Keeping low, Quinn moved away from the house, over to where his BMW was parked in the driveway. The move didn't get him any closer to the intruder, but it did put Quinn behind the son of a bitch. He checked the Walther to make sure the sound suppressor was firmly attached, then moved toward the house.
The intruder had removed the listening device from his ear and was now pulling something else out of his bag. Quinn moved silently forward, not stopping until he was only six feet away from his uninvited guest.
'Put it down,' Quinn said in a calm, even voice.
The man froze, then lowered his hands. In one was a thin, ropelike substance. Quinn recognized it immediately. Incendiary cord. He wasn't quite sure what the guy had in mind, but there was no mistaking the ultimate objective.
'Drop it,' Quinn said.
The intruder did as he was told.
'Now turn around and stand up. Slowly,' Quinn cautioned. 'Hands in the air.'
The intruder followed Quinn's instructions. The man was about five foot ten and wiry. He couldn't have been more than a hundred and fifty pounds. He was dressed all in black. Even his face, which was smeared with something like grease or shoe polish, was black.
'Five steps,' Quinn said. 'Two away from the window and three toward the front door.'
He watched as the intruder stepped away from his bag and toward the entrance. So far the guy was following orders. Quinn took a step forward, keeping a wary eye on the man. 'Turn around and face the wall,' Quinn said.
When the intruder's back was to him, Quinn shoved the man between the shoulder blades, forcing him hard against the building. Because of the angle, most of the guy's weight was now on his hands, making it nearly impossible for him to make any kind of move on Quinn.
Quinn did a quick body search. The man was carrying a Glock in a shoulder holster, and a seven-inch Ka-Bar fighting knife in a leather sheath on his belt. Quinn took the weapons, then reached over and knocked once on the front door.
Nate opened it instantly. 'I was wondering when the hell you were going to –' He stopped, staring.
'Hands behind you,' Quinn said to the intruder. 'We're going inside.'
** *
'Kitchen,' Quinn told Nate once the front door was closed again.
Nate led the way. As they passed the living room, Quinn dropped the Glock and the knife on the couch.
The kitchen was a work of art – exposed wood, stainless steel, and a floor covered by light brown tiles imported from Spain. It was almost like one of those kitchens you'd see in a magazine: spacious, functional, with a large island in the center. Off to one side was a breakfast nook, complete with a nineteenth-century wooden table and an eclectic mix of chairs. Nate pulled one of the chairs out from the table, and Quinn pushed the intruder onto it.
'Turn on the light,' Quinn said to Nate.
Nate walked over to the wall and flipped a switch. The light gave Quinn his first chance to get a good look at his prisoner. Even with the black face paint, he wasn't surprised he recognized the man.
'Hello, Gibson,' Quinn said.
'Quinn,' Gibson replied mildly. 'How've you been?'
Quinn pulled a roll of paper towels off a dowel on the counter. 'Here.' He tossed the roll at his captive. 'You can wipe that crap off your face.'
Gibson smiled, but didn't move.The paper towels bounced harmlessly off his lap and onto the floor.
'Your choice,' Quinn said. He retrieved a bottle of water from inside the refrigerator, then returned his attention to Gibson. 'What are you doing here?'
'I was bored.'
'So this was some kind of random house call?'
'Sure. Why not?' Gibson said.
'I didn't realize you knew where I lived.'
'I looked you up in the phone book.'
Quinn smiled, then took a sip of the water. 'Who sent you?' Gibson snorted. 'Right.' Quinn calmly raised the Walther and aimed it at Gibson's head. 'Who sent you?'
'You going to kill me, Quinn? That's not like you.'
'One last time. Who sent you?' Quinn repeated.
'Go ahead. Pull the trigger. Kill me, and someone else will do the job.'
Quinn held the gun in place for a moment, then, still smiling, he lowered it, leaving his finger resting on the trigger guard. 'Are you saying there's a contract out on me?'
Gibson shrugged.
'Who's paying the bills?' Quinn asked.
'Like I'd tell you even if I knew. Which I don't. So it doesn't matter, does it?' Quinn looked at Nate. 'Do you remember the
procedure for getting ahold of Peter?'
Nate nodded.
'Call him. My cell's in the living room,' Quinn said. 'See if he can get a pickup team out here. Somebody local. I don't want this asshole hanging around my house any longer than necessary.'
