About the only positive that came out of the impromptu meeting was what Piper had not said. There’d been no mention of Orlando at all. If Piper had known she was also here, he wouldn’t have let Quinn go so easily. It was bad enough having Quinn in town, but two top-level agents in Saigon at the same time? Two agents who not only knew each other, but had worked extensively together in the past? It would have been too much. But apparently their paths had not crossed in the couple of months Piper had been there.
Quinn’s thoughts returned to Borko. He was a problem, and not just a small one. It was like going to the dentist for a cleaning and being told you had to have multiple root canals right away, Quinn thought, then quickly changed his mind. More like going to the dentist and being told all your teeth have to be pulled out.
Still, Quinn had to admit, Borko’s involvement made a certain amount of sense. Undertaking a disruption was a huge task, one that usually wasn’t worth the risk. But Borko’s organization was the Sex Pistols of the intelligence world, willing to do things that few of their competitors would touch. The strategy both helped and hurt Borko. Most clients wouldn’t deal with him. But occasionally an unconventional need would arise, and that’s when he’d get a call.
While Quinn’s path had crossed that of the Serbian’s organization only once, it was enough. No matter how hard he tried, the memory of that job was something he could never forget.
It had been six years earlier in Toronto.
It started off like a lot of his jobs did, with Quinn crammed in the back of a van, staring at a rack of monitors mounted temporarily against the wall. This time the images on the screens were different angles of a work area in a City of Toronto vehicle maintenance facility. He wasn’t the only one watching. Two other guys were shoehorned in there with him.
“What’s that? Eight shots?”
“Nine,” Quinn said.
Dan Skyler, the one who asked the question, was sitting to Quinn’s right. He was a local guy Quinn had hired for the gig, a disposal specialist among other things, though Quinn wasn’t planning on tapping into that part of Skyler’s talents.
When the job had been offered to him, it had been characterized as being straightforward. Keep an eye on things as the exchange went down, then go in after everyone was gone and sanitize the scene — remove any trace of their presences: tire tracks, fingerprints, footprints, things moved out of place, any physical evidence at all that might lead someone to pick up the trail of the asset. If someone had later been able to trace the asset to the exchange location, it needed to be a dead end. Quinn liked to think of it as a water job. Like in a movie, where someone would run into a creek and use the water to cover his tracks and wash away any scent he might leave behind. Quinn’s job was to be the creek.
Only based on the scene in front of them, it was going to take more than just a creek to clean things up. Skyler’s specialty was going to be needed after all.
To Quinn’s left was Joseph Glaze. He was with the client, a group called V12, there to monitor Quinn’s work and communicate back to his superiors when everything was done. Not a situation Quinn was particularly fond of, but it sometimes came with the job.
“Jesus Christ,” Glaze said, his eyes wide. “We need to do something.”
He started to push himself up out of his chair, but Quinn reached over and grabbed Glaze’s shoulder.
“Hold on,” Quinn said.
“But—”
“It’s not our job.”
Reluctantly, Glaze sat back down.
For nearly a minute, all was quiet on the display screens. No noise, no movement. Quinn took a slow, deep breath as he scanned the monitors. What was supposed to have been a simple asset transfer had turned into a massacre. The floor of the garage was becoming stained by something more than motor fluids.
“I count three down,” Quinn said.
“That’s the whole transfer team,” Glaze said. He leaned forward for a closer look. “Where’s the asset?”
They scanned the monitors for several seconds.
“There she is,” Skyler said, pointing at one of the screens.
Quinn looked over. The asset was half hidden in a shadow cast by a stack of steel drums. As Quinn watched, her right foot moved a few inches.
“She’s still alive,” he said.
“Are you sure?” Skyler asked.
Quinn nodded.
“We’ve got to do something,” Glaze said.
“You want to tell me what?” Quinn asked.
“We can’t just sit here.”
“Yes, we can.”
“We’ve got movement,” Skyler said.
Four men were moving into frame on the wide shot. Each was dressed in dark clothing, and all were carrying identical weapons — Heckler and Koch G36K assault rifles. Those were not the weapons V12’s team had been equipped with.
The four men moved cautiously across the floor, the barrels of their guns sweeping the areas in front of them. As they reached the first of the bodies lying on the floor, one of the men pushed it with his foot. There was no reaction. The second body yielded the same results. But the last moaned as the foot was jammed into his side. Without hesitating, one of the armed men pointed his G36K at the man’s head and pulled the trigger.
As they rounded the stack of drums, their rifles suddenly tightened against their shoulders, barrels pointed at the asset.
“Secure,” one of the gunmen called out. “She’s unarmed.” Then, more quietly, said, “Get up. Slowly.”
The asset rose to her feet. The gunman who had spoken motioned for her to move forward. As she stepped out of the shadow, she appeared to be cradling her right arm. Blood soaked her sleeve, but otherwise she appeared uninjured.
“Who’s that?” Quinn asked. Movement had caused him to look at the monitor on the far right.
From the same direction the four gunmen had entered, a fifth man appeared. This one was different from the others. He was wearing an expensive-looking gray suit, and unlike his friends, he wasn’t carrying a rifle. But there was a bulge at the small of his back, under his jacket. So he wasn’t completely unarmed. He was tall and thin; Quinn guessed maybe six foot three, and 170 pounds. His dark brown hair was long, falling just below his shoulders in waves and curls that made his head appear larger than it was. Though there was no smile on his face, Quinn sensed an air of satisfaction surrounding him. No, it was more than that — an air of superiority, of extreme confidence in every step he took.
“I think we need to get out of here,” Glaze said.
“What are you talking about?” Skyler asked.
“We need to leave,” Glaze said. “Now.”
“A minute ago you were ready to rush in there and help,” Quinn said.
“I was wrong.” Glaze started to rise again. This time instead of heading toward the back door, he was turning toward the front of the van.
“Hold on,” Quinn said. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Don’t you know who that is?” Glaze stared at the other two, eyes blazing. “That’s Borko.”
There was a moment of silence as Quinn and Skyler looked back at the screen.
“No shit?” Skyler said.
Quinn stared intently. He’d only seen pictures of Borko before, none very good. The man in the garage certainly could have been the Serb. He fit the description.
“How do you know?” Quinn asked.
Glaze stared down at Quinn. “Because I worked with him before, that’s how,” he said, as if daring Quinn to challenge him. “Last year. We used him on a job. I met him at the setup meeting. He didn’t do what we asked. People died who shouldn’t have died. But he didn’t care. I don’t think he cares about anything.”