few homes closer to the beach, and the flat blackness of the Pacific Ocean.

“On your knees,” Quinn said.

“Please. No,” Burke pleaded.

“On. Your. Knees.”

Daeng pushed down on the man’s shoulders, and Burke dropped to his knees.

“Please. Please,” he said. He was starting to cry. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

“What happened?” Quinn said. “From the beginning. And don’t leave anything out.”

“Okay. Sure, sure. Um…we picked up the body, and, uh, uh, were taking it to the place where, uh-”

“No. How did you get the job in the first place?”

“M…Mr. Blair arranged it.”

“You knew ahead of time?”

A pause, a nod.

“Tell us.”

“He contacted me a couple weeks ago. Said there was a job he’d get me on, and would triple whatever pay I was usually offered.”

“And for this you had to…?”

“Keep tabs on the cleaner. They wanted him. I just needed to tell them where to be.”

“So you sold him out.”

“I, I mean, I thought that, well, I was given the impression that…he’d done something wrong.” He looked momentarily at each of them then focused back on Quinn. “Hey, it was going to happen whether I helped or not.”

Slowly, Quinn got the rest of the story out of him. How Nate was supposed to have been captured, about how he spotted the ambush, about the chase, and about how, as far as Burke knew, Nate had gotten away. By Nate’s continued absence, though, Quinn and the others knew he hadn’t.

“Tell us about Mr. Blair. Did you ever meet him in person?” Quinn asked.

“One time, when he first came to me.”

“Describe him.”

“About as tall as you, maybe. Bald. Decent shape.”

Quinn glanced at Daeng and nodded. Daeng pulled out his phone, brought up the picture of Mr. Thatcher in Bangkok, and held it in front of Burke’s face.

“Is that him?” Quinn asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s him,” Burke said, surprised.

Quinn said nothing for a moment. They now had confirmation that this had been more than just a job that had gone bad. Nate had been set up.

“I think we’ve heard enough,” Quinn said.

He held out a hand to Daeng, who gave him the suppressor-enhanced pistol he’d brought from the house. Armed, Quinn walked behind Burke.

“It’s better if you look at the ground,” he said.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” Burke said, rapid fire. “I cooperated. I told you what you wanted to know.”

“And you sold our friend out, too.”

“But he might have gotten away!”

“That doesn’t change what you did.”

Quinn put the end of the suppressor against the back of Burke’s skull.

“Wait! Please! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have done it! I know that. I’ll never do anything like it again. I promise!”

“You’re right,” Quinn said. “You will never do it again.”

A half second before he pulled the trigger, he moved the gun to the side of Burke’s head, pressing the barrel of suppressor hard against the man’s ear and cheek.

Thup.

The bullet slammed into the ground, inches from the man’s knee. A split second later, Burke yelled and fell on his side, his hand clutching his face. Quinn leaned down and moved the man’s hand away for a moment to make sure he’d done a proper job.

He had.

An inch-wide strip of deformed red flesh ran across Burke’s ear and down his cheek, almost all the way to the top of his mouth. It would create a scar that would grace the man’s face for the rest of his life. It was a symbol within their world, a brand, of a person not to be trusted. Though Quinn had come close to simply killing him, he knew he might need the man again later. So he settled for the fact that Burke would never work in their business again.

But if it turned out Nate was dead, he’d find Burke again and finish the job. And if his former apprentice was still alive, it would be up to Nate how to handle the double-crosser.

They Left Burke in the hills, and tossed his carry-on bag into a Dumpster in Calabasas as soon as they reached the San Fernando Valley.

“So who the hell is this bald guy?” Quinn asked as he drove them down the 101 Freeway back toward his house in the hills.

“We know one thing,” Orlando said. “He has a fondness for British prime ministers.”

Quinn had picked up the connection, too. Thatcher, Blair, Brown-all names of people who had led the British government. “Yeah, but that doesn’t answer the question.”

They fell silent.

Finally, Quinn said, “Let’s put some feelers out. Someone’s got to know him. Check with Albina and Roselyn.” They were both well-connected job fixers. “And Peter, too. Maybe he can get Helen Cho to run this guy’s picture through the CIA’s system.” Peter used to run an organization called the Office, and at one time had been one of Quinn’s primary employers. Helen Cho was now the head of a group that basically filled the void left by the Office’s dissolution.

Orlando pulled her laptop out of her bag. “On it.”

By the time they reached Quinn’s house, she had received replies from both Albina and Roselyn. Neither had ever seen the man before. Peter hadn’t replied yet. Which was a bit odd. Thought it was much later back east where Peter lived, he was typically a night owl, and usually responded to inquiries such as this quickly.

Once they were inside, Quinn decided to give him a call.

The direct number to Peter’s cell phone rang five times before clicking over to voice mail.

“Peter, it’s Quinn. Need to talk to you right away. Call me as soon as you get this.”

He hung up and joined the others in the living room.

“You know, it might not have been Nate they were after,” Orlando suggested.

“Yeah,” Quinn said. “I was thinking about that.”

“You mean you?” Daeng said.

Quinn shrugged. “He’s been using my name.”

“If that’s the case,” Orlando said, “shouldn’t you know who this guy is?”

Quinn pulled the man’s picture up on his phone again and gave it another look. “You would think so, but I’ve never seen him before.”

“What if he had hair?”

Quinn placed his thumbs over the top and side of the man’s head, and focused on the guy’s face. After a moment, he shook his head. “Nope. I’m sure I’ve never met him.”

Quinn looked across the room, lost in thought. After a moment, his gaze fell on a piece of paper sitting on the dining table. He pushed up and walked over to it. Liz’s handwritten note stared back at him.

Damn.

He’d momentarily forgotten about it.

“Can you do a location check on Liz’s phone?” he asked Orlando.

“Sure.” She opened her laptop, and a minute later said, “San Diego. Her GPS coordinates match up to a motel