The jonathan quinn enrag.., p.17
The Jonathan Quinn Enraged Box Set, page 17
part #5 of Jonathan Quinn Series
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Turn.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Turn.
One. Two. Three—
Someone touched the handle on the other side of her door. She stopped, and shifted most of her weight onto her back foot so she could sprint out of the room if the opportunity presented itself.
As the door opened, the light that spilled through temporarily blinded her, but in that initial split second she had seen the dark outlines of two men standing just outside. She eased the pressure off her leg, her potential run for freedom currently off the table.
She squinted until her eyes adjusted to the light.
Not two men, three.
She idly wondered if they were finally going to administer drugs or do whatever they had in mind to get her to talk. Part of her wished they would. Hanging around in the dark was just wasting time. Any change could provide—however small the odds—the opportunity for escape.
“Turn around,” one of the men said.
She did.
“Now face me again.”
She did that, too.
His gaze traveled up and down her body, stopping at her foot. “What happened?”
She looked down at her bloody toe, and shrugged. Let him figure it out.
He stared at her. “You might want to get some sleep.”
He took a step back, and one of the others shut the door.
She remained where she was standing, the afterimage of the lit doorway still glowing in her retinas. Then, once she was sure they weren’t coming back, she started pacing again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
APRIL 12th, 2006
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
“THAT’S IT RIGHT there,” the woman said. She had introduced herself as Ms. Hafner, but by the way she’d stumbled when she said it, it was clear to Mila the woman had never used that name before.
Mila didn’t care. That was the business. Some people were just better at it than others.
The package was a square box no more than two inches high. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. It reminded her of those old-time packages she’d seen in the movies. Parcels, they’d called them.
What it contained, she didn’t know, nor was she even curious. That wasn’t her job. Couriers seldom were told what they were carrying. It was better that way.
Having already been informed that the item being transported was small, she’d brought along her brown shoulder bag. She picked up the box and deposited it inside.
“Anything else?” she asked. There seldom was, but she always checked.
“No, that’s it. You can go.”
A dismissal. That didn’t sit well. She may have been just a courier, but that didn’t make her any less important than the woman. Still, she stifled the response she wanted to give, and left with a smile. Work was work. No sense in pissing off a client.
More times than not, she would travel by commercial airliner. In a way, it provided a bit of a thrill as she passed through various airport security checks carrying packages filled with the unknown. Not once had she ever been stopped and searched.
Sometimes her clients would arrange for her to fly on a private jet or even on a governmental aircraft. Those trips never required a security check. She would simply be ushered on board and directed to a seat. Those kinds of flights were a mixed bag. Sometimes they were relaxing and enjoyable, other times they were uncomfortable and boring.
On this particular assignment, she’d been instructed to go to a private airfield just outside of Atlanta, where she would be hitching a ride on a noncommercial flight to Lisbon, Portugal.
As she drove through the city, she hoped and prayed the trip would not be completely horrible. A small private jet would be nice, something with cushy seats and a stocked bar.
She was well out of the city and into an area of farms and scattered homes when she finally reached the turnoff for the airport. The drive had taken her longer than she’d expected, causing her to push the outside window of the time she’d been given to catch the plane. So when she crested the hill and saw that it was still waiting at the airport just a quarter mile away, she was both relieved and annoyed. She was going to make it, but she certainly wasn’t going to be flying in style.
Though there were no markings on the side of the aircraft, Mila had no doubt the plane belonged to the US military. It was a modified commercial passenger jet. Not large like a 747, but the smaller type.
737? 727?
She wasn’t sure. Identifying planes wasn’t one of her specialties. What she did know was that military flights were devoid of any extra comforts. The best she could hope for at this point was not getting stuck traveling over the Atlantic with a troop of soldiers. That had happened to her once, and she’d been the recipient of a nonstop barrage of bad pickup lines.
The airport was surprisingly low-key. There wasn’t even a fence around the outside, and the only building of any size was a single hangar barely large enough to house more than a handful of small private planes. There was no tower, no terminal. Just a metal roof-covered concrete slab that was home to a few picnic tables. Truly a private airfield, albeit one with a runway large enough for a full-sized passenger jet.
Mila parked the car where she’d been instructed, grabbed her shoulder bag, and headed for the plane. Before she could get even halfway there, she was met by three military-looking men in civilian clothes.
“May I help you, ma’am?” one of the men said.
“I’m Mila Voss. I believe I’m expected.”
“ID?”
She pulled out her passport. She was traveling as herself on this trip, her client having told her this was a straight pickup and drop-off with no need to go covert.
The talker examined her ID, took a hard look at her face, then nodded and handed the booklet back.
“We were beginning to wonder if you were going to make it.”
“Farther out here than I was led to believe,” she said with a shrug.
“Hobart will show you aboard.”
