The Collected

Gripping the strings in his left hand, Nate turned his body so that his right shoulder was aligned with the opening. He stuck his arm out, testing how far he could reach. The narrowness of the vent stopped him about midway on his bicep, but it was enough to get his elbow outside, so he could bend it in different directions. It was enough to grab a leg, or maybe even a gun if the opportunity presented itself.

Satisfied, he moved his arm back into the cell, and pulled up on the strings so that he could set the frame back into the opening. It was only partway up, though, when the door at the far end started to open.

Too well trained to panic, Nate focused on raising it the remaining distance. Just before footsteps started down the hall, the frame reached the hole and he pulled it in as much as he dared, hoping it was far enough in the hole not to be noticed.

The strings, though, could still be a problem. He couldn’t slip them off now without the risk of being noticed. He kept them taut so that they were as flush to the slats as possible, and watched through the vent as the footsteps neared. He half expected the men to stop right outside, but the booted feet continued by, the man in the sneakers once again being escorted between them.

As soon as they’d dropped off their prisoner and left, Nate seated the frame the rest of the way in the hole, removed the strings, and put the rear portion back in place.

CHAPTER 26

Northeastern Mexico

Quinn spent the flight to Mexico thinking once more about the names on the Post-its.

Nate, Peter, and potentially Berkeley? Quinn, Peter, and potentially Berkeley?

Whatever the combination, he couldn’t see the through-line yet, the connection.

Breaking it down to smaller groups made it even worse. He and Peter had interacted so much over the years, it would be nearly impossible to pinpoint anything specific the disappearances might be related to.

To a lesser extent, the same was true of Nate and Peter’s relationship, the difference being only the number of jobs Nate had worked on since he’d entered the business versus those Quinn had done for the Office.

The wild card was Berkeley.

As far as Quinn knew, there were only six missions they had worked on together. He’d also never had a lot of interaction with the guy, more just “hello”s and “how you doing?”s during briefings.

The image he had of Berkeley was of a quiet man, efficient, a guy who stuck to whatever guidelines he’d been given until told to do otherwise. A team player, not a mission leader.

Quinn spent an hour thinking through each job they’d shared. The gigs had been spread out over a five-year period. None, as far as he knew, were tied to each other. Each mission had gone smoothly-the target taken down, the body disposed of.

Think wider, he told himself. What about the others on each job? He created a list in his head of names, and checked them off against his mental picture of the twenty-two green Post-its Orlando had created of the potential missing.

On three of the jobs, there were no matches at all. Two jobs, though, had single matches, and the final job actually had two. But none of the missions were filled completely by the names that had been on his window.

He focused on the three with matches, but still nothing stood out.

Frustrated, he looked past the sleeping Orlando and out the window at the night sky.

Maybe it had nothing to do with the jobs at all. Maybe it was random. Maybe the disappearances were not even connected.

Words echoed through his head. Maybe Nate’s already dead.

No.Not possible. And not even something he wanted to consider.

But try as he might, he could only dampen the voice, not silence it.

The red eye got them into Monterrey at just after five a.m. As soon as they cleared Customs and Immigration, Orlando pulled out her computer and pinged Nate’s emergency beacon.

“Nothing,” she said, annoyed.

“Maybe his battery died,” Daeng suggested.

“Impossible,” Orlando said. “The signal’s passive, so it draws very little power. The battery that feeds it could last months.”

“We’ll try again later,” Quinn said. “Let’s go.”

Much to Orlando’s displeasure, she had been unable to locate Captain Moreno’s residence, so they would have to talk to him once he was at work. Given the time, that wouldn’t happen for several hours. There was something else, though, that Quinn wanted to do in the meantime.

They picked up a rental car, and skirted around the edge of the still-sleeping city. Their destination was the set of coordinates Orlando had been able to dig out of Pullman’s computer for the warehouse where Senator Lopez had been terminated. Quinn didn’t expect to find anything there that might tell them where Nate was, but he wanted to take a look at it and get a feel for the mission his former apprentice had been on.

They found the large gray building just after the sun came up. It had multiple loading bays lining one side, and two cars parked at the end. The gate of the chain-link fence that surrounded the property was closed, but there was an intercom box mounted to a standalone pipe off to the side.

“I got this,” Orlando said. She jumped out of the car.

She was at the intercom for half a minute, then jogged back and climbed in.

Quinn looked over. “Well?”

“Patience,” she told him.

Several seconds later, a door at the near end of the building opened. A lean man with black hair and sun- darkened skin, wearing a security guard uniform, exited. As he walked across the dirt lot, Orlando climbed out again and met him at the fence.

After a quick conversation, the man unlocked a chain and rolled the gate out of the way. Orlando motioned for Quinn to drive through, and she and the guard followed on foot.

“This is Hector,” she told Quinn and Daeng once they’d climbed out of the sedan.

“Buenos dias,” Quinn said.

“Buenos dias, senor,” Hector replied. He exchanged similar greetings with Daeng.

“Hector, necesito un momento para hablar con mis colegas,” Orlando said.

“Por supuesto.” Hector smiled and walked several feet away.

Orlando, Quinn, and Daeng circled together.

“I told him we’re from an American company looking for new warehouse space,” she said. “I think he doesn’t much care who we are, but I promised him a hundred dollars if he lets us look around.”

“I’m assuming he’s not alone here.”

“Just him and another guy.”

“Either of them speak English?”

“Hector doesn’t. I don’t know about the other one.”

“Okay,” Quinn said. He pulled out a small stack of folded bills, peeled off five twenties, then added three more. “Tell him the extra’s for his friend.”

While Quinn could have easily told the man himself, it was always better in situations like this for one person to act as translator.

Orlando gave the money to Hector, and he led them inside. The warehouse space was like most warehouse spaces-big, wide, and full of boxes.

“Ask him how long this stuff has been here,” Quinn said.

“?Normalmente, cuanto tiempo se quedan aqui los envios antes de salir otra vez?” Orlando asked Hector.

The man shrugged. “Tres o cuatro dias. A veces una semana.”

She nodded as if she’d learned something interesting. “?Y este inventario??Cuanto tiempo lleva