Nate started to turn away when Gibson spoke again. 'I think Peter's probably got his hands full at the moment.'
When Nate hesitated, Quinn said to him, 'Go.' Then he turned back to his prisoner. 'I've never much liked you.'
'I can't see any reason why I'd care,' Gibson said.
'I guess that's probably part of the problem.' Quinn took a long drink from the bottle, then set it on the counter. 'What I hear is that you're sloppy. Apparently that info's right.'
'Fuck you,' Gibson spat.
'You can't even handle an easy solo job.'
Gibson's brow furrowed. 'I know what I'm doing.'
'Really?' Quinn asked. 'If you're so good, why was I able to catch you?'
'I've been at this almost as long as you have. I'd have been dead long ago if I didn't know what I was doing.'
'Given the circumstances, I'd call that dumb luck.'
Quinn could hear Nate talking to someone on the phone in the other room. A moment later, Nate was back.
'Well?' Quinn asked.
Nate looked at Gibson, then at Quinn. 'Peter couldn't come to the phone.' 'Told you,' Gibson said. He was smiling now. Quinn turned back to his prisoner. 'Did I ask
you a question?'
Gibson shrugged.
'Then shut up.' Quinn looked at Nate. 'Who did you talk to?'
'Misty.' She was Peter's main assistant.
'Did you tell her what we needed?'
'I tried to, but she cut me off.'
'So no one's coming?' Quinn asked.
Nate shook his head.
Quinn closed his eyes for a moment in thought.
When he opened them, he handed the pistol to Nate. 'Don't let him move,' he said. 'If he does, shoot him.'
Nate had left the phone on the arm of the couch. Quinn picked it up and hit Redial. Fifteen seconds later, Misty answered. 'Yes?'
'It's Quinn.' 'He doesn't have time right now, Quinn. Things
are a bit crazy here.' 'Things are a bit crazy here, too,' Quinn said. He could hear her sigh on the other end. 'What's
the problem?' 'You mean, other than someone trying to kill me?' 'You, too?' 'What do you mean "you, too"?' 'Hold on,' she said quickly. 'Let me see if I can
get Peter.'
It was almost a full minute before Peter came on the line. Without preamble, he asked, 'What happened?'
'I just found Martin Gibson lurking outside my
front door. And it wasn't a social call.' 'Where is he now?' Peter asked. 'In my kitchen.' 'Is he dead?' 'No,' Quinn said. 'That's something at least.' 'Jesus Christ, Peter. Who would want to kill me?'
Quinn asked.
'It's not just you,' Peter said. 'Others have received visitors tonight, also. Unfortunately, most of them . . .'
Peter let the sentence hang.
'Others?' Quinn said. 'Is there a pattern?'
Peter seemed to hesitate, then said, 'They appear to be hitting only members of the Office.' 'No other agency?' Another pause. 'No.' Quinn suddenly went cold. 'A disruption?' 'We don't know anything yet,' Peter said, but
there was doubt in his voice.
'Who's behind it?'
'If I wasn't talking to you, I might be able to get a few answers.' Peter took a deep breath. 'Even if I did know something, this is an Office matter. It's our business, not –'
There was a loud noise from the kitchen, followed immediately by the spit of a bullet passing through a suppressor. A second later Quinn heard the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh. He dropped the phone and grabbed Gibson's weapons off the couch.
'Nate?' he called out.
No answer.
Quinn hurried toward the kitchen, using the partial wall that divided the two rooms as cover. He was only a few feet away when a bullet slammed into the wall just behind him.
Without thinking, he dove to the floor. A second later two more bullets raced over his head. Remaining on his belly, he snaked his way to the edge of the wall and peered into the kitchen. Nate was there, on the floor. The chair Gibson had been sitting in was on top of him. From where Quinn was, he couldn't tell if his apprentice was still breathing or not. He looked left, then right. Gibson was gone.
Staying low, Quinn turned around and headed back into the living room. This time his only cover was his leather couch. He stopped for a moment and listened intently.
Nothing.
Wherever Gibson had gone, it wasn't far. And though Gibson had Nate's gun, Quinn had both a Glock and a knife. He also knew the layout of his house better than anyone. He knew all the hiding places, all the exits. Gibson had only experienced the walk from the front door to the kitchen. Every move he might make would be a guess.