Hobart, the youngest-looking of the three, motioned toward the plane and said, “This way, ma’am.”
They climbed the stairs and went inside. Mila had been expecting to see at least some of the seats filled. Given her late arrival, she had assumed she was last. But the plane was empty.
She looked at Hobart. “This flight’s not just for me, is it?”
“No, ma’am. The others will be here in just a few minutes, and we’ll be airborne shortly after that.”
She felt strangely relieved by that. If the plane had been for her alone, she would have really begun to worry about what was in the box she was carrying.
“You’re welcome to any seat in the first ten rows,” Hobart said. “And if you don’t mind, please use the facilities at the front of the plane during the flight.”
“No problem,” she said. “Thank you.”
She selected a seat next to the window in the seventh row. After strapping on her seat belt, she leaned over and raised the armrests that bracketed the middle seat. Once they were in the air, she could stretch out and get some sleep.
From her bag she pulled out the book she’d been reading—Goddess for Hire by Sonia Singh. She’d plowed through several pages when she finally heard more people coming up the metal staircase. She looked up, curious to see who her fellow passengers were. The first two who entered were large men dressed in dark suits. Military, perhaps, or law enforcement. Behind them came a third, similarly dressed man, only he was walking backward as he held on to the end of a metal pole that stuck out the door.
When the other end of the pole appeared, Mila couldn’t help but gasp. It was attached to a ring that was latched around a person’s neck. Though a black bag was over the person’s head, she could tell from the body it was a man. His hands were cuffed behind his back, while an additional restraint was wrapped around his chest, holding his arms to his side. His steps were short, almost a shuffle. She took this to mean his ankles and legs were also secured. Behind the prisoner came two more men in suits—one who looked to be in his late fifties, and the other younger but with the definite air of authority.
As the parade turned down the center aisle, Mila subconsciously slunk lower in her seat and pressed against the curved wall of the plane, wanting to stay as far from the prisoner as possible. But if he was as violent as the extreme measures seemed to suggest, he certainly wasn’t putting up any resistance.
When the prisoner drew abreast of her seat, she heard a noise coming from under his hood. Not his voice, but stuttering, gulping breaths as if he’d never been so scared in his life. Even more surprising were the clothes the man was wearing—jeans with a casual, cream-colored shirt, not a prison jumpsuit or something similar. Then she noticed the man’s fingers. They were manicured.
Who the hell was he? And where were they taking him?
Must be an extradition, she decided—a non-American prisoner being transported to Europe to answer for past crimes. She tried to remember if she’d heard about any upcoming prisoner transfers, but nothing came to mind.
It doesn’t matter, she thought. It’s not important. You don’t need to care.
That was right. She was just here to do her job and deliver the box to a woman she’d meet the next morning in a café in Lisbon.
Whoever he is, I don’t care.
As the prisoner passed, the young, authoritative-looking man approached her row and stared at her, as if surprised by her presence. She tried to nod a greeting, but her head barely moved. The man leaned over to his older partner and whispered something. The other man glanced at Mila, and whispered back as they walked by.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ROME
ORLANDO REACTIVATED HER phone the moment the plane touched down. As soon as it synced with the network, a message appeared telling her she had two voice mails. She played the first.
“Orlando, it’s Peter. If he’s in any condition to talk, I need him to call me right away. Can you help?”
She frowned. Peter was the one who started all this by asking Nate to find Quinn.
So you want to talk to Quinn? Tough luck, asshole.
She frowned at herself. All right, she admitted, maybe he didn’t start it, but he definitely restarted it, so helping him out was going to be low on her To Do list.
The next message was from Nate five hours earlier. “He’s out of surgery. Still unconscious, but the doctor says he’s going to be okay. Some muscle damage, but that’s about the worst of it.”
She closed her eyes. Muscle damage. Thank God.
She waited until she was off the plane and was walking toward immigration control to call Nate back.
“Got your message. Any update?”
“Last I checked he was still sleeping,” Nate said.
She stopped in the middle of the walkway. “You’re not at the hospital? Where the hell are you?”
“I told you. We were going to find Mila, remember?”
She dipped her head for a second. “Right, sorry,” she said. “Look, I’m here.”
“Here where?”
“Rome.”
“Rome?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t come?”
“I hadn’t thought about it one way or the other. I’ve been a bit busy.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t…”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Can you meet me at the hospital?”
“It’s more a doctor’s office than a hospital, but, yeah, I can head there right now.”
“I need the address.”
He gave it to her.
“I still have to go through passport control, but I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“NEED TO TAKE off?” Daeng asked.
Nate nodded as he shoved his cell back in his pocket. “Do you mind staying here and keeping an eye on things?”
Daeng shrugged. “Someone has to.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Go make sure Quinn’s doing all right. I’ll call you if anything happens here.”
Nate nodded his thanks, then made his way back to where their car was parked.
