The trees were only ten yards away now.
“Borko, over here!” another voice called out from Quinn’s right. “They’re almost to the woods!”
Quinn glanced over his shoulder. He saw one of Borko’s goons circling around the van.
“Run,” he said as he pushed Orlando in front of him.
They sprinted for the trees, Orlando a step ahead of Quinn. The forest was less than fifteen feet away when a sharp, burning pain ripped across Quinn’s left thigh, knocking him into Orlando and dropping both of them onto the ground.
“Go!” he yelled at Orlando. It felt like his leg was on fire.
She pulled herself up again and began to run. As she reached the woods, she turned, a look of panic on her face. Immediately he realized what was wrong. She was no longer holding her gun. He could see it on the ground about a body’s length in front of him. Too far for him to reach, and too far for her to come back. Yet that looked exactly like what she was about to do.
“No!” Quinn yelled. “Run!”
A bullet slammed into a tree next to Orlando’s head.
“Run!” Quinn yelled again.
This time she listened to him and quickly disappeared into the forest.
Quinn took a deep breath, then reached down to check his wound. He expected to find his leg shredded, but the bullet had only grooved a line across the back of his thigh, never fully entering the muscle.
He could hear the sound of running feet. He was never going to make it to the woods. He had to set off the explosives. Only when he went to push the button, the trigger was no longer in his hand.
“Turn over.” The voice came from only a few feet away. “Slowly.”
Quinn did as he was told, trying as hard as possible to keep the pain that was screaming at him from showing on his face. As he finally rolled onto his back, he thought he felt something hard under his right arm. His triggering pad. But it was too far up, near his elbow. He couldn’t reach it without being noticed.
Borko’s man stood just to the side. In his hand was a pistol aimed at Quinn’s head.
“I got him!”
Less than a minute later, the BMW rolled to a stop several feet away. Quinn looked over. First the front passenger-side door opened, and the driver from the Volvo got out. Then the back door followed suit, and out stepped Borko.
“The girl?” the Serb asked as he walked over.
“She ran into the woods,” the man who’d shot Quinn replied.
The Serb nodded, then said to the man and his partner who had also approached the van on foot, “Get her.”
The two immediately headed toward the woods in pursuit of Orlando.
Borko smiled, then turned back to the car. “The girl is missing,” he called. “But we’ll find her.”
Quinn looked over at the open back door, noticing for the first time that there was someone else in the back seat. So Piper had come along, too, Quinn thought.
The passenger leaned toward the opening. As he did, the morning sunlight fell across the right side of his face. Something wasn’t right. The man didn’t look like Piper at all.
Quinn all but stopped breathing. It was the shock of the injury causing him to see things. That had to be it.
Slowly, the man swung his legs out of the car, then stood up and walked over to Quinn and Borko. Once he reached them, he stopped and looked down.
“Apparently I taught you well,” the man said, his voice a hoarse croak.
“No,” Quinn said. “You’re dead. I saw you die.”
Durrie, Quinn’s mentor, looked down at him and laughed. “Really? I don’t feel particularly dead.” Durrie looked over at the van, his eyes stopping for a moment on the damaged wheel. “Goddamn it. Thanks for fucking up our transport.”
“We can move the boxes into the cars,” Borko said.
Quinn tried to refocus himself. It took every ounce of concentration to do so. Even then, there was a part of his mind screaming, It’s not him! It’s not him!
He tried to remember what Borko had just said. Something about the boxes. About moving the boxes. Shit. If they went into the back of the van, they’d find the explosives. He needed the triggering switch, but it was under his arm. Even if he made a quick move to grab it, Borko would shoot him.
“Put as many of the boxes as you can in the trunk of my car,” Durrie said to the Volvo driver. “Then you guys can take the rest in your car once the girl’s been dealt with.”
“Okay,” the man said.
Quinn watched as the man walked over to the van and opened the back doors.
Borko crouched down next to Quinn. “You’ve fucked up our timetable,” he said. “Some people will have to work very quickly now. That’s not going to make them happy.”
The Volvo driver leaned into the van, then stood back up holding two boxes. He carried them over to the BMW. The trunk of the sedan popped open just before he got there.
“Maybe you could give them some mints,” Quinn whispered. “That should make things better.”
Borko grinned. “Very good. I was wondering how much you knew. Sadly, I’m afraid the mints would be wasted on them.”
“Because they’re not Bosniaks?” Quinn asked.
Borko stiffened. “How do you know that?”
“Jesus Christ,” Durrie said to Borko. “It doesn’t matter.”
“How did you know that?” Borko repeated, still kneeling next to Quinn.
Two more boxes were placed into the BMW. Quinn added them to his mental tally.
“Borko,” Durrie barked. “Come on. We don’t have time for this shit.”
Reluctantly, Borko stood back up.
Durrie looked down at Quinn. “I’m going to skip over the how’veya-been talk, all right? I just don’t care. You’re dead, Johnny boy. That’s all I need to know. Tell your bitch girlfriend when you see her on the other side I’ll take good care of Garrett for her.”
Durrie smiled, then pulled a gun out from under his jacket.
“Let me,” Borko said. “He’s killed several members of my team. I owe them his life.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Durrie said. “Cut the honor shit.”
“Let me do it,” Borko insisted. “I’ll give you half my share.”
Durrie raised an eyebrow, then laughed. “If you want it that bad, fine.” Durrie looked down at Quinn. “I guess I can be bought.” He laughed again, then walked slowly back to the car.
As he neared, the front door opened and out stepped Leo Tucker. Quinn’s eyes narrowed. He should have expected him to be here, but seeing him in the flesh made Quinn flush with anger. The Aussie opened the back door for Durrie. As Quinn’s mentor got in, the Volvo driver put another two boxes in the trunk.
Six, Quinn thought.
“You guys take the rest,” Durrie yelled toward Borko.
A moment later the BMW was speeding away. As Borko tracked the car, Quinn quickly moved his arm a few inches so that the triggering switch was now under his palm.
As Borko turned back to him, Quinn worked the switch into his hand, but kept his palm pointed at the ground. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to set it off in time to get the BMW. Some of the virus was going to get away.
“Okay. Now we have a little fun,” Borko said. He removed a pistol from a holster under his jacket. It was a SIG P226, just like Quinn’s.
“Why didn’t Gibson have a card?” Quinn asked. He was trying to buy time as he turned the switch in his hand so his thumbprint would be properly aligned.
Borko’s brow creased for a moment, then he smiled. “You mean at your house? You want to know the truth?” He leaned forward slightly, as if he were passing on a great secret. “He was supposed to carve Dahl’s name in your chest.”
Yeah. That would explain it, Quinn thought as he made sure the safety was off.