Outside, the moon had moved below one of the nearby ridges. The only illumination now came from the flicker of the television and the light that was still on in the kitchen.
Quinn ventured a peek around the side of the couch. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He scanned the room a second time just to be sure. This time his eyes paused on the leather recliner that sat facing the couch about ten feet away. Something wasn't quite right. It was the shadow cast by the stuffed chair. As it changed with the flickering of the light from the TV, there were moments when the shadow seemed larger than it should have been.
He watched it for a moment, almost dismissing it as an optical illusion. Then the shadow moved.
Quinn eased out from behind the couch into the living room. As he approached the recliner his ears picked up the sound of breathing – slight, but definitely real.
He raised his gun.
'Stand up,' Quinn said.
Gibson leaned around the side of the chair and fired. The bullet went wide, but only by inches. Quinn pulled the trigger on the Glock. A roar filled the room, followed almost instantly by the smell of expended gunpowder. The shot pierced the chair nearly dead-center.
'You son of a bitch,' Gibson hissed, pain lacing his voice.
'Enough?' Quinn asked. 'Throw down the gun and come out slowly.'
Gibson stood up slowly, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side.
'Now put the gun down,' Quinn said.
For a second he thought Gibson was going to comply. Suddenly the assassin pushed back from the chair, the gun in his right hand moving quickly upward, pointing toward Quinn.
But Quinn was ready. He pulled his trigger first.
By the time Gibson slammed against the window, he was already dead. The bulletproof glass reverberated with the weight of the failed assassin's body, but didn't break.
Quinn ran back into the kitchen. The chair still lay on top of Nate's body. Quinn quickly pushed it off and put a hand on his apprentice's neck. He could feel a pulse, steady and strong. Quinn could also now see Nate's chest expand and contract. A quick visual check revealed no entry or exit wounds along his back, and no pool of blood gathering on the floor beneath him.
Quinn leaned down to Nate's left ear. 'Nate,' he
said. There was no response. 'Nate. Wake up.' A low moan escaped from Nate's mouth. A
moment later his eyelids fluttered. 'Take it easy,' Quinn said. 'Are you hit?' Both eyes opened slowly. 'Quinn?' he said, his
mouth pressed against the floor, slurring his speech. 'Are you hit?' Quinn repeated. 'I don't think so.' 'Maybe you should check.' Nate closed his eyes again. With effort, he rolled
over onto his back. 'Fuck,' he called out, wincing. 'What?' Quinn asked. Nate rubbed the side of his face. 'He hit me in
the jaw.' There was a red patch on the side of Nate's face, but otherwise he appeared unmarked. Quinn stood up. 'You might want to put some ice on that.'
Quinn walked back into the living room. The phone was still on the couch where he'd dropped it. He picked it up and was about to dial for help when he heard a muffled voice on the other end.
'Quinn?' It was Peter. 'You're still there?' 'What's going on?' 'Gibson got loose.' 'And?' 'He's dead.' Peter didn't answer right away. 'It would have
been better if you'd taken Gibson alive.'
'Well, shucks. I wish you'd told me that sooner. Or maybe I should have told him to wait a moment while I checked with you.'
'Give me the details,' Peter said.
Quinn took a breath, then filled him in.
'You need help with removal?' Peter asked.
'I'll take care of it.' Quinn paused. 'Are you going to tell me what's going on now?'
The line went quiet for a moment, then, 'We're not sure.'
'You realize I'm not coming to D.C., don't you?'
'It's not a good idea now, anyway. I think you should probably just get lost.'
'Is that an official directive?'
'Let's just call it officially unofficial,' Peter said. 'Make yourself scarce. I don't care where. In fact, I don't want to know.' 'The son of a bitch knew where I lived,' Quinn said, more to himself than to Peter.
'More reason to get out of there. Whoever's behind this might try for you again. And if you stay where they can find you, they might not miss next time. But it's your choice.'
'My choice,' Quinn said. 'Right.' He hung up the phone.
Quinn stared for several moments out the back window into the Los Angeles night. Peter was right. If it indeed was a disruption, then disappearing was the only option.
'Nate,' Quinn called toward the kitchen. Nate, legs unsteady, weaved into the room, falling more than sitting onto the couch. 'What?' 'I hope you haven't unpacked.'
Chapter 8