“What was the job?” Quinn asked Misty.
“Termination of a man named Javier Romero.”
“Any mention of why he was important?”
“No. The file only contains what was necessary for the job. There
“Do you think it’s somewhere else in the files? Was there a photo of this Romero?”
“I, um, took pictures of the entire file.”
“You did? Can you send them to me?”
Her face tensed. “I probably shouldn’t.”
“Misty, all I care about is finding out what’s going on, and bringing our friends home. Once I’m done with the file, I’ll trash it. No one will ever see it.”
Looking unsure, she said, “You promise?”
“Of course I do. You know me. You know you can trust me.”
She turned to the side in thought, then looked back and nodded. “Okay, but you
“Whatever you want to do,” he said. “Thanks. I’ll call you if we need anything else.”
“And when you find him, too.”
“Yeah. When we find him, too.”
As soon as he hung up, he looked over at Orlando. She had moved into the bathroom entrance and was talking into her phone in a low tone.
“Could that be where Nate is?” Liz asked.
He turned to her. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Isla de Cervantes. Could that be where he is?”
“No way to know yet.”
“But…but…” She stepped over to the desk and turned the screen on Orlando’s laptop so Quinn could see it. “Look. Isla de Cervantes is right along this track.” She pointed at a spot between Cuba and Puerto Rico, a bit south of the red line representing the possible flight path of the cargo plane. “It’s right here.”
“I know. But-” He stopped as his phone vibrated multiple times. Not a call, but messages. He watched them come in. There were twenty-nine when they finally stopped, all from Misty, the images of pages from the report.
Across the room, Orlando ended her call and made another. Quinn held up his hands, silently asking her what was going on.
She covered her phone and mouthed, “One minute.”
While he waited, Quinn brought up the first image from the report, scanned quickly through it, and opened the second. When he neared the bottom of the page, he stopped on a photograph and enlarged it. The picture was of a vigorous man who looked to be in his early sixties, speaking to an unseen crowd. His body language oozed determination and conviction. Someone had written in pen just above the man: ROMERO.
Though Romero was the main focus, there were others in the picture, gathered in a group behind the man, watching him. Some had names written above their heads, too. He scanned each face, stopped suddenly, and used his fingers to zoom in.
Not wanting to completely believe his eyes just yet, Quinn went to his saved photos and retrieved the one of the bald man in Bangkok. He switched back and forth between it and the group shot.
Neither image was perfect, but they didn’t need to be. There was no doubt that the bald guy was also the man in the other shot, with the name HARRIS written over his head.
“I appreciate it,” Orlando said.
Quinn turned around in time to see her hang up her phone.
“The reason Saban and Karper weren’t on our list is because they’re both dead,” she said. Quinn raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask the obvious question, she added, “Job-related. Eighteen months apart. No apparent connection.”
“Lanier?” he asked.
“While no one’s reported him missing, he hasn’t been seen in a couple weeks.”
“That sounds like missing to me,” Daeng said.
“Me, too,” Quinn agreed. “What about Stallard?”
“He’s sitting at home. Has an assignment starting next Tuesday, but says if we need him for anything before then, he’s available.”
“Replace Stallard’s name with yours,” Daeng said, “and that accounts for everyone.”
Yes. It did. Nice and neat.
“Here’s something else you’re going to like,” Quinn said. He showed them the photo he found.
“That cinches it,” Orlando said. “No question.”
“None at all.”
“So does that mean Nate is on this Isla de Cervantes?” Daeng asked.
With a quick look to his sister, acknowledging she’d been right, Quinn said, “He’s in that direction somewhere, so that’s where we need to go.”
“I’ll get us some tickets out of here,” Orlando said.
She took a step toward her computer, but Quinn stopped her.
“Liz can do that.” He looked over at his sister. “You can, right?”
“Sure,” she said, surprised. “Of course.”
His eyes back on Orlando, he said, “You and I need to find out what we can about this Harris guy.”
They sent out copies of the new picture of the man to several of their trusted contacts, this time with the name David Harris attached.
“There’s a flight to Mexico City leaving in an hour and a half,” Liz announced after a few minutes. “It’ll arrive in time to connect with a flight to Puerto Rico. There are dozens of ways from there to get to Isla de Cervantes.”
“Book it,” Quinn told her.
She glanced nervously at him. “Three tickets? Or four?”
A pause. “Four.”
CHAPTER 42
Nate woke with a start.
At first, he thought someone had come for him again, and he was about to be dragged away to some other round of torture. Waterboarding this time, or maybe something even more medieval, like the rack.
But it had only been the nightmares playing in his head. His cell was empty, the door firmly shut.
He lay on his stomach, letting the adrenaline coursing though his body dissipate. Once his heart rate had come back to normal, he sat up. The roar of the pain along his back had dropped a notch from cataclysmic supernova to titanic molten lava eruption. The spasms caused by the electricity, though, seemed to have stopped altogether.
Gingerly, he rose to his feet, felt his way across the dark room to the toilet, and relieved himself.
Time was a problem. His internal clock was misfiring, one moment telling him it was ten p.m., and the next, time for breakfast. He knew, though, that it was late, or, rather, early, because no light seeped in through the vent. The corridor lights so far had only been off at night.