Forty-five minutes later, he knocked on the door of Dr. Pelligrini’s clinic. The woman who answered wasn’t the doctor’s wife.
“You are here to see your friend,” she said, not a question. “My sister said you would be back.”
“Sister?”
“Signora Pelligrini.”
Nate looked at the woman anew, and though she and the nurse he’d met earlier were nowhere near identical, he did notice a few, subtle common characteristics.
“You’re a nurse, too?”
“No, uh, just help.”
He entered the building and she shut the door.
“Is the doctor still here?” he asked.
“Si, but, um, he sleep in his office. You want me to wake him?”
“Not yet.” Nate took a step toward Quinn’s room, then stopped. “There’s another friend who should be here soon. A woman. Asian.”
“If you hear knock, you can answer.”
“Okay.”
He entered the room and the woman followed. Quinn now lay on a narrow bed that had replaced the examination table he’d been operated on. His eyes were closed, but other than the tube running under his nose, and the bandages that covered the left side of his neck and shoulder, he looked almost normal.
“Any change?” he whispered to the woman.
“No, everything same. Good and, um…stead.”
“Steady?”
“Si,” she said, brightening. “Steady. That what doctor say. Steady.”
That was good news.
“You want coffee? Tea?” She paused. “Acqua?”
“I’m okay. Thank you,” Nate said.
“Acqua,” Quinn whispered.
Nate whipped around.
“Signore,” the woman said, moving quickly to the bed. “How you feel?”
His eyes slits, Quinn repeated, “Acqua.”
“Si, si.” She ran out of the room.
“Good to see you awake,” Nate said, smiling.
“What…happened?”
“What do you remember?”
“Getting shot.”
“We got you out of there, brought you here. Doctor fixed you up.”
“How long?”
Nate looked at his watch. “Since you were shot? Almost sixteen hours.”
“Worried it was…longer.” Quinn took a few breaths. “What about Mi—”
The door opened and the doctor rushed in. Pushing Nate out of the way, he pulled a light out of his pocket, and leaned over Quinn. “Your head, it hurt?”
“It’s…fine.”
“Open your eyes.”
“They are open.”
“Like this.” The doctor opened his eyes wide.
Quinn’s slits doubled in size, but apparently it wasn’t enough. The doctor spread the lids of one eye apart with his fingers, shined the light in, then did the same with the other. As he finished, his sister-in-law entered carrying a pitcher of water and an empty glass.
“La porta,” she said.
Nate assumed she was talking to the doctor so he didn’t pay attention to her.
“La porta. La porta,” she said again.
“The door,” the doctor told him.
“Oh. Oh, right,” Nate said, the words finally sinking in.
He jogged to the back door, and pulled it open to find an impatient and worried-looking Orlando.
“He just woke up,” he said, moving out of the way so she could enter.
When they reached Quinn’s room, the doctor was still doing his examination so they paused near the door.
“Exactly where was he hit?” she whispered to Nate.
He touched the spot that corresponded with Quinn’s wound.
“Ligament damage?”
He shook his head. “Not as far as I know.”
At the bed, Dr. Pelligrini peeled back a corner of Quinn’s bandage and looked underneath. With a satisfied nod, he taped it back down and took a step back.
“Now, rest only. Let the wound heal, you understand? And you be okay.”
“Right. Rest,” Quinn said.
The doctor looked at Nate. “You make sure he does. No rest, no good for heal. Si?”
“Si,” Nate said.
The doctor headed for the door. “I go back to sleep. You need me, you come get me.”
As he passed his sister-in-law, he motioned for her to leave, too. Reluctantly, she followed him out of the room.
As soon as the door closed, Quinn tried to sit up.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Nate blurted out as he rushed over, Orlando only a half step behind. “You need to lie down.”
“I’m fine,” Quinn said, his voice strained.
“The hell you are,” Orlando said.
Quinn jerked in surprise, then winced in pain from the effort. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think? You get shot so I should just stay in San Francisco drinking espressos?”
He said nothing for a second, then, “You don’t like…espresso.”
She pointed a finger at him, jabbing the air with every word as she said, “Do not try to lighten the mood.”
“Sorry.” He paused. “It’s good to see you.”
“You bastard. You disappear for six months, and when you do finally show up, you get yourself shot. I should kill you myself.”
“Getting shot wasn’t exactly…part of the plan.”
“That implies there was a plan, which I doubt.” She frowned, then leaned over and kissed him.
Nate stepped toward the door. “Maybe I’ll go see if I can—”
“Stay right there,” Orlando said, her tone freezing him in place. She looked back and forth between him and Quinn. “Which one of you is going to tell me what happened?”
When it looked like Quinn wasn’t going to answer right away, Nate said, “We were trying to, um, connect with Mila Voss.”
“Connect?”
“Quinn thought there was a good chance she’d show up at Julien’s apartment.